king of nothing

WHO: Leona & Brielle WHERE: The Library of Verona, first floor WHEN: May 22nd, 2019

They slink through the library with the distinct look of satisfaction decorating their features, fingers tracing over the spines of long-neglected books as they weave their way through the aisles, taking in their surroundings with all the fascination of a cat patiently stalking a bird. It wasn’t the first time they’d set foot in the library ( far from it, in fact, long-forgotten memories of visiting this very place with their mother many years ago suddenly resurface, but with nothing more than a slight tick in their jaw, those memories are repressed back from whence they came, leaving behind nothing but a tinge of nostalgia ), but it was the first time they’d been granted access to the upper levels.

Alvise had promised it to them, once, that they’d be able to stand atop the the third floor of the library and gaze out the great windows, that the view of the sprawling city below would be unlike anything they’d ever seen. He’d promised it to them in the dark of their laboratory, sealed away from the rest of the organisation as they worked in secret and in solitude. Now, it seemed, they were closer than ever to tasting that victory. Their masterpiece had finally been completed, and they had been given the chance to step out of the shadows and into the limelight of the Montague ranks, the feeling of all eyes on them still sending tingles up and down Leona’s spine. It was the acknowledgement ( no, the admiration ) they’d craved since they’d first shown up on Montague territory all that time ago.

Now, they are reaping the benefits of their ascent out of the shadows, basking in the nervous looks they receive from the captains scattered around the library, clearly recognising them from the events two nights prior. It was almost strange, really – they’d been working alone for so long, they’d forgotten what it felt like to be in the company of others, how much they liked it. It was particularly pleasing for Leona to know that the people here who recognised them did so because they knew the power that Leona wielded, that the weapon they’d crafted had the potential to win the Montagues the war… just as surely as it had the potential to end the life of everyone in this building.

They spot a soldier sitting alone ( she looks young, Leona notes, perhaps around their own age, though, no doubt, not as impressive ), with an empty seat opposite her. Deciding they’re done wandering for just the minute, Leona opts to take it. “Is this seat taken?” They ask the soldier, a faux kind smile painted across their lips, though they’ve already sat down before the woman opposite has the chance to utter an answer. “Thanks.”

@czarnichego​

This is Brielle’s table. Not officially, of course, but it’s been hers for the past few months, ever since she staked her claim with countless medical texts, pouring over them with her nose practically pressed against the pages. She’s got a lot of strange vocabulary in Italian these days; while she can’t always use past-perfect tenses or remember where her grammar went, she can name every muscle in the human body and retains where they all are meant to be at any given point. 

She’s learning. Always, in Verona, Brielle will learn.

There are always a million things to do. Worry this, focus on that, until it all gets caught in her mind and spills through the sieve. She’s heard about the new team, the Reapers, as if the Montagues weren’t morbid enough. She’s even heard that there’s someone she might like to talk to on that particular set, one who deals in poisons and thus might be privy to their antidotes. Brielle would really love to talk to them, but that would require making time, and between her day job, her night job, and her side hustle teaching herself field medicine, she simply can’t carve any to spare.

When the object of her musings reaches her first, it feels like tossing a coin into a fountain and wishing only to spot what you desire right at the corner of your eye. She doesn’t know who they are yet, of course. Yet being the operative word.

❝ No, ❞ she says without looking up, only to be almost talked over in thanks. It’s the rudeness that makes Brielle’s gaze flick upward, texts tossed half-read between them like spoils of war. Her mouth quirks at the edges. She’s not one to get mad over a stolen seat, but the asking and taking indicate more about them than simply sitting down would have. ❝ It is obvious, then ? ❞ She catches them out on their behavior with a kindly sort of amusement, turning the page and squinting at a diagram as she half-returns to her studies. 

date: april 7th, 2019 location: faron’s grave status: closed for @czarnichego

It’s a strange spot for a reunion, but he’d met her halfway over the phone, and so they are both here, now, staring at the headstone. Boris is wearing a heavier coat than is really necessary for spring, but the forecast had predicted some rain, and he prefers to be prepared for any situation, except for the situations where it would most benefit him to be prepared. This is the way of Brutus, in all things.

He did not bring flowers for Faron Vasiliev, but someone else has left them there. Bright red roses, a dozen of them, soft-looking with streaks of brown where rot has inevitably begun to take hold from exposure to the outdoors for too long. He wonders: her? Calina Sokolova? A stranger, who’d thought oh, this one looks lonely? He could just ask. He turns his head to look at her, sees the way that she is, and thinks nevermind.

The funeral for Viola is in three days. Boris hadn’t known her well, and, if he’s being frank, would rather do anything else than look like he’d been mourning. That would take effort. He doesn’t know that he has it in him. He’d missed Faron’s funeral, too, and that had been a blessing and a curse in equal measure, because…

Well. Vasiliev had been like Vasiliev, and Kovrov had been like Kovrov, and they hadn’t been friends, but it’d been close. An almost sort of thing, like if they inched their way towards peacemaking they could’ve done it, if Faron could’ve played at blind ignorance like the rest of them did when it came to Boris. But he hadn’t, and maybe that’s why Boris had thought he’d ever stood a chance. How stupid.

“Do you think he would have wanted to die in Russia?” He asks, with a frown, because it’s a genuine question. “I would’ve thought he’d hate to die here, without a single victory to his name.”

