One need not glimpse fire to latch onto its presence, and one need not grasp flame to feel its scorch. Such was the visceral intimacy of burning ā a language that had long since woven its smoke-strung syllables into their ireful entanglement; an impulse most familiar to their ashen tongues and blackened throats. It was the steadying fulcrum of each encounter; the governing force of every collision, and it now served as the guiding strobe light for his sightless eyes, drawing them along all that remained suffocated and unseen in Giseleās hollowed expression. So viciously vacant, so crudely composed, yet there was no denying the way it burned. Zhenya couldnāt see the gnashing of Giseleās teeth; couldnāt spot the bite of her nails or gauge the curdling in her gut, yet he could feel the clutch of that ever-familiar heat across his cheeks, accompanied by the undeniable sting of ash across his lips ā and that was more than enough. Intuitively, he knew that the icy splinters of his words had struck through the fire and sliced open its blood-rich core. Such a victory could only ever be embraced, especially in the face of one as armored and untouchable as Gisele Duval, and embrace it he did; blatantly trailing his gaze across the womanās stoic face, chorded neck, and twitching hand. I see nothing, his eyes declared, yet I see everything.
Of all the rotten sentiments, gloating was not one that Zhenya readily succumbed to; he was often driven by his inherent sense of honor, except in matters where duty or necessity took precedence. Although neither of those crucial notions applied to his rivalry with Gisele, he still stood firm in it with great conviction, despite the undesirable responses it drew from him. After all, the heiress had struck him with the most unforgiveable of slights ā she had dared to define him. Seemingly before their paths had even crossed, she had decreed her judgement of him to be true, armed with nothing more than tatters of preconception and shards of fabrication ā yet still clutching them in a blanched fist that she audaciously, arrogantly held to his face as though it harbored a cluster of his heartstrings. It made him wish for nothing more than to witness her hand flare open with wounds, blood gushing forth in a trail as endless as the lengths to which he would take their feud in order to dismantle her false sense of knowing.
His lips quirked in idle response to her insult, lashes caught in a demeaning flutter as his gaze trailed away in subtle dismissal. However, he was quick to draw it back into its clash with Giseleās, tilting his head tauntingly as he said,Ā āYou speak of commands as if theyāre restricting, but that only sounds to me like a feeble justification for your inaction. You were commanded to come here, yes, but you werenāt obligated to follow in your fellow noblesā footsteps, and thatās precisely what you did,ā His mouth curved in a smile, its edge cutting.Ā āAt least a dog is aware of its own blind devotion. It doesnāt delude itself into believing itās anything else. I imagine you ought to learn a thing or two from it in that regard, especially when youāre wielding the notion of honesty against another.ā If he were a prideful man, he would have certainly bore the brunt of Giseleās disparaging tirade. In reality, however, he registered it for its cheapness and nothing else.Ā āAs you can see, plenty of words just escaped my mouth, and I dare you to claim the dishonesty of a single one of them. Or better yet, prove them wrong. Uphold the truth that you champion so vigorously.ā
The tempest churning behind Giseleās eyes darkens yet another degree. "Would that you knew me as well as you claim, you'd be aware that I've spent the night working to-" But the rest of her defense dies in the air as she clamps down around her half-formed admission like a vice. It isnāt as though she could ever give voice to the thoughts swirling through her mind, pushing at her tongue, especially not to Zhenya of all people. Gisele cannot insist the night as having been spent campaigning against Calandre, stoking discontent wherever she suspects even the slightest flicker; Neither can she claim sheās spent her time shadowing Yvon, working through endless rehearsals for the girlās eventual removal. Thereās precious little she can admit without leaving herself exposed, bound by sense to keep cautious even as sheās dying to lay things out as they are. If only she could look Zhenya in the face and tell him that just because sheās yet to take pieces in this grand game does not mean she is not positioning her knights and bishops, moving out rooks and pawns, drawing the queen herself out with the full intention of massacre. If only she could spit her designs at him, even if just to see if he might flinch. If only she could finally force the concession from him that she is a credible threat, meriting far more than the few brief flickers of attention heās paid her. If only, if only, if only, and yet, already sheās being too bold with her resentment, coming too close to tripping over the lines in the sand. All this for his validation of her worth, something she can recognize she only desires because of its absence. This recognition makes the white-hot fury sheās built up no less intense, but all the more mortifying.
Gisele shifts her weight a half-step back, widening the space between them as a physical cue to distance herself. It's imperative that she redirect. āBut then, if you say Iāve spent my night doing nothing but enjoying the festivities, who am I to argue?ā Sweet but flat, the words flow like old champagne left out too long. Itās an exercise in restraint, forcing her eyes to focus on him at large without allowing herself to be baited with the way his attention wanders away again and again or the mocking smile. āAfter all, here you are explaining the contents of my character to me. Should I be flattered youāve seemingly put such thought into your analysis of me?ā
The question isnāt nearly so insincere as she frames it to be. Really, thereās a kind of catharsis to the insults, once she removes herself enough to keep from leaping to her own defense. Zhenya can make a show of paying her no mind, but his observations, at least, imply a level of care. He isnāt wrong about her, or if he is, he isnāt alone in his wrongness. Delusional, blindly devoted, failing her own ideals: accusations so familiar they begin to feel somewhat like home. They sting, but theyāre followed by an old relief, something nearing gratitude that someone has taken the time to really recognize her. Terrible as she is, someone recognizes her. A unique catharsis, to be sure.
āWith what valour you issue your little challenges. Why should I feed a spy information? For the momentary pleasure of reminding you of your treachery? Or to prove something we both already know to be true? That seems like a raw deal for me, donāt you find?ā