l o v e l e s s

daciana

A heartrender was meant to know her own body, her own mind, know it and control it such that she could then control others. It was one of the most fundamental tenets of her order, and something Daciana had always thought she was rather good at.

So why couldn’t she sort through the messiness in her mind now?

As she often did when she felt overwhelmed, although she would never admit this, she sought out Mischa. Wrapping her kefta over her thin nightgown, Daciana grabbed the bottle she’d been saving for saints knew what, and then followed the all too familiar path to his room. The halls of the little palace were empty, everyone tucked away for the night, but she didn’t care.

Daciana lingered outside his door for a moment, hearing his heartbeat like a metronome and the melody from his piano. She could picture it easily -  Mischa lost in the music with his long, graceful fingers dancing across the keys, perhaps his eyes were closed. He was probably at peace. She gave him one more moment of this, a slight twinge of something in her chest over her constant need to be the center of attention, and then pushed open the door.

He looked up at her, but she couldn’t say anything. Not now, not yet. The heartrender stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, setting the bottle down on top of the piano and slipping off her kefta with a level of care that did not match her current somewhat manic energy. She draped it over the back of a chair then rushed forward, joining him on the piano bench and kissed him - hard & desperate. One hand snaked around his neck while the other clutched at his shirt - too needy and too distracted for how she usually was.

It didn’t work.

After a moment, or maybe it was several minutes, she broke the kiss with a gasp that might have been a sob. Daciana leaned forward, pressing her face into his chest so he could not see that she was crying.

mischa

“Are you…. Are you okay?” he never thought he’d ask her this question. If anything, the roles would be reversed, and even then he wasn’t sure she’d be as he was. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling back just enough so he could see her face. Seeing the tears staining her cheeks, his chest suddenly felt hollow and his voice was soft and as comforting as he could manage. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Daciana?”

It was late, as late as it always was when he managed to gather the motivation to practice on the piano. It was always a constant for him, and he was grateful he was able to even have one in his room. Sometimes he thought he was beginning to become a snobby grisha like some of the others. Usually he wanted to forget everything about his past, but this was one thing he wanted to keep in the present. He could easily recall the nights he would play for his other siblings while they all danced or played with him, or it was background music for the bickering they would always do. Never a moment of peace in the Essen household. So he became Mischa Baluev, and became his own peace. Only it never really worked the way he wanted it to.

He sighed, messing up for what felt like the hundredth time. He was beginning to become frustrated, or tired; or both. Before he had the chance to completely give up and just go to bed, the door opened. He looked up at her, the other constant that had developed in his life. He forgot how he lived before her. Every moment she wasn’t around was a moment he was not in peace. He was always searching for her now, everywhere he went. Everything reminded him of her, and though most things went unsaid between them, he had a feeling that tonight would be different. She seemed different.

He stayed quiet as she took off the kefta, approached him, and sat on the bench, not wanting to ruin the moment with a stupid joke like he often did. As always, the silence between them was a comfortable one, but he could sense some type of tension radiating from her that was unusual.

When she kissed him, he tried to match her energy, but failed. Through furrowed brows, he placed his hands on her shoulders, almost pulling away before she did it for him. Confusion and horror mixed on his face as she broke from the kiss and still, said nothing. When she burrowed her face in his chest, he didn’t say anything for a moment. What could he say about something he didn’t even know was really happening?

daciana

She could not recall the last time she’d felt so untethered, like all of the benchmarks she’d built her life upon were suddenly gone and she was lost in some squallar’s storm. Daciana did not know what was worse, the conflicting emotions over her mother’s death or the utter helplessness from feeling so out of control. She hated them both.

She loved the way he looked at her.

Mischa looked at her like she was the only person in the room, even across a crowd. He looked at her like he saw every part of her - the good, the bad, and even those parts she kept buried deep behind all that hard glossy armor. He looked at her and she felt seen. She felt safe. But now, there was something else, concern ghosted across his face but he did not speak. Daciana felt the slight hitch in his breath, or maybe his heart, when she kissed him and she almost thought she’d gotten away with acting like everything was fine.

Until his hands moved to her shoulders, pushing her back in the same breath as she pulled away. Mischa knew her all too well, she’d forgotten that in her grief and confusion. His chest was warm, his heartbeat steady even though she could feel it ticking upwards with concern. When he spoke, she broke - the tears running freely onto his shirt and then her cheeks as he gently pulled her face up to look at him.

“I -” she fumbled for her words, she never did that, and her voice was raw, desperate. “My mother died. Or maybe he fucking killed her. And Sacha can’t talk about it, but I need to because I have no idea if I am sad or relieved or angry - no wait I am angry, I’m so fucking angry but I don’t know how to deal with it. And we have to fucking go back there and pretend to be sad and pretend she didn’t sit there passively everytime.” She let out a choked sob, then reached for the bottle of liquor she’d brought.