Brielle doesn’t stand when he arrives. It would be polite, but she’s got her knees in the mud-dirt-filth covering Faron’s body, now, and it feels righteous to her. Like it matters that she’s here, dirtying her stockings, grieving a man most people would write off with a good riddance. It starts to mist as he approaches, which feels fitting, and also makes it easier to mask that she’s been off and on crying for what feels like an eternity. She hates the roses. They look like blood, and Faron might have thought that was funny but Brielle isn’t laughing.

Today is a strange day. She doesn’t feel like she deserves to grieve Valentina, not when she hadn’t protected her well by half, not when her own heart’s greatest desire hasn’t returned her calls, probably uncomfortably reminded about which sides of the line they’re on. So she comes before the funeral altogether, kneeling in the muck because it reminds her where she stands. Where she’s always stood among the Veronesi. 

Where she may always remain, in spite of what Faron might have wanted for her.

She doesn’t expect him to speak. Their mother tongue rolls from his mouth like it should be all sweetness, but there’s bitter clogging the back of her throat to listen to it. It calls her the way sirens do, and she knows that if she gives in to that moment of familiarity she might drown. 

He asks blunt questions. People have been treading on tip toes around her for days, after she had to hold back Santino from running to Valentina until it was all too late. This is nice. She finds she likes the honesty. ❝ No, ❞ she says definitively, straightening her spine. She’s always had good posture, it comes with the job security, but she doesn’t want to look bent or broken in front of a person like Boris. Feelings are fine. Being trapped by them would not be.

date: 10 March 2019 location: The Craven Estate time: 14:07 status: closed for @czarnichego

March has finally settled on Villa Santarossa with all the youthful pomp and circumstance of an early-arriving spring: dewy foliage sprouting from the orchards, fresh green shoots striving up towards the pale sun. Everett, clad in a smart coat and riding boots, strides across the earthy stable floor as he listens to the cheery trill of a bird in some far-off tree. He can smell it in the air: the estate is finally turning over a new leaf to mark a new beginning. 

And so, it seems, its owner is as well.

The truth is this: Everett doesn’t need to buy his niece a horse for her seventh birthday given that he’s already shipped her that one princess dress a week ago ( the new one, with the ice sparkles, made to measure after he’d called in a personal favor in Milan ). The reason for his last-minute purchase isn’t even his admittedly unhelpful hobby of spoiling his cousin’s daughter, but a deep devotion towards his godsister, and by extension, the young woman she’s given her heart to — the same woman currently leading a speckled mare into the farthest stall.

After all, there’s no better cover than a business transaction for a Capulet and a Montague to speak in private and at length without risk of being discovered.

“Thank you for coming.” He offers Brielle King a quiet smile as he crosses the length of the stable before reaching out to stroke the mare’s glossy coat. It really is a beautiful mare, all docile eyes and a beautiful velvet nose, but Everett is more concerned with the young lady holding its reins. “I’m assuming Catia already mentioned to you what we’d discussed on her birthday? She told me she would, on Thursday.”

Brielle knows that she shouldn’t be afraid, exactly, of Everett Craven. She even understands logically that Katya spoke with him and explained their situation. Yet their past interaction, his strange mix of generosity and pity, it lingers in her mouth a little sourly. Having had time to tear it apart and piece it back together, she can conclude that he acted entirely rationally, which is why it has so very much surprised her that he... well, that he was willing to take on the duties of assisting them.

He must love Katya very much. On this, they can agree.

It took little persuasion to switch her shift with whoever was supposed to deliver the horses. She timed it just right, asking the day before and waving off concerns about clearing it with the boss. Does it matter who does it? It will go fine, I promise. Her promise kept, she takes her time stroking a hand down the mare’s neck, speaking softly of nothing at all in hushed Russian. She doesn’t jump when he approaches, but she might have, once, when she was a bit more naive.

She turns and offers a smile at the right warmth to match his, trying to go off of what he does rather than setting the tone herself. This is only polite when someone is doing her a favor, no? He doesn’t beat around the bush, and Brielle’s smile fades a little, if only to discuss such things. It’s not that it would be possible, to avoid this issue between them, but being in the countryside makes her feel... freer, maybe. More able to stand on her own. Everett has brought her back to the task at hand, and there’s melancholy to her answer she can’t really hide.

❝ She said, ❞ Brielle admits. ❝ I used to be a person that believes things all the time. Now I do less of it. ❞ Her careful fingers, calloused from the labor she was born into, stroke that proud neck again. It seems to soothe them both. ❝ This is not... I am not the safe pick. In my job, they call this long odds. ❞ Her eyes are dark, but they haven’t lost any luminosity as they look the few inches up to meet Everett’s. ❝ Smarter to kill than keep me safe. I think you are smart, Signor Craven. ❞ She sighs, finally looking away, wringing her hands.

❝ But even if you are this smart, I can’t make myself defend. ❞ She swallows hard. ❝ For her, if you did... if you did, I would let you. ❞ Her voice has become quiet as a mouse or a bird. She didn’t tell Katya she would be meeting with her god-brother today. If he did, then she is safe. If he did not, then she may never be safe, but Katya would be in any case. She is no longer the girl who sees the best in people. Now, she can only attempt to trace their motives, and to hope that there’s anyone else in this world who sees love as good for its’ own sake. Would it be safer to break Katya’s heart, to tear that love away so she will not give it so haphazardly again? Maybe. It’s certainly all she’s thought about in the days since she arranged and confirmed this meeting. Her life in the hands of a Capulet. Her life in the hands of Katya’s family. These things are the same, yet they are not quite the same meaning, either. One includes her, while the former calls her an enemy.

