𝔞 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔰𝔢𝔞.

" but you know how I adore being your focus, my darling. " lifting his free hand, simeon traces the line of nikolai's jaw as he speaks and affects a playful pout. perhaps it should not be this easy to melt into the fiction of togetherness, of convincingly playing besotted lovers. but the wide-eyed affectionate fixation with which he looks at the supposed captain is so genuine that it would easily have earned him the highest accolades in the ketterdam theater scene. assuming it was an act, of course. perhaps he was becoming a little too method. perhaps that line had been crossed long ago.

sim allows himself to giggle in delight at the press of nikolai's words against his cheek and temple. an unwitting flush rises from his neck as he tries to ignore the brush of his companion's breath against his skin. he hates this, he loves this, he must restrain the impulse to turn his head and taste that smile. his thoughts become more dangerous by the day, and it's a close call, certainly, as he turns his head as though sharing sweet nothings, brushing his nose against the other man's, murmuring in turn against his cheek.

that was the second bid of patience nikolai instilled into himself, reminding himself that he had a goal in front of him and they had to attain it as best as they could. even if it would take more than a day, or the actual stronghold to the ties spun here right now would only come to fruition down the line, it was needed for them - they could not sustain themselves with ties solely to the sordid underbelly of ketterdam, kaz brekker and his merry round of criminals nikolai's preferred route for business but not suitable now. neither did he need the merchant's son amidst brekker' crew, when he had someone much better at playing people and that he trusted much, much more by his side. nikolai might burn himself in the long run with this, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do this without simeon. simeon knew how ketterdam functioned, he knew even better than nikolai how a room like this ticked, and therefore his presence cleared up a good part of nikolai's mind that would have been occupied with that. he also managed to unsettle nikolai's mind when he sneaked in close to him, truly a full-bodied performance, that made the emptied-out part of nikolai's mind snap to a different attention, for the weight of simeon in his hand and the perfect cadence of his voice. he was a polished knife, a falcon on nikolai's naked arm, beautiful but talons deep and deeper.

Indeed, nothing much happens here, and so it follows like a law of nature that the townsfolk -- Adelina and all her parochial simplicity included -- should be equally bewitched by the rich and layering unfamiliarities of their accents, and the strong swagger rolled into their silhouettes -- postures forged from years of bracing against violent storms and the hard truth, too, that Death makes no exceptions for the brave.

The man at their feet would know; the gore's artistic precision has failed in some parts along his body, alluding to the fact that he had put up a good and honest fight.

Until his larynx had been torn out.

❝ Of course, of course. Anything for you, ❞ she smiles, gathering up primly to meet him. The Italians are well-known throughout the continent for their hospitality -- and, like a mockingbird, Adelina had adapted her strange little throat to produce that same effusive warmth. To sing songs whenever the guests wanted, and ask more than once if they would like fresh salt fish with their bread.

She peels off her gloves now that the blood's rendered them unfashionable. Then, from the chatelaine tinkling off her waistcoat, she plucks and unstoppers a little glass bottle to hold beneath her nose. The floral sanctuary of its perfumes wards off the stench of iron -- disgusting to fairies and women of delicate constitution such as herself, alike -- and thus restores her appetite for storytelling:

❝ ...Silvia Cristaldi was once the most beautiful woman in all of the southern country -- and very, very rich too, which naturally made her appeal all the more absolute. She had precious yellow hair, shiny black eyes, was very easy to hold... Soft and giving beneath the fingers, like a lemon flower.

Well, as it turns out, many men had wanted to hold her. The wealthiest man in Catania, for one thing... and though he offered her many jewels, a pretty white veil, and promised rather convincingly that he would never hurt her, Silvia's heart belonged to another -- Alfonso, a man of the sea -- like you! though he wasn't nearly as sturdy -- that her father said was no good for her, on account of his pockets containing more bits of salt than of gold, or silver, or even brass. And so, her father, as a wedding gift and prison both, built her inside of a tower that stood high over the cliffside. He also had poor Alfonso drowned, so that he wouldn't have the chance to ruin Silvia's coming marriage to the very rich man.

Love and grief, as I've read in many books -- and as I assume you've experienced for yourself, in your smaller life perhaps -- are a common mix, but an awful mix. The morning of her wedding day, after she was dressed in her fine white clothes, she flung herself off the window of the tower that stood high over the cliffside. She crashed into the water, and cried that she would find her Alfonso somewhere in the silt, and was dead shortly thereafter. All of Catania mourned the loss, especially because they couldn't find her body and see her pretty face just one last time. But like fruit inside of a jar, they did preserve her memory in a poem:

Tu sei una fata, perché hai fermato il tempo nell'età più bella: La giovinezza.

They would come to know later why couldn't find the body. In the years since, after her father had died and the tower fell into ruin, many men had been found dead along the cliffside, their faces shredded, and their throats... well... ❞ with a turn of her chin, she gestures to their silent companion. ❝ You get the idea. They say it is Silvia, still in her wedding clothes, who is tearing through the features of men to find if there is anything inside of them that reminds her of her Alfonso... Something tells me that this poor thing didn't look much like him. ❞

as he listens to adelina, he detects the distinct trickle to her voice, her story, that reminds him of himself, when he handles languages not entirely his own. he knew he had this to his fjerdan, and any time he had to be the rough-spun pirate that remembered what it was like to have manners and not the whole other way around, and it had him cant his head forward towards her where he stood. she was luminous even in this fog, in the wind on top of a cliff, and he has no doubt that when the townsfolk would put on a little cautionary play about silvia that adelina would fit the role quite well, like a glove some must say. the dead fellow at their feet must have made a shoddy alfonso even in life, though more so in death, as the most common thing between them was their shared fate of mortality. no waves produced such a gruesome scene though, this much nikolai knew - some well-trained dogs did, and fully wild beasts did so too, but sometimes someone bent into a bad shape out of love or its lack could produce such vulgar results as well. it was more common for people, actually, but he kept that to himself. he was sure that adelina knew that. once she finished her tale, he contemplated it for a moment, when she addressed him again. she knew she had a heretic in front of her, not only because he told her but because she could feel it, and he could tell she did. a consummate liar by choice, he made half of his living by watching people closely, listening to them, and never believing them unless he hadn't seen them bleed before or they had proven his trust, sometimes both. mourning ingenue of stramuro adelina was not exactly, but she could really embody the part. what would she do with him?