“Drink with me?” Daciana made sure her body still touched his, needing the reassurance of his steadiness, then uncapped the bottle and took a large pull. The heartrender grimaced, she did not drink often, and certainly not like this. She took another, then pressed the bottle into his hand. “I don’t know how to deal with this, Mischa.”

mischa

The way she acted scared him. There was no other word for it, and he didn’t know if he liked being scared when it came to her. Everything about her always screamed I got this, her confidence and ruthlessness was what drew him in in the first place. Mischa wasn’t used to this version of her. He was used to petty, distant remarks followed by the tip of her finger tracing his shoulder down to his arm with the flutter of her eyelids as she charmed her way into his heart. This stuttering, vulnerable girl was one he did not know. It scared him, but did not scare him away.

He could tell how hard she tried to keep her face stone cold with no expression. He could sense the lump in her throat as easily as he could sense it in his own, because seeing her this way made him just as upset. He would burn cities down for her, bury his own people for her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to see her happy, or at the very least, normal.

Mischa thought he was hearing things as she spoke, trying to process everything before she was on to the next thing and shoving a bottle of alcohol in his hand. Sad, relieved, angry; emotions he didn’t know Daciana Zhirkova knew, but she proved him wrong again and again every day. She spoke so fast he didn’t know if he even caught all of it, but he still tried, noticing how she kept her body weight against him.

“Every time?” he dared, not used to feeling like he had to be careful around her. He tried to maneuver so he was looking her in the eyes, his hand instinctively pushing her hair back and smoothing it down in an attempt of reassurance. He didn’t know if it was futile, but he still tried. Mischa didn’t know how to help her, or reassure her. He didn’t know his parents, and he supposed he could just make up a story about them, but he didn’t want to lie around her. He didn’t want the relationship he wanted with her built around lies.

Mischa sat quietly again, trying to think of the right thing to say. Was there even a right thing to say in this situation? He watched as she downed some of the bottle, taking a tentative sip after her. He wanted to be fully comprehensive for this. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say she wasn’t…. The best mother?”

daciana

Rationally, somewhere, she knew this was too much to unload on him at once. He didn’t owe her anything, certainly not the kind of emotional support she was asking of him. But Mischa did not tell her to leave, he did not pull away or act in any way that would make her feel unwelcome. Daciana wouldn’t realize how much she’d needed this until much later.

She couldn’t answer his first question, not right away, and only shook her head quickly. His hand was gentle against her face, that bit of affection nearly broke her focus - Daciana had to squeeze her eyes shut to focus all her power on stabilizing her erratic heart beat. She watched as he took a small sip, then grasped at the bottle again and downed two more large gulps.

Very few people (read: almost no one) knew this, but Daciana Zhirkova was an incredible lightweight. More than two drinks spread out over a few hours and it went straight to her head. It was why she did not drink much, if anything at all. But this was different, and somewhere she knew she was safe with him. The alcohol seemed to wrap her mind in a cocoon, pushing against that hard glossy armor and finding the weak points, the places she could let a bit of her hidden self through. It was the only way. Daciana stood up quickly and paced as she spoke.

“Father is a heartrender like me, and mother a tidemaker. It was just me and Sacha, always has been, and we knew early on the only way to matter was to be grisha,” she glanced at him, “and the right kind of grisha.” Running a trembling hand through her hair, Daciana continued to pace. “I’d been like, I don’t know - affecting myself and Sacha for most of our childhood even before I really knew what it was. He got it the worst, and he always stood up for me - took it for me.” She finally stopped pacing and took a heavy breath.

“Father said he knew before he could walk.” She pulled up the hem of her nightgown over her hip to point out a shiny burn scar across her ribs. “I think we were five or six, and he wanted to see if we were inferni. Sacha must have been too traumatized for it to manifest then, or we were too young.  There were other scars but I was able to get rid of most of them, or cover them up with tattoos,” she rubbed the back of her neck absently. “She never did anything, never said anything, never protected us. She only seemed to remember us when she was drunk and only when we were very little. Like I can’t even tell if those memories are real or wishful thinking.” All the fight seemed to leave her body at once, and Daciana sank backwards to sit on his bed.

“Bit more than you thought you were getting into, yeah?”

mischa

Throughout her entire monologue, he stayed quiet. He didn’t know too many things, but he knew when to be silent. Eyes glued to her the entire time, never once straying. Mischa changed his expression, keeping the pity out of his eyes. He’d hate it if someone pitied his story, and knew her well enough to know that was the last thing she needed at that moment. His heart stung, his body was hot with anger. She could protect herself, but saints did he want to protect her from everything the world made her in that moment.