Katya: [One word, and she already knows that Brielle is using all of her might to hold herself together.] Amor... [It's a quiet whisper, one meant to soothe--but it comes out ragged, rife with pain.]

Katya: Oh, Brielle... [This is what Verona does: it takes people and destroys them until they do not recognize themselves. This is what Verona does: it chews on the hearts of those who have them until they bleed out.] You will not be put together in the same way, but you will come together--and you will still be beautiful. You will still be the woman I love. [But then she mentions fear, and the blonde sobers.] It's... [She has no words, until she whispers:] I'm scared, too.

Katya: [Cosimo would do the same to her if he knew. She knows this as well as she knows that the sun will rise the next day--though, perhaps her death would be crueler, as she betrayed the Capulets with her heart rather than her words. A lump grows in her throat.] He won't know. [A promise--to herself and Brielle.]

Katya: He won't find out, Brie. We'll be okay. I'll be okay. [If she speaks it, maybe it will be true.] I'm sorry for your nightmares... I have them, too. [Brielle, bleeding and hanging like Christ. It sends shivers down her spine.]

Katya (softly): I wish I could be there with you. To hold you. To keep the bad dreams away. [Brielle's and her own.]

Brielle: [The words are lovely, but it's the love itself that stains her heart gold. It's that Katya can still find ways to love her when she feels unlovable and weak.] Whatever parts of me get put together, there's no parts that don't love you, and that matters the most.

Brielle: [She wishes she had such confidence. Even if Cosimo never finds out, will Damiano? The way he hung the witches hangs in her memory too, Lucien's awful pain after that ringing in her ears and staying with her heart. They are both cruel masters, and they are all simply dogs in their hearts.]

Brielle: No, he won't. [They're both lying. Normally they lie to the others, keeping out the world; now they lie to themselves and hope it'll come true if they simply say it with the right amount of conviction.] Well that's not good. [A careful, tried-on smile in her voice.] We should have good dreams. You and me can do anything in them. Go anywhere, be anyone... these dreams will be better to us.

when: 14 april, late afternoon where: outside ospedale di verona  who: @czarnichego​

Leaving Orion in that bed - full of tubes, covered in cuts and bruises, surrounded by strangers - felt like losing him all over again. She’d made a good showing, she thought, honest and as genuine as she could be without getting overly angry or emotional. And as much as she craved to know who’s hand had caused such trauma, who’s name to add to her list - Lucrezia would not make him relive the details for her own anger. She owed him that kindness at least. 

It did nothing to quell the rage building up in her chest, running along her skin and shooting out her fingers like electric currents. She needed an outlet and soon, or she’d find herself losing control. Sometimes she wanted it, sometimes she craved it. Loss of control tasted like freedom, like danger, violence, and euphoria all in one. But no, Lucrezia wasn’t there yet, this rage was still familiar and safely confined by her armor. 

The click of her heels on the marble hospital halls seemed more urgent than when she’d arrived earlier. She counted them in 8s, the pattern set burning into her memory by years of ballet. It was a grounding technique, or so one of the various child therapists her parents had sent her to once said. Lucrezia had hated them all with relish. It was a strange thought to dwell on, leaving a hospital, but the late afternoon sun brought her back to her present rage. 

That, and the figure walking towards the hospital entrance with distinct purpose. Beatrice, if Lucrezia recalled correctly, a Montague soldier with no business in this hospital. Unless they were stupid enough to send her to end Orion, which she didn’t think they were. Still - one could never be too careful, and so Lucrezia put on her most winning smile and waved the girl over. 

“Beatrice, right?” The edge in her voice should put Brie on the defense. Besides, Lucrezia owed the girl a death, having missed the last time. If she were smart she would not engage, and continue on. But one didn’t become a Montague if one was smart. “You look well, why ever would you need to visit the hospital?” 

It’s just a routine stop. This is what Brielle thinks her day is filled with, anyway, as she starts toward the hospital entrance, backpack empty on her shoulders and ready to be filled with the supplies she needs to treat her friends safely for the things she’s educated enough to handle. The hospital hasn’t been safe to her since the day Lady Macbeth first attempted to end her life within its walls. 

It’s a mockery of serendipity, to find her outside the hospital just as Brielle was considering her. She slows to a stop, wondering if she can get by without being noticed or perhaps come back later. She’s under zero illusions about the order to kill her still being valid; she wouldn’t doubt that it is, even if the Capulets have forgotten of late. Too many bigger fish to fry. 

She’s noticed long before she can decide what to do, and she walks over warily, stopping about four feet away from Lucrezia and forcing herself not to hunch her shoulders. She’s not a mouse, she’s a lion — that’s what she keeps telling people. ❝ Beatrice to you, ❞ she agrees, tone as neutral as possible. Her eyes narrow at the question. Lucrezia is known to have a hair trigger, so she tries to step delicately, though she privately believes the woman has no right to question her presence anywhere.

date: february 19th, 2019 time: near midnight location: brielle’s apartment status: closed to @czarnichego

The February air grew with thick, grey fog as rain showered over tender skin, the thunderous beat of her heart corresponding with the downpour of heavy, fragrant raindrops. For the first time in Heloise’s life, she was alone. There wasn’t anyone left to run a hairbrush through her curls or cradle her in their arms when grief enveloped her. Distant memories of her parents gnawed and grappled at the edges of her mind, and while those memories continued to grow, she continued to shrink back.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the frown twisted around her mother’s mouth and her father’s disappointment. She was their most prized possession, their golden girl with a sunlit soul, but none of that seemed to matter. She’d been tossed out with the garbage, as if she no longer had any value. Perhaps this was their crowning moment, a dreadful conclusion to the fairy-tale they’d spun for her since the moment she could speak. In truth, Heloise wasn’t ready to let go.            

