harriet writes stuff

You. I need to know you are safe. The question lands as the line crackles and again, he feels his heart stutter inside his chest. Behind Volodymyr's voice there is noise; unspecific and unrelenting. It is the sound of sirens, the low noise sending a shiver down his spine, familiar only through history, this terrible sound has crawled unmistakably into the present. There are voices too, overlapping the whine, speaking a language he does not understand, but in a tone that he does. Horror. He takes a breath in, waits for the reply; waits for the awful alternative too; silence.

“I think-”

“You think, or you know?”

His voice is sharp, precise, a shaking hand pressed flat against the desk, his brow furrowed as his mind turns everything over, again and again.

“I think. I know.. No-one is safe. Not in Kyiv-”

Then get out. Leave. Come to France. A government in exile.

The words die on his tongue as he looks up at his own staff, their faces blanched white. He takes a breath in.

“We are in the circle–”

Encircled. That’s what he means - the thought is at once, absurd - an automatic correction. The word stands for a moment as an entirely abstract concept; to be surrounded, usually by opposing forces. But it is happening. Now. In Europe. To Volodymyr and his people. Emmanuel feels his stomach clench as Vova continues speaking, his voice hoarse, wavering across the connection. He exhales, forcing himself to sound more sure, more firm than he feels. Volodymyr could have called anyone; but he has reached out to Emmanuel.

He has to make this count.

History stands before him and demands his presence.

After the call ends, Emmanuel's gaze centers on the windows of the Elysee, Paris - quiet and lovely beyond the walls, entirely incongruous, and he swallows around the lump in his throat.

Later, months, years later - Emmanuel will look at Volodymyr, his country and his people and wonder what could have been. If he’d said the right words at the right time- 

It haunts him.

There are other things too, that sit with him at night.

There is the knowledge, sharp and pointed, that they each inhabit worlds that are so very similar at times, but for one painful divergence. There are summits - full of politicians and their aides; some more annoying than most. There are press calls, interviews and thousands of people hanging on their every word, their every movement. There are shared jokes about diplomats, bad coffee and worse pastries. The differences come to him at sharp little moments. Lying in bed beside Brigitte, staring at the ceiling, the quiet loud enough that he can almost hear his own heartbeat. He thinks of Volodymyr, of endless nights, filled with noise and terror, of the tiny ascetic bedroom, chosen not for comfort but for its proximity to work. Emmanuel had counted once; a scant twenty steps.

The phone clicks, rings out.

He wonders now, if Vova is in the office, if he is in the tiny, blank little bedroom, or elsewhere; in a bunker, on a frontline trip without a bulletproof vest or a helmet. He is half expecting Volodymyr not to pick up - he knows how busy the other man is, how the little piecemeal moments of time that he calls his own are so rare that any unexpected calls often go unanswered, especially if they are not from the Presidential Office.

He answers this time.

“Emmanuel-”

That gravelly tone, rough - tired, but somehow welcoming, gentle even. Something in Emmanuel’s chest loosens, his shoulders relaxing, a low exhale drifting from him. Everything is as it ought to be - Vova is there. There are nights, days even - when the phone rings out, when someone else answers and makes excuses for him and that tendril of worry, it tightens around Emmanuel, only loosening when the sun rises again, or when he receives a short, clipped text at some ungodly hour of the night.

Sorry I missed you. I was without signal. Are you well? 

“You are well?”

The edges of Vova’s words are soft, tired as he is. In the quiet of his office, nothing else to grasp at his attention, he leans back in the chair, briefly allowing his eyes to close, just for a moment. He exhales, low, quiet. This is not a scheduled call; not the President of the Republic of France telephoning a colleague, this is just Emmanuel, and he is strangely glad of it, glad of him, and the quiet, gentle concern that spools easily through his next words as they cross the thousands of miles between their countries, the gulf of experience that separates them and the office they each hold.

“Yes. Yes. Fine. And how are you?”

Out of habit, Emmanuel checks the clock, measures the miniscule time difference, and wonders what Volodymyr’s day has been like; good, bad - otherwise. His words are really a reaching, searching question that covers so many things, among them - you can talk to me, about whatever you wish. When you are tired and hurting and there is nowhere else for you to turn; please know that I will be there.

A low growl of a laugh filters through his reply and it settles behind Emmanuel’s heart for a moment, filling him.

“Given the circumstances, well enough.”

In his office, Vova rises slowly from his seat, pacing towards the window, free hand pressed against the knot he can feel at the base of his spine, the ache snaking upwards, nagging. He lets his gaze drift over Bankova street, to the sky above; unblemished just now by smoke. The blueness is bright, almost startling.

“I hope I haven't disturbed you-”

“No. Not at all. I was reading a report, nothing that cannot wait a moment. How can I help?”

Unobserved, Emmanuel smiles.

“I just have a.. Question for you. The reconstruction of Notre Dame–”

“Yes - congratulations -” there is the trace of a smile in his voice and briefly, he watches a bird as it takes flight across the expanse of sky. Something eases in his chest at the sight.

“You'll come? To the ceremony? The reopening; we'll send a more official invitation of course, diplomatic channels and everything, but I wanted to ask you first-.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but-”

Vova pauses, staring out at the blue sky, the faint hum of traffic audible through the windows. Beyond his office, there are footsteps in the corridors, voices, the ringing of another phone somewhere - shrill enough to be irritating but continuing long enough that he knows it will not herald the next crisis that needs an instant reply; just a stubborn reminder that life, as always, goes on. 

“It is winter, Emmanuel.. It is.. Difficult. The rolling blackouts. There are powercuts and- I do not like to leave now. I need to be here, with my people.”

There is quiet on the end of the line for a little while.

“I know.”

Emmanuel’s tone is gentle as he leans an elbow onto his desk, propping his chin in his hand. His heart aches.

“It would be just an evening - a service in the cathedral. Nothing too.. much..”

Nothing gaudy, nothing ostentatious, nothing where you could be accused of leaving your people in the dark, in the cold, under bombardment.

There is quiet again on the other end of the phone.

In Bankova, Volodymyr turns away from the window, looks back at his desk, rubbing a hand over his face. A sharp barb of selfishness lodges suddenly in his ribs; a want, however small, to accept the invitation. To spend a night in Paris, just one; somewhere warm, quiet. Briefly, an ache settles behind his eyes and he pinches at the bridge of his nose. On the other end of the line, Emmanuel talks about opportunities for networking on the sidelines, tête-à-têtes, informal talks; he sketches out the evening gently, offering out the space and everything unspoken within it. Connection, yes, conversation, politics, everything but beneath it all;

I would like to see you, to offer you somewhere warm, quiet, calm - just for one night. Please..

“..Please?”

Eventually, quietly then, Vova inhales.