Mischa didn’t know when the lump in his throat burst and a small sob made its way through his lips when she lifted her nightgown to show the scar. He looked away immediately, rubbing the palm of his hand over his face. The tears that swelled in his eyes were from anger, and he had to swallow it down because he knew Daciana didn’t need that either. He knew better than most that she was entitled to her secrets, Saints knew he had tons of his own, but the ones she’d told him almost made him keel over.

He stood from the piano bench once she plopped back onto his bed, laying back next to her. He leaned on his elbow, leaning over top of her to look at her-- really look at her, as she lay there. This was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her, and while it broke his own heart, it was nothing compared to what she had to be going through at that moment. Again, he brushed her hair away from her face, letting his fingers brush the stray tears away from her cheek and brushing his thumb over her bottom lip.

“You could have told me you killed a bunch of poor children and I’d probably still follow you around like a lost puppy,” Mischa said softly, chuckling just the same. Only for a moment, before his eyes returned to the seriousness they were moments before. All at once everything seemed to make sense. “What do you need from me, Daci?”

daciana

He did not look at her with pity, which was the one thing her frantic mind clung to as the secrets and shame spilled out from her lips. This was exactly why she did not drink, she talked way too much, rambled and spiraled and was utterly weak and she hated it. But now she did not feel the burn of shame that she expected, did not feel the need to knock him out and flee as far away as she could. Instead - she wanted to talk more.

“I don’t know why I can’t get rid of the burn, I mean it wasn’t even the worst of them just -” she paused, pressing her fingers into the scar and then winced slightly - too much. “And I’d rather die than ask a healer for help. I couldn’t deal with their pity.” She scoffed, a bit of her old cruelty seeping back into her voice, “Yuilya has probably seen all of Sacha’s scars, I doubt he told her the truth but I couldn’t stand it if she looked at me with that fucking self rightious pitying face.”

Daciana hadn’t been paying close enough attention to him to notice the shift in his tone, the slight sob or the tears - too wrapped up in her own grief and anger and trauma. But she saw how he rubbed his face, and for a moment feared she’d lost him. Still, Mischa stood and joined her on the bed, settling close and leaning over her with that protective, burning gaze she had come to rely on. A few more tears leaked from dark eyes but he brushed them away. Instinctually she leaned closer, her hand drifting up to clutch at the bicep of his hand now brushing across her trembling lip.

“The children had it coming,” she whispered, half laughing and half crying while trying to regain a bit of her old self - not this vulnerable trembling thing. She hadn’t been that girl in almost twenty-five years, not since she learned of her power and found her strength at the little palace. Maybe the suddenness of her mothers death and the conflicting emotions brought back the shy, weak little girl she once was - maybe had always been.

“I don’t know -” she whispered, fingers digging into his arm. “I don’t even know what I need from me. I just can’t be alone, I would fully lose it.” Daciana swallowed another sob then inhaled, holding her breath in until she felt even more lightheaded and exhaled. “Drink with me, please, and stop looking at me like I am made of glass.” She gave a half smirk but it did not reach her eyes. “I never drink like this, aren’t you interested in what other secrets I have?”

mischa

Mischa understood her, to the most basic extent. He had not learned all of her secrets, was not sure he ever would. He was content with this, because even if she never shared something like this with him ever again, he knew he was comfortable having her know him completely. He understood her intentions, though not always clear, it was easy for him to grasp. Even more so now that he knew some of her past, as much as it broke him to hear.

With the most innocuous intentions, Mischa leaned down and just barely brushed his lips against hers before leaving a trail of kisses across her cheeks to melt the tears away before laughing softly against her skin. “Those fucking kids definitely had it coming,” he joked back, leaning back again with a stupid grin on his lips. His thumb caressed her chin, the fingers on his other hand playing with her hair, smoothing it across his bed. He kept quiet and let the words of vulnerability she had spoken hang in the air for moments to come.

He laughed softly. “You’re not made of glass. You’re made of fucking titanium, woman,” he joked, shaking his head. With a few swift movements, Mischa pushed himself off of the bed and grabbed the bottle she had brought in with her, laying back in the position they were in before he moved. In another pathetic attempt to make her smile again because Saints, did he love her smile, Mischa brought the bottle up to her lips and tilted it so it poured into her mouth slowly before taking a swig of it himself.

Mischa sighed, smacking his lips together and leaning back on his elbow with the other hand flesh against the bottle, holding it against his chest, acting as if he were thinking deeply about what he wanted to ask her. Then, he shook his head. “Not unless you want me to know. I could tell you some of mine, maybe? Deep, deep stuff goes on in here.” he tapped the tip of the bottle against the side of his head playfully. If he wanted to be his honest, true self with her, then he supposed it was worth starting at the beginning.

daciana

Daciana let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when he kissed her, even just lightly. Anyone else, she thought, would have pressed her further or would have coddled her and suffocated her until she couldn’t stand it. But Mischa was a soldier, a spy, just like she was. And one did not become skilled enough to survive in this line of work without a bit of trauma, a bit of history. She smiled.