The roses that invaded her heart, thick & growing, began to wilt as a rush of whipping winds sunk into brittle bones, a chill slithering down the curve of her spine. Panic bubbled in her stomach as she began to rot, a soft sob rupturing free from her throat, tear-stricken and wounded. Alone. She was alone. Heloise swayed on her feet as rainwater puddled around her, Viktor’s words echoing in the depths of her mind.

Too weak. Too fragile. Too foolish.

She desperately ached for the chill of the ocean, eager for the waves to carry her away from the shoreline and to never resurface. Her heart resembled molded apples, dark, tender spots finding a permanent home there, infecting the rest of her. Heloise felt that she’d lost her soul. There was no more radiation of warmth or blossoming smiles, all that encompassed her was the dark desire to indulge in numbness. Maybe then she could salvage what was left of her heart.

White-hot tears blurred her vision as Heloise’s fists struck against the apartment door, distress welling up in her heart slowly, a tired kind of ache. The door swung open and words were soon lost on her. Blood rushed to her brain and she felt as if she was going to short-circuit. Her fingers twitched with uncertainty, but the second their eyes found each other’s, Heloise came undone.

Heloise launched herself forward and enveloped Brielle into a hug, shrill cries of misery piercing the air as she sobbed, her grip tightening with every tear that stains the apples of her cheeks. “Brie!” Heloise cried, agony rippling throughout the pit of her stomach, swarming through her chest and up her throat. “Mама и папа ненавидят меня.” She shook her head, her entire body convulsing. She felt the entire weight of the world crippling her and she was sure she’d suffocate. “Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how to fix it.” She wanted to be reborn. She wanted to skin herself alive and scrape herself clean, to mold herself to her parents preference. Would they love her then?

“You always know how to fix things. Fix me. Please.”  

Hazel had gone to bed already when Brielle heard a knock at the door. She frowned, glancing up from her reading (another cursed medical textbook) as it came over the sound of the thrashing rain. ❝ Hello ? ❞ she called, but if anyone said anything, it was likely carried away on the wind. Sighing, she shut the book and her notes, piling one on top of the other and getting to her feet with a stretch. Maybe it was one of the others, who needed her for something?

She approached a bit warily, grabbing her knife from the side table near the door since she didn’t wear it while in the house. Gripping it tight, she approached the peephole and looked, blinking quite a few times to ensure that what she was seeing was true. It couldn’t possibly be... how would she have found her? Abandoning the knife to its’ usual spot, she scrambled to open the door, heart chilled by how thin and frail her sister looked, how wet and freezing it seemed to be outside. 

Brielle went to speak, but she was cut off by Heloise launching herself into her arms. Running on instincts she should have left behind in Russia, she spoke in Bashkir for one of the first times since she left home. ❝ Shhh, ❞ she said half into Heloise’s wild curls, kicking the door shut now that she’d pulled her inside. Mama and Papa hate me. Those damn informal names; Brielle hadn’t called her parents by anything so familiar for years, but of course her sister would still cling to them, even as she spoke of hatred. Brain barely working to process, she continued to hold onto her baby sister, hands tight around her. As she spoke, Brielle pulled away to cup her face in her hands, her pragmatism taking over everything else in response to Heloise’s panic.

Katya: [It's been hard to reconcile her desire for retribution and her deeply instilled morality. Between the inward battles she fights with herself, managing her borgata, and other Capulet duties, she's barely had time to breathe--let alone call Brielle. She reasons that it wouldn't have been safe to do so so quickly after the anniversary; she reasons that perhaps Brielle had seen that God-awful smirk that danced across her face as she saw a crucified Valentina and that she didn't want to hear from her beloved Katya.]

Katya: [But then, the familiar name flashes across her phone screen and she picks up only after the second ring.] Brie? Mi amore, are you okay?

Brielle: [She doesn't cry, but her voice is thick with emotion.] I— [She wants to say she's fine. It's on the tip of her tongue, but it won't come out. This is Katya. If she can't tell her the truth... who can she tell? Who else will take all of her in stride?]

Brielle: No. No, I— [She closes her eyes and takes a breath.] It breaks... it breaks me. Something in me, this keeps breaking, and I can't keep finding the pieces and putting them back. They don't feel right. [A shuddering breath.] And I'm scared. All the time. For everyone.

Brielle: [She listens to it ring with nerves in the pit of her stomach. They haven't spoken since the terrible events in the Cathedral, and she thinks she may burst into tears when she hears Katya's voice.]

People can think what they want of Regina. They can craft a story around the character who has too few lines, build the puzzle around this one piece with abnormal edges. There’s no reason to stop them, at least not a good enough one for Regina to set aside the indifference she feels towards what those people are saying. They’re wrong, and she knows this. Let them be, she thinks. It’ll end all the same, though they may just take longer to recognize it this way. Let Brielle insult her. Perhaps there may be some validity to the things she says, but it does not affect Regina one bit. There is nothing but apathy from Regina as she gazes at the woman before her. Nothing sticks because she won’t let it. Some cover themselves in the saccharine honey they hope will attract positive attention, not realizing everything that touches it sticks. Regina does not do such foolish things; she covers herself in nothing, exposes the raw underbelly of apathy to the world, and it seems they cannot comprehend it without pretending there is some sort of covering to dress it up.