“No, I am blood and bones and muscles and spite and cruelty and rage and everything else they say I am.” She moved her hand to his chin for just a moment. “Tell anyone of this weakness and you’ll never walk again.” Daciana innately knew she did not have to threaten him, but it felt more like her old self to do so - even if somewhere deep down they both knew she wouldn’t follow through.

“Yay,”  she opened her mouth obediently (she was only obedient in bed) and swallowed the alcohol with a shiver but less of a burn. Mischa took a sip himself and she nudged the bottle closer to him. “You have to catch up. It won’t matter though, another secret - I might be a lightweight.”

“Secret for a secret - it's your turn,” she nodded solemnly but suddenly realized she was invading his space, taking up his night, and unloading her trauma on him. In a rare moment of selflessness, Daciana reached out to cup his cheek. “You don’t have too, I bothered you with all my mixed up messiness. You don’t owe me anything.”

mischa

It was fair-- a secret for a secret. He knew it, but he had spent two decades rebuilding and rebuilding himself over and over through every person he met. He never thought he would truly be open and honest with someone about where he came from, how it shaped him into the man he turned out to be. The only person who knew who he was, where he came from, were his siblings and the general. With his siblings, he didn’t have to tell them anything. They knew just as he did the hardships that came with the life of being an orphan. And the general, well; the man was terrifying, and Mischa doubted he cared much where he came from as long as he did his job as a spy.

“Lucky for you, I don’t see it as weakness.” he said softly, a smile on his lips though it did not reach his eyes. Mischa smiled as she cupped his cheek, though it was a sad smile, and almost immediately he became detached. The softness in her tone didn’t shock him like it usually did. He was now too worried about being honest to think of how Daciana’s character changed slightly when she drank. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember anything he says in the morning, if he was lucky.

In a moment of fear, maybe even cowardice, Mischa sat up and kept his back to her. Maybe that would make it easier, but even still his heart pounded through to his ears and his limbs felt cold. He took a shaky breath, basically inhaling a long swig of the alcohol and coughing when he choked on it. He needed to take a minute, hoping he didn’t scare her away as soon as he opened his mouth. Here goes nothing.

“Baluev isn’t my last name,” a good starting point, no? Mischa shook his head, sighing frustratedly. His leg began shaking, a tell of how scared he was. He’d never really shown her this side of him, just as she had never shown him the side of her he saw minutes before. “I mean…. I chose it. It’s my last name, but not officially. The name on my…. Adoption papers says Essen,” he felt years of lies and storytelling fall off of his skin as if he were shedding it, though he knew in the morning it would only build up again, a new, shinier skin of stories he’d tell the first sucker to ask where he came from.

“I don’t know my real parents. They died in the fold, I guess, abandoned me when I was a baby. That’s what they tell me, anyway,” he shrugged, avoiding her eyes as much as he could. Was he shaking? He felt like he was shaking. “They left me, so I grew up in an orphanage. No one knew the extended family of a random baby left on an empty skiff.” he wasn’t the Mischa he knew anymore, let alone Daciana. He was back in the orphanage, being picked on by shitty little kids who would grow up to be otkazat’sya. “No one liked me there, hard to believe, I know,” though it was a joke, there was no playfulness in his tone. “That’s what the scar is from, on the back of my head. Surprised I didn’t bleed out on the forest ground, to be honest.”

He let the words hang in the air a bit, maybe giving her a chance to walk out and leave. When she didn’t, he continued with a sigh. “When I was 8 or 9, this guy came by the orphanage. Saints knows why, I guess he pitied me, the poor bastard. He took me in, Edmund Essen, along with four other straggly kids. Some of them are here, in the palace,” he dared a glance over to Daci, but scared himself into looking back toward the floor. “I guess I’m…. embarrassed? I don’t know. I make up stupid stories, fanciful backgrounds to….. Make people like me, I guess. Who wants to befriend a pathetic little orphan, you know?” the last few words died on his lips as barely a whisper, his eyes closing as he awaited the damage he’d just done. Mischa expected the worst, preparing himself to lose the one person he actually gave a shit about in this hellhole.

daciana

“Still doesn’t mean you can tell anyone,” she pouted, but it wasn’t all that serious. His face was warm in her hand, and she wanted to let it linger there a bit long, perhaps try to pull a bit of that fire into her own body. Daciana felt the shift in him before he pulled away, but stayed quiet. It was something she’d discovered in gathering information, people tended to speak to fill silences and if one was patient enough, the details would eventually come out. She tried not to think like that with him, but couldn’t help herself - anything he was this hesitant to say was something to store away in case she’d ever need it. At her core, Daciana was a selfish person and would always find a way to protect herself, her position, and her brother.