“Then enlighten me:” Regina inquires: “what is a soul?” It’s a simple question, really, but Regina knows the complex implications behind it. “It is not something we can see or hear or touch, and yet people speak about it so definitively. What defines whether or not one has a soul? What rules dictate what you’re implying — that you have a soul and I don’t?” Regina doesn’t care about having a soul, of course, but there’s an entertainment to the words slipping from her forked tongue as she slithers towards Brielle, fangs dripping in the venom she is to this city. “Do you think this makes you better than me?”

Regina can’t say she agreed with Brielle’s definition of strength. “You cannot know me well enough to think there is nothing I have had to overcome. Besides, strength, by definition, is withstanding. But by your definition or mine, it seems like you can’t do either. So again, I am no weak human,” she repeats, tilting her head ever so slightly, “but perhaps you are.”

She doesn’t answer for a moment as she thinks back on that night. Honestly, Regina never gave it much thought. She saw a hand, did not recognize it, and stabbed. It was a reflex, really, but perhaps, at some moment, she did look up at Brielle’s kind eyes and realized her intentions. It wouldn’t have made a difference, though, as she so easily explains. “At first, no.” She’s got no reason to lie, and no sign of it as she looks Brielle directly in the eye. “Then, maybe. I can’t truly be sure. Do you think I would have pulled my knife if I did?” The correct answer is yes, yes she absolutely would have, and wouldn’t have regretted it for a second. But she’s curious to see what Brielle thinks, what interpretation she has given the statue in front of her, before revealing the artist’s intent.

There are things impossible to define in this world. She thinks of the voice of God, that she’s never heard but she believes Hugo will hear, if he hasn’t already. The way it sings in Catherine’s ear, the way it betrays her, too. She thinks of the light she saw in Faron’s shadows, in all his darkness, that glimmer of a single star. There are things she cannot describe, things that cannot be harnessed by the human tongue. So she will step aside from the question, will answer by where it’s not. ❝ The thing you see in other people you can’t find in you, ❞ Brielle outlines, and leaves it at that. One does not need to be a maestro of observation to know there is a void within Regina Daly. 

❝ The rules don’t make a thing real, ❞ she points out. ❝ The feeling, that’s what it is. Feeling so much it hurts, feeling that takes you over. ❞ If Regina experiences that, then maybe she’ll change her mind, but Brielle has heard enough of them from everyone she knows to understand it’s unlikely. Even when she merely helped them in the library, she knew that there was something missing, though at the time it made her sad rather than angry. She steps forward again, skin itching to act, but the question pulls her up short.

Brielle tilts her head a little. ❝ I am better at some things. You’re better at other things. People can’t be in stacks. ❞ She dislikes to think of those around her in some sort of hierarchy. Regina is a better fighter, a better mafioso than Brielle will ever be, but no one would call them morally good in the same way Brielle is. Strength and weakness is merely a balance, between people and within yourself. 

She grits her teeth so hard it reverberates in her skull. ❝ You don’t know me that well either, ❞ she says quietly, ❝ thinking that. But I wanted to know you, and you never wanted back. ❞ It’s not her own damn fault if she doesn’t know Regina. Every single time she’s ever reached out, it’s been met with violence or frigidity. Even the most generous person eventually pulls their hand away before they get their fingers bitten off. 

At first, those words fill her with relief. No. It’s something she can give to Katya, to give her a moment of peace after the torment she felt at what her sister had done. Then, of course, she feels the need to continue, spoiling all of Brielle’s good intentions until they’re rotting between them. Something clicks into place inside of her as she listens. What does she think? What does she know. Brielle is done opening her heart to feel the knife slide between her ribs. She can tell Marcelo they taught her anger quite well, because when she rushes forward, no warning in sight, what she wants is to hurt. 

It’s Henry who struck the match, first. With a few words, a part of her Paola long thought dormant awakened, and it was hungry for words. She doesn’t ignore the irony, that the very thing that kept her off the streets of Rome is resurrected in her again by Verona’s underground criminals.

But Brielle hardly seems like a criminal; she’s never met anyone like her at all. Optimism is a luxury, and it is reserved only for those who have not seen their local priest ruin a boy’s life, or a nun bringing a small girl close to death in the name of God and holy punishment.

She knows Brielle has seen horrible things. At the very least, she’s seen one of her own publicly murdered in a grotesque show of power and pride. So how does she still carry light with her, the kind that the happy don’t know they have but the miserable can recognize for their own lack?

“Only if you don’t think I’m silly for wanting to smell the pages,” Paola says, reaching out to help Brielle carry the stacks, “It’s my favorite part.” She hopes her smile is warm and inviting, though part of her is aflutter with nerves. Italian and a few Latin prayers is all she’s ever known; she doesn’t like to make a fool of herself, especially before a girl as young and naive as Brielle.

When she gently places the pile on her round dining table and glimpses the Russian lettering on a cover, her nerves begin to fade. This is the passion she’s long since forgotten, of learning words and prose. She has always been most comfortable when she has a goal; for so long, it’s been Gabriele she wanted. It’s time she returns to herself and her first love.

“How about every time you give me a lesson, I’ll pay you with a book.” Paola’s smile is wide and genuine, shaken free of her initial guardedness. “It’s the least I can do. You don’t know how much I appreciate this, Brielle.”