Before Mischa even spoke, Daciana felt his anxiety flood his body - his heart rate spiking and tremors that matched her own from before. She knew enough about the human body to recognize physical remnants of trauma, enough about trauma in her own life. Without even thinking the heartrender pressed her hand against the center of his back, slowing his heart rate and triggering what she knew to be calming. She’d always done this for Sacha when he was upset, trying not to show weakness in front of their father, stepping in front of her to protect her. It was a habit that now seemingly included Mischa.

He hadn’t mentioned much about his family before this, and she’d never pressed because she was the exact same way. But hearing him lose the confidant, cocky voice she was so attuned to and trust her with this truth jumbled her emotions almost more than her mother’s death. She was angry, fucking angry, that he’d lived so long without knowing how powerful he was. Her hand, now warm from his skin, drifted up his back and traced the scar she’d felt before on the back of his head but she wouldn’t try to fix it. Sometimes people liked their scars, or needed them.

“You’re not pathetic,” she whispered, sitting up behind him and pressing close, her head resting on his shoulder. “You never were. We aren’t responsible for the shit choices our parents make and the situations they put us in, it took me twenty years to figure that out.” Daciana didn’t speak above a whisper, not daring to give her insecurities any more power than they already had. Her arms slipped around his torso, pulling herself closer to him, focusing on the feeling of her heartbeat beside his. It didn’t change the way she saw him, he was still Mischa, her Mischa, all fire and flirtations and cocky smirks but also soft hands on her body and comfortable silence, a lightness and ease she found nowhere else.

Only now, and it would be a very difficult thing for her to admit, she realized she trusted completely and utterly like no one else.

“Was he kind?” she asked, “your adoptive father? I don’t think he pitied you, you have this like -” here she had to pause, moving around from behind him to crawl into his lap. Her fingers, cold again, closed around the bottle and she took another big swig, drunk Daciana craved touch. “This like thing about you, that makes people want to be near you,” she took another sip, the only reason she would ever consider saying what she did, and stared at him with somewhat glassy eyes. “Like charisma or something, warmth that people wanna be near even if you are an asshole sometimes. It wasn’t pity.”

mischa

For pretty much all of Mischa’s life, he’d built this facade around himself. It was all based on this inane idea that people would push him away or dislike him based on where he came from. He assumed that only because of how he was treated before the adoption; sneering side eyes and hurtful comments made about him when he walked by. Did he try too hard? Was he annoying? Not as annoying as all the other kids his age. Nonetheless, Mischa internalized all of it. How could he not? When you tell a child he isn't worth the effort, he believes you. When you tell him he talks too much about something he gets excited about, he believes you.

When he was adopted by Edmund Essen, Mischa was already six feet deep in that mindset. When you add trauma from your own life along with the trauma from the lives of four other kids, put them in the same house to grow up together, something is bound to set on fire. Or maybe they worked just well enough. It varied based on what happened to them during their lives. Sometimes Mischa wished he’d never been adopted at all, maybe then he’d have actually ended up dead by now.

But then he remembered the good things he’d achieved, without lying about his origins. He was one of the most skilled in combat, he was a spy for the general. Daciana. No matter how the two ended up, their relationship would always be one of his greatest acquisitions.

When she wrapped her arms around him, he flinched. He seemed to have forgotten where he was as he explained it all, his mind back in that dark place he was in all those years ago. When he came back, he was sitting on the bed, slouching over and the arms of the woman he loved was wrapped around him so tightly he thought he might dissipate if she let go. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her, his own vulnerability still too fresh for him to really dissect, keeping his eyes closed as she offered him words of comfort he never thought he’d hear from her, knowing she most likely told herself the same words growing up. He wished he’d known her sooner.

He wanted to reply in the same cynical way he always did, but he wouldn’t shut her down the first chance he got just because she knew more about him than anyone ever had. It was scary, having someone know your entire truth. He didn’t know how to deal with it. When she found herself in his lap, his arms went around her like they always did. Mischa forced himself to look at her, the glassy eyed girl that had a personal space problem when she drank. He almost wanted to laugh.

“As nice as he could be when you adopt five kids,” he shrugged, laughing softly. As she continued speaking, his eyebrows shot up though he wasn’t as drunk as her, he still didn’t expect her words. “Daciana Zhirkova, was that your own personal way of asking me to marry you?” he teased, though the hollow feeling in his chest that he had just lost all of his own protection was still very comprehensible in his own mind.

daciana

When he flinched she nearly broke. And suddenly there it was, another crack in all that hard glossy armor. Sacha had always been one - her twin soul and shared heart, he knew her before she was even born and would always be a willing weakness & strength. Then there was the child she’d never truly gotten to be but always seemed to slip back into when she and Sacha were forced back to the house that would never be home. The perfect daughter, quiet & obedient, daddy’s little soldier who barely hesitated when he commands her to kill. She hated that weakness, that crack more than any.