Brielle tilts her head, curious, because her experience with smelling books has been different, to say the least. ❝ My father, he keeps his books in spare barn, and always they are smelling like mold. ❞ Brielle wrinkles her nose. ❝ Here, though, these smell nice. I like the library. I used to... ❞ She trails off, thinking of how often she would sneak around the stacks, of how she would play games with Regina, before Regina stabbed her in the lung. Brielle shakes her head, returning the smile to her face and hoping the dip wasn’t too noticeable. ❝ It’s nice. Better, to me, than going to church just to meet with ‘Celo. ❞

Her face lights up with excitement at the prospect of new books, but she shakes her head after a moment. ❝ They have to stay with person who loves them the most, ❞ she says, and maybe it’s silly to think of books as things that know who loves them and who doesn’t, but Brielle believes in a lot of things that people find silly in Verona. This one, at least, won’t get anyone killed. ❝ I will taking payment in... words. New ones. Or phrases, like... ❞ She thinks a moment before repeating the one Bunny used on her, even so long ago, that she still doesn’t know the meaning of. ❝ Anima gemella. What is this ? ❞

Warm with the pleasure of helping someone, and the delight at the idea of expertise in an area that isn’t related to horses, Brielle shakes off the gratitude. ❝ I teach Russian to be, ah, selfish, ❞ she whispers, proud she got the word right on the first try, ❝ So I sound smarter to you. ❞ Her eyes crinkle at the corners with the simple joy that spending time with a new friend provides. ❝ Did you ever learn new language before ? I don’t know if how I learn Italian is best idea, so I will try to be like how I learn English, maybe... can also teach how to swear in Bashkir, ❞ she says with a wink. ❝ No one speaking it now, mostly, so can be secret. ❞

Not me, no fighting.

The restless part of Calina settles, Brielle’s honesty acting as a salve over a nagging wound. Her Ellyushka is unharmed—at least, physically—and the woman basks in the sudden warmth such an admittance brings despite the waves of agony that crash over her frame with each sob that comes from her companion. She sits, content with holding her here until her body stops trembling with grief; here, in her arms, she knows Brielle King is safe. Here, in the comfort of her home, she holds Brielle like her mother, even in sickness, held her years ago. Calina murmurs soft, sweet nothings to try to soothe the beast of sorrow that looks as though it’s going to tear Brie apart.

When she pulls away from her side, Calina is quick to place a steadying hand on her thigh, if only to remind the King girl that she is not alone. It nearly rips her heart in two, watching Brielle unravel in front of her. Her chest aches—not only because of Valentina, but mostly because of Brie; she remembers, what feels like centuries ago, when Brielle was still hesitant about coming to Verona. Calina remembers the vibrancy she saw in the young jockey, the tentative hopefulness in her words as she asked if she should come or tell Ronya that she couldn’t. And it was Calina, voice as sweet as honey, who told her yes—yes, to coming to Verona; yes, to throwing herself into the dens of wolves and lions because she and Vasiliev would protect her when they arrived and the payoff would be far greater than the risk; yes, to holding back a grieving brother while he watched his sister be reduced to nothing more than a body used for initiation, for proving the Capulet heiress’s apparent softness came with teeth and claws to match.

Her mind is cruel, even in the face of her dearest darling suffering; it begs Calina to join, to sink into despair alongside her companion because it, indirectly, is her fault–but she refuses, vehemently. The memory is forced away, leaving room for the present: now, here in Verona, where Brielle needs her. 

Calina’s hands move to cup Brielle’s cheeks, to ground her when she’s sure it feels as though she’s falling, falling, falling.  “дыши, моя маленькая звездочка,” she softly demands. Breathe, my little star. “Look at me. Take a breath.” Brown eyes linger imploringly, beggingly. Gently, her thumbs swipe at the tears that roll down Brielle’s cheeks. 

“You could not have prevented the Capulets from so cruelly ending Valentina’s life.” She speaks firmly so as to drill the truth into the other’s head: she could not have stopped it, could not have convinced them otherwise. And though Calina doesn’t say it—that Valentina’s display was more of a disgusting show of courtesy from those on the other side of the Adige, that it was the Capulets’ way of simultaneously purging themselves of the spy and offering the Montagues one last look at her, that Valentina was going to die with or without an audience—she does say this: “Do not reduce yourself or your actions, Ellyushka.” Brielle may have watched, yes, but she also held Santino to stop him from suffering the same fate. A bullet lodged neatly between his eyes was far less theatrical, but it all ended the same way.

“You did more than others. You did what was necessary, what was needed.” Calina leans in, presses a gentle kiss to Ellyushka’s forehead. “Santino will not begrudge you that. Valentina would be so proud of you for keeping her brother safe.”

Brielle lets Linya draw her in, lets herself be comforted, leaning into that hand on her leg like it’s a lifeline. Slowly, her breathing settles into the pattern of Calina’s, and she turns to her, face puffy and her eyes red around the corners. She’s certainly not ladylike in her grief, and for a moment it terrifies her. She expects the whip-like voice of her mother, chiding her for embarrassing their family, but all she hears is the warmth of Linya’s voice wrapping around her, carving them a place in the world where nothing touches them.

She looks at Linya and it anchors her, a port in the storm. She gives Brielle facts to cling to, touchstones in the darkness, little lanterns of light that guide her back to the land of the living, when she’s spent so much time preoccupied with the dead. Her advice often comes back to that root of Brielle’s insecurity: do not think of yourself as less-than. The problem is, Brielle has spent her entire life being less than, and has tried too hard to tell people she’s more as a result. She over-compensates, pride winning out over the urge to admit she’s lying. I haven’t done enough, I can never do enough, I can’t hold Verona together on my own and no one will help me.

The thought is uncharitable to her friends, those who sympathize with her goals, but they don’t act. There’s not nearly enough action in the world.

I am needed. That’s what Linya is trying to tell her, and she tries, very hard, to internalize it. I do things that are necessary. She wants to be that person, and she hopes to live up to it, though in the moment it feels like too little too late. Her breath hitches in her throat as Linya delivers the final blow, meant to build her up and tearing her apart. It does both, of course it does, but the thought that Valentina might be grateful for her saving Santi hadn’t yet occurred to her. 

At last, she lets go. She stops the hitching breaths, stops biting back sobs, and throws herself entirely on Linya’s mercy, wrapping her arms around her neck and sobbing entirely on her shoulder. In this place of safety, Brielle’s soft heart is not a weakness, it’s a strength, something that makes her valuable and important to others. She doesn’t have to pretend she is less, she can feel more and more until all her blood runs out.

When Faron died, Brielle was a ghost; the closest she got to a breakdown was only for Santino’s eyes, and it’s ironic, is it not? Now, she knows he won’t be able to bear that much pain from her, and so she hides it, tucking it away where only her and Linya will see it. She cries for Valentina and she cries because she didn’t love her more, cries for her lost future and cries because she’s not even sure Valentina deserved it, that any of them do. The misery of Verona cannot be overstated, but nor can the love, and as her tears begin to dry and her sobs turn to hiccups, she re-learns how to breathe by feeling the rise and fall of Linya’s chest.

❝ I’m sorry, ❞ she says at last, arms still wrapped tightly around Linya, voice muffled as she speaks against her shoulder. ❝ I’m sorry, I don’t know how to be so strong. I keep pushing and I think one day I’ll just break. ❞   

Odessa was all too familiar with funerals. She remembered attending the one for Matthias’ father. She had been unsure of how to act back then. She was only a teenager watching helplessly as her friend, and crush at the time, suffered a loss she knew nothing about. The next funeral was a lot more coherent. She had said her condolences to the Zhang household, her other family, and listened intently as various people reminisced about Howard’s life. Her father’s funeral was different. She was no longer a quiet figure standing in the back. She was dragged to the forefront. She remembered giving a speech about her father’s impact on her, and she remembered the way her hands shook slightly as she walked away from the podium. Valentina’s funeral would be no different from the others.

When Brielle asked her about an outfit, Odessa had agreed to it immediately. She adored Brielle, and Odessa knew they needed to help each other out more than ever. They had already lost one of their own. They needed to take care of the ones remaining. 

She hummed quietly as she searched through her closet. Her eyes kept flicking towards Brielle. Odessa didn’t know her mental state going into the funeral. Brielle was much closer to the Gallo twins than she was, and she knew the loss would weigh heavily on Brielle’s heart. They were seen as the softer members of the mob, gentle hands meant to be held tightly, but Odessa had a feeling that even the tougher members would have a hard time today. 

She plucked a dress out of her closet and laid it out on her bed. She scanned Brielle’s hair as she asked about it and her lips pressed together. “Wearing it up is best.” There’s no strict dress code, but she knew it was easier to wear it away from the face. Plus, Brielle had a beautiful face. It didn’t need to be hidden away behind raven locks. “Try on your dress, and I can fix your hair afterward, si?”

Forcing herself to think about the fashion and logistics was the way Brielle had decided to cope with the day’s events. If she thought about this in excruciating detail, she didn’t have to remember, not until the funeral was upon them, anyway. She watched Odessa and wondered how one person could have so many clothes. Her appearance was essential to her position, of course, as Brielle understood all too well; still, the idea of that much in her closet made her feel all itchy.

She filed the advice away for later, knowing that in their profession, it wouldn’t be the last time she had to attend a funeral. Unselfconscious in her trust with Odessa, she stripped out of her shirt and shimmied out of her jeans with little fanfare, simple black undergarments underneath in an attempt to be sure she would match whatever attire Odessa had on hand.

She slid it over her head, flipping her long hair out of the back and smoothing it down. It was very modest, which was a vast improvement over what she had in black at home, and she hugged herself around the middle for a moment. Somehow, being half-dressed up made it feel so real. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she managed a grateful smile for Odessa. ❝ Mon héros, merci. ❞ My hero. She didn’t know too much of French, only what the woman before her had taught, but it was enough to make Odessa smile usually.

Only a few weeks ago, maybe even as long as a month, she had been so sure and confident with who she was and all of her choices, but now everything leaves her reeling, something as little as a gust of wind causing her to wobble and waver in resolve and steadfastness. As she listens to Brielle, she wants to take her words at face value. Ramona must have had reason to pass on word, surely this must be a good option. 

Slow.

And Hazel takes the moment to pause. A second passes and she simply breathes, forcing herself to ground herself in the moment and now. If she didn’t, her head would continue to rush with thoughts of how her life had been turned upside down, how everything was out of control — and mistakes, she reminds herself how this is all her fault, because of her own sightless errors. “ Thank you. ” It’s honestly and her voice quiets slightly, but she cannot think of what more to say. It doesn’t feel like enough but nothing besides thank you can quite match the sentiment.

The cane and hobbling don’t go unnoticed, but she silently wonders if it would be rude to ask. As she follows Brielle inside, she shortens her own steps to not feel like she is trying to be a rush.  “ There’s no need to apologize. Take your time. ” Her eyes widen at the cough and the urge to question becomes stronger — finally, simply, she asks “ If you’re not feeling alright, I could come back another time ? ” It definitely won’t help her to do so, but Hazel can’t help but worry for her health.