But now, there was Mischa. The thought of him in pain, being hurt by others, was so foreign and unbearable she couldn’t comprehend. Mischa - who was one of the only people in the little palace who could actually hold his own against her, so quick witted with those biting comments to her own causal cruelty because they were always playing the same game even if no one else was. He was suddenly another crack, and one she willingly accepted.

His arms slipped around her and she felt like she had him back, having drawn him from the dark place in his mind with the sheer force of her will. Daciana smiled when he laughed and took another sip from the bottle. Saints she never drank this much, she shook her head lightly in an attempt to clear it then settled against his chest. She wouldn’t press him on that answer, not now at least. He’d tell her in time, and if not, well - he was still the inferni she relied on.

She laughed and it was the most genuine she’d had in a long time.

“Did I fuck up and give you too much dopamine or something?” She pulled back slightly, shifting in his lap to straddle him so that they were eye to eye. Daciana set the bottle down on the bedside table and placed both her hands on his cheeks, blinking slowly to try and focus through her haze. “This is why I don’t drink, I’m no good, I can’t focus.” She laughed again but it was harsher & almost cold, she was unable to even focus her power enough to read his heart rate for truthfulness, all she could feel was it's comforting rhythm.

“You wanna be stuck with me for the rest of your life? I’m not a nice person, Mischa, I’m not that girl and I could never be her. I’m cruel and cold and selfish. I’m a fucking monster, just like him, just like he made me.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and trembled. “I think that’s why my mother hated me, cause I have his eyes and his power and I was too young and afraid and desperate for approval that I let him turn me into this.”

“I was thirteen the first time he made me kill,” her hands dropped from his face and into her own lap, her eyes followed. “It was someone local to the town we grew up in, he was challenging father’s position. It was at the market in the middle of the afternoon, he threatened Sacha if I wouldn’t do it. And it was so easy to just reach out and fuck with the man’s heart, too easy.” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. “I didn’t feel bad at all, I was more angry over not being in control and terrified that he might hurt Sacha. How fucked is that?”

mischa

Mischa couldn’t help but feel that all the armor he’d built up over the years was broken into tiny pieces, spread out over the floor with no hope of being put back together. But it was his own fault, wasn’t it? He wanted complete honesty between them, he wanted her in his life forever, no matter the cost. And if the cost was to strip away all he was and give himself over to her, then so be it. That was what love was, what trust was. It hurt like hell, but he wanted Daciana more than he wanted to lie for the rest of his life.

Hearing her belly laugh so genuinely only confirmed it. He would give up everything for her and all she had to do was ask. If someone told him all those years ago he’d find someone he wanted to be around 24/7 he would have laughed right in their face, yet here he was.

“I’m thinking you’re the one with a little too much dopamine right now,” he teased, the smile from hearing her laugh still plastered on his lips. When she straddled him, he only pulled her closer, then rested his hands on her thighs. At her question, Mischa’s face turned stone serious and looked her right in the eyes, his voice not wavering for a single second. “Yes,” and it was the truth. He’d fought this hard for her so far, he wasn’t giving up that easily. Could he see himself marrying her? In time, yes. The answer to that question came as easy to him as breathing did.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the serious tone still hovering over his voice. “You aren’t nice. Not even a little bit. You were forced to survive in an environment that was set against you since you were born. You are selfish, but you aren’t a monster. Not even close, Daciana, and if it takes me telling you that every single day for the rest of our lives for you to believe me, then I will.” his fingers lingered beneath her chin, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

“Despite the hatred you grew up around, despite being cruel and cold and selfish, you are so much more. You don’t need to have the entire world’s best interests at heart to be a good person.” Mischa knew it would be hard for her to believe, but he wanted her to hear them. And of course, it wouldn’t have been very much like Mischa if he didn’t immediately break out into a smile and replace the seriousness in his voice with a joking tone. “Now, with all of this being said…….. Will you marry me?”

daciana

She shook her head slowly when he said that she was the one with too much - too much alcohol for sure, but she found she liked how easy the alcohol made telling him things. Because part of her had always wanted to tell someone, to be fully seen and known and still have him look at her like that. Sacha knew her, of course, down to her marrow and knew her before she was even born. But that was different, he would always be there and had suffered the same. Mischa looked down at her bloodstained hands and took them in his willingly.

“Saints, maybe we are both mad.” She shook her head again, but let his fingers guide her chin up so that she was looking at him. Daciana didn’t know if she expected to find fear or pity in his eyes, but certainly not the burning look he gave her now. It melted a bit of the ice that had taken up residence between her ribs. She brought her hands back to his chest and lightly focused on the sound of his heartbeat - steady and true. “Or drunk, I’m drunk and you’re mad.” And maybe that was the reason she said what she did next, or a reckless pent up sort of energy that was a side effect of constantly feeling the need to be in control. Or maybe she just loved his smile.