“ It looks lovely, it does. ” She glances around before adding, “ I could understand how it being empty could be too much. I think it’d be overwhelming. ” There’s a pause. “ It could be lonely. ”

Her face flushes at the one rule that Brielle suggests, and she ducks her head in hopes the flame she feels in her cheeks will dissolve. “ I can try to be less scared — but it’s surely easier said than done. ” Finally she raises her gaze upwards, glancing around. “ This — your home — isn’t scary. You don’t seem scary. ” Brielle seems nice and friendly, that’s unquestionably true, and perhaps if the situation were different, Hazel would be clambering to be friends with her, no question. But the truth is she knows the woman is a Montague and that fact alone is enough to set her on slight edge. She tries to swallow her unease. This could be good for her. She hopes it will be.

“ I promise I’m usually much happier, ” she nods her head to solidify her point, and it is true. She usually radiates positive energy, not quite overwhelming glee, but she’s passionate and enthusiastic, and what is it to live a life if you are not trying to enjoy it ? 

“ I’d love to see the rooms — you wouldn’t have a preference to which I should take ? ”

Hazel stops, some of the panic receding and a thank you coming from her lips. Brielle can’t help beaming; it feels like progress. ❝ Of course, ❞ she says, ruining it by coughing a little bit trying not to think too much about that. Hazel’s kindness doesn’t go unnoticed, either, and when Brielle looks up at her it’s with gratitude at the understanding.

❝ I feel not good for while, ❞ Brielle admits. ❝ No need to have you not get a home for it. I am... stabbed, ending la purga. ❞ Her expression brightens as she takes in that Hazel is without injury, to her eyes at least. ❝ Glad you stay safe, si ? ❞ As Hazel looks around, Brielle simply watches her, waiting to see if she’ll relax further or if her face betrays a dislike for this place. She meant when she said she would find somewhere else for her; she’ll bully someone into helping if she has to, as long as she can figure out how to make Hazel feel actually safe. She needs... someone like Alexander, or Faron, Brielle thinks, then feels a pang at the thought of Faron. Too soon, she thinks, forcing her mind elsewhere.

❝ Lonely, yes, ❞ Brielle admits. ❝ I not living alone before, and for first time... very big. ❞ She hums, considering Hazel’s words. ❝ Well... new rule, I think. Can be scared, but tell me. Give me way to fix. Deal ? ❞ Her wide eyes implore Hazel to offer her the opportunity to prove herself. Brielle, too, remembers how scared she was at first. She also remembers how comforted her friends made her feel, and wonders how much Hazel might be in need of a friend.

She doesn’t need her to be happy, after all, so long as it’s not Brielle making her sad. Home, as she’s come to realize, should feel safe, and she knows all too well what it’s like when it feels like a war zone. She would never want that for anyone, let alone someone as nice as Hazel seems to be. ❝ No, ❞ Brielle says as she waves off the question with her hand, ❝ Pick any, but I show you this one first, it’s getting most light. ❞ She shuffles down the hall and takes the first door; Brielle’s is the last in the hall. It’s the bare bones of a room, just a full-sized bed with a basic frame and headboard. They’ll need to shop for more furniture, but it has the most windows, and faces west, which makes it appeal to Brielle in regard to Hazel.

Everything begins to settle like the aftermath of a bad storm. Yes, the thunder no longer roars with the booming, theatrical drone of Cosimo Capulet. The rain no longer pelts down upon them with the blood thirst of Capulet fists. The lightning no longer strikes Valentina dead. But the air is still heavy with the humidity of loss. The overflow of violent water still sloshes in the drainage systems. The clouds of Capulet rule-breaking still linger. If they cannot play fair, neither will the Montagues. 

It took a few days for him to return to his lesson plans and his emails and his grading; the war of his present made it far too difficult to focus on the wars of the past he was supposed to be reaching about. He was halfway through an assignment sheet when he heard the knocking at the door, and it was all too easy for him to tear his focus away from it to approach and learn that Brielle was on the other side.

He is not angry with her. Frustrated she wouldn’t listen, perhaps. A bit annoyed at the stubbornness in staying ignorant to the horrors that must be done, maybe. But Matthias cannot be angry with her. He knows he is very much human. He remembers the look on Ramona’s face when she had to leave a man for dead, lest she end up exactly like him, and he cannot be angry with Brielle because he saw that moment reflected in her that day. He doesn’t want her to experience that, as well, He doesn’t want another moment where he must say ‘I told you.’

The apology is not entirely surprising, for he knows Brielle’s heart is good. The flowers, however, are, but he doesn’t say anything about them, not just yet. Instead, he simply says, “Come in,” and steps aside for Brielle to enter, a sign he is not mad. The door is shut behind her before Matthias follows her into the main room. “Now, what’s this all about?”

He lets her in. It’s a good sign, a great one even, but her heart still flutters like a hummingbird. He doesn’t seem mad, but some people are slow to build! She isn’t sure she’s ever seen Matthias really, really angry. How could she recognize it? She sets the gift of bread on the table and after a moment of hesitation, the flowers, too, arranging them a second to stall before she has to turn around.

As she looks up to meet his eyes, she finds her hand straying to the back of her neck, a sheepish gesture that clearly signals an apology is imminent. ❝ I’m sorry, Matthias, ❞ she finally says, not beating around the bush, not letting herself off the hook. ❝ I was saying things to you I don’t mean. I was mad, but I was really... ❞ She looks down at the floor, now, not wanting to see if he pities her supposed naivety. ❝ I worry. About you, about what it does to you. ❞ She will not cry, nope, she won’t. That’s not what she’s here for.