“Ok,” she whispered, clearly shocking them both. Daciana leaned in and kissed him softly, almost too soft for her and without all the desperation from earlier. “But just for us, not a big thing, no fucking ordeal or whatever. We keep each other's secrets & always fight side by side. You keep me from spiraling and I won’t let you forget how powerful you are. Deal?”

mischa

Mischa was unable to help the soft laugh of disbelief that fell from his lips. Even as she kissed him, he couldn’t fully kiss her back-- was he going crazy? Did he hear what he thought he heard? Did Daciana Zhirkova, the most ruthless woman he’d ever met, renowned for her merciless ways, accept his marriage proposal? The one he wasn’t even serious about? Saints, she must have been completely wasted.

Of course, it was what he wanted, but not like this. A bad man would have taken her acceptance and ran with it, putting a ring on her finger and trapping her with him forever. Perhaps a worse man wouldn’t have joked about marriage at all when she was in as vulnerable a state as this, but Mischa never claimed to be good. He did, however, know Daciana. And he knew that if they were to really get married like this, unexpectedly, on the night Daci had gotten knews of her mother’s death, she would regret it. He knew if he took advantage of her vulnerability like this now, he’d lose the trust she had in him and maybe never earn it back again. He wouldn’t lose her so foolishly.

“No deal,” Mischa shook his head and pulled away, flopping back on the bed, leaning on his elbows and looking up at her. Of course he would make it seem lighthearted, but in truth he meant every word. He just hoped she was too far gone to notice the seriousness behind them. “Not like this. You don’t deserve a drunken proposal. Wouldn’t really be off to a good start, would it?”

daciana

He laughed at her, and the little part of her that had thawed at the idea of him wanting her froze over again. She shouldn’t have been this stupid, this fucking reckless. Her mother was dead, Sacha had sent a letter and her father hadn’t even bothered to tell her himself - yet all Daciana could do was hang on to Mischa and convince him to do things he didn’t actually want. Because he knew her well enough to know that this was rare, yes she was affectionate and touchy around him but she’d never been this raw and open. Had it been a mistake? Would he use this against her? Daciana’s mind raced as he hesitated to kiss her and then leaned away.

“Oh,” she didn’t move from where she sat straddling him even as he leaned back, only dropped her gaze back to her hands. The rejection stung more than she ever thought it could, heat rushing to her cheeks and turning them red. Fuck she hated this, she hated feeling so vulnerable - this was exactly why Daciana had tried to avoid feelings for most of her life. “Fuck, don’t hate me  I didn’t like mean anything.” She brought her hands up to cover her face, to hide the tears. “I’ve never felt this disconnected, I mean even neglect and abuse is better than nothing or absence. I don’t know how to react to this death and I’ve ruined, like, the only good relationship I have.”

“Don’t,” Daciana shook her head, tears still leaking from her eyes. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. I’m fucking horrible we both know this, I deserve nothing.” She hated how much she felt at this moment, she hated the weakness and the pain and utter loss. Mischa would look at her differently, she knew he would see the cracks in all the hard glossy armor and not think she was good enough to be his partner. She let out a half choked sob and then leaned forward and rolled off of him, curling up in a tight ball on the side of his bed with her back towards him.

“I know I’m a monster,” she whispered through the tears, “but I didn’t think I’d lose you this easily.”

mischa

Mischa was used to messing things up, saying the wrong thing around her. He should have known, but how could he have known? He’d never seen her in this state before, he didn’t know how much differently his words and regular demeanor would affect drunk Daciana rather than how they affected sober Daciana. His heart sank, and a frown immediately molded onto his face. Shit.

“What?” he asked in disbelief, not knowing what else to even say. How could he process this? What was he even processing? He knew her words and ramblings were just showcases to what it was really like inside of her head when she was sober, she was showing him who she was and what years and years of damaging blows looked like. He hated how he struggled to find words of comfort for her as she rolled off of him and curled up on the other side of his bed. So instead of words, he let the silence linger and then rolled over next to her.

He didn’t move her, didn’t force her to look at him. He let her go through the motions, and began trailing small kisses up her arm and to her shoulder. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against her shoulder and mumbled against her back. “Do you know how much I want you?” he said softly. “You couldn’t find the words to describe how much I want you. All of you, all the time,” by now he had pulled back, placed his hand on her shoulder to pull her back so she was laying against the bed and he was looking directly at her on his stomach. “Agreeing to marry me isn’t even on the list of things you could do that would scare me away,” he chuckled, though his tone was nothing but serious. If he had to comfort her all fucking night, he would. If she didn’t remember the words they spoke on this night, then he’d remind her every day for the rest of their lives if he had to.

“I love you, Daciana. Every part of you, with every part of me. There’s no scaring me away. Monster or no monster, you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

daciana

This was what happened, this is what happened when one opened themselves up to another person - when one let weakness overcome self preservation and rational choices. Daciana wouldn’t let herself make this mistake again, she hated to even know that Mischa had seen her this vulnerable. Maybe he wouldn’t remember in the morning, hopefully she wouldn’t remember. But she knew she wasn’t that fucked up to not recall every second of this night.

For a moment, she thought he left. She was always too much, had always been too much - and so maybe he’d had enough and decided to just leave her alone in his bed until she’d gotten her shit together enough to pretend nothing had happened. But like she’d always been able to, Daci felt his closeness - his affection - before he said anything. She choked out another sob, her body trembling with more emotion than she’d permitted herself to feel in decades - it was almost painful. But she let him pull her back towards him, quickly wiping tears from her eyes.

“Make me that list then,” it was just a whisper, but it was all she could manage before the full weight of his words sunk in. Love. He loved her, all of her. It wasn’t something she was used to, something Daciana could even really understand fully. She loved Sacha, of course, loved him as she loved herself and he the same because he had always been a part of her. But the idea of someone else, someone who’s veins didn’t share the exact same blood as hers willingingly and openly carving out their heart and placing the vulnerable organ in her bloodstained hands - with utter trust and devotion.

I’d always thought the woman a constant, her existence an irrefutable fact of life, much like the tides she claimed to control. But like the tides, my mother was yielding, shifting - almost incorporeal. I could never quite manage to understand her, each time I thought I might have uncovered some bit of truth, she slipped away from me like water in my hands. And maybe that was all there was to her: a vessel to bring life, a channel for power, something to easily bend and yield to the impenetrable rock that is my father.

My father is not a good man, not by any sense of the world. My father is not a good father, he has never been affectionate or encouraging, never saw us as anything more than pawns in his quest for power. He pushed us to be better, to be stronger - sometimes I think he wanted to break us. He still might want to break us apart, Sacha and I, our shared trauma and heartbeats bringing us closer was his one failure. And our weakness.

The first time I took a life was at his insistence, his own power so much more refined than mine was back then as he slowly stole away Sacha’s breath. And so I did it, almost willingly, reached out like he and my teachers had taught me and ended the man. Want to know a secret? I did it to save Sacha, of course, I would do anything for him. But a tiny part of me hoped that if I did this, if I was good enough and strong enough, my father might be proud of me. I felt nothing as it happened, no remorse, not guilt - only rage and determination and spark of something I would later name power. I thought maybe I would finally be good enough for him.

And now we have to go back to that house that was haunted long before her death, the walls heavy with pain and grief, the childhood we never had mocking us with such casual cruelty. I wonder if it will be worse, to finally have a name for the ghost. I wonder if I even care. I know what they will want, dutiful grieving daughter. I could even lie, tell some heartwarming story about a time she dried my tears or bandaged a wound; maybe how she encouraged my love for sketching even back then and praised my nascent talent. But she was not that kind of woman, already broken long before I was old enough to remember - almost.

Sometimes, when we were so young that I can’t decide if the memories are my own invention, she would come see us late at night. Breath heavy with alcohol she would scoop Sacha and me into her lap, combing her fingers through my hair or rubbing comforting circles on Sacha’s back. Wide-eyed and fearful, but with that foolish love that all little children inherently have for their mother, I’d sit still as a statue as she whispered stories to us. Sometimes it was the lives of the saints, all of them martyred quite tragically; or maybe the legends of phantoms and monsters that haunted the hills near our home. Mostly she repeated the fables after which my father had gifted us such taunting names. The little scorpion who couldn’t help but sting the frog, even when it would only hurt her. The raven, who brought trouble wherever he went and misfortune to those around him. I can’t decide if she was being intentionally cruel in those moments, or actually meant to comfort us. I try not to think about it.

Maybe I was soft once, full of life and joy, hopes and dreams the way normal little girls are supposed to be. I can’t remember. There is a cruel streak in me that I cannot fight, I don’t want to fight it, a selfishness that extends far beyond the normal definition of the word. I think I got it from her. I think she hated me because I look like him. My father molded us to be just like him, Sacha crafted into a leader - merciless and unflinching. He made me into a weapon, sharpened by his own cruelty until I was just as, if not more lethal. He allows this, I think, because he does not know how strong I actually am and could never accept it. Or, more likely, he still thinks he is the one to wield me.

At my lowest, I fear he may be right.

My mother was not a good mother, she hated me and resented me for how much I resemble him, and she neglected Sacha everyday of our childhood when we needed her most. But I will do what my father expects, what they all do. I will show up be that soft, dutiful daughter and mourn for the woman who never wanted me; gloss over all her faults and weaknesses with gracious words and beautiful grief - because this grief is performative, and must be lovely. No one would want to see the raw messiness of my real mind. I will bottle it up behind my hard glossy armor and no one will doubt that I am the most devoted daughter.