but just because she sees the logic in what he's saying doesn't mean she's just going to go along with it easily. she scoffs, straightening and turning around to face him for the first time since they've gotten trapped down here. " you won't be saying that after i dig us out of here, " she grumbles. " and i won't be pulling you out after me. " she flexes her hands into fists -- fingers and joints aching, likely torn up and slightly bloody -- then returns to his side ; yet she remains unable to stand still, pacing back and forth in quick strides. the worst part about this is situation that she really hadn't seen it coming. the first warning bells had only gone off in her head when the diplomat had insisted on showing them the manor's wine cellar so they could pick out a bottle for their meal that evening -- and even then, she'd been too slow to stop him from darting away and locking the heavy door behind him. " you didn't happen to pick up anything suspicious during negotiations, did you ? " she asks tiredly, though it's less of a question and more of a tired acceptance of their current circumstances. from her fair share of past experiences in this sort of thing, she suspects the purpose of this is either a kidnapping and/or a ransom, not questioning and torture -- but she still places herself between nikolai ( the fucking king of ravka, for god's sake ) and the door, just in case.

" alright, so this isn't ideal, but at least we're together. you know, would have been way worse if he'd have thrown one of us in here while torturing the other. easier to find a way out when it's the two of us, " nikolai stated, looking plainly at her. there was no way around it, they fucked up, and now it was up to the two of them to prove to this magnanimous royal that the king of ravka and one of his best agents weren't complete and utter fools, as easily played with as mice in the grasps of a hungry cat. looking around them then, he saw the wine rack in the same moment jyn did. as she picked up the bottle, he could see the green glass catching in the dim light of the cellar, near-darkness, and could tell at a glance of the glass what she could tell by the movement of the liquid. it was cheap wine, the kind they served in taverns and inns on country roads, so they could keep the business going while bandits and soldiers, as well as common travellers, never cared enough to want anything else. it was the fair way the world worked, so what did that kind of swill, as his good friend said, do down here, where the world wasn't fair at all?

         petals descend over them,    an ill-omen rendered delicate.    a spectacle before the kill yet she had pledged restraint when she joined her new crew ( but it was reserved only for neutral foes )  a hand holds his chin in place,    a detached arm forceful even without the leverage of a body behind it.    one of many,    her technique was half morbid pageantry and half strength.    grasping fingers springing out of floorboards,    nails scraping at his ankles,    all while she kept her distance.    when she chooses to approach it is in her unhurried gait.  ❛   all you've done is told me what you aren't,    not what you are.  ❜  titles went without meeting here,    when bounties could be issued on a whim for crimes never proven true.    no marine he claims,    yet he had a soldier's build,    he certainly held his head high like one.   ❛   regardless,    it doesn't matter who you are but rather what your intentions prove to be.    you've given me no reason so far to tell you what i'm capable of.  ❜  except for having the good sense to keep his guns secured fastened in their holsters.    

it was a gamble, one that might as well end in his death, but he'd never been as close to some semblance of recognition as when he passed jaya and heard of a ship going up-stream - shandora, they said, had been waiting for a crew like that. when nikolai finally caught up with them, he knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew that nico robin might as well kill him for daring to ask. knees digging into the wooden boards, head tilted back, he grinned at her widely as she plucked another arm out of thin air and drove it against his legs, kept him where he was. danger always felt better to him than sitting idly by, it was just like him to seek it out with eyes wide open. " you can call me nikolai. i could tell you where i grew up in the north blue, or how i got to the grand line, but it wouldn't do any good. all i can tell you is that i am too nosy for my own good. it's not something marines really like, do they? when someone's really nosy, " he said, voice rough against the hands holding him back, throat bared towards her right before she employed more arms to constrict him.

🕊️ 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞

01. gently brushing the other's hair out of their face to tuck behind their ear. 02. wrapping a blanket around their shoulders from behind. 03. brushing tears off of their cheeks. 04. reaching out hesitantly before resting a hand on their back. 05. placing a cup of tea or coffee in front of them. 06. sitting beside them while they are asleep to watch over them. 07. sharing silence with them. 08. pulling them into a tight hug. 09. writing something quietly and passing them the note. 10. fixing a piece of their clothing carefully.

🔥 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

01. staring at them in silence for a long moment before walking away. 02. slamming a door shut without explanation. 03. packing their things up, slowly and deliberately. 04. breathing sharply through their nose and refusing to meet their eyes. 05. cleaning something obsessively in silence.

🥀 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

consequences— they were written in the lines of @khitrets's face. james looked up at him rather sharply, though his own expression held no trace of severity. not now that he'd gone for a self-indulgent walk through the meadows, as though this were a fairytale, and perhaps it was for him, because farrow had always been able to retreat into his own head and entertain himself. only sometimes, driven to moods by the material he embodied, he snapped, lashed out, insulting those near. nikolai had been one such person today. not the brightest idea for the young nobleman to insult the prince, (a crueler young man might punish him for his insolence, the power at his hands unconventional) but he hadn't meant to be cruel, nor sour. and he felt bad, regretted his snappish words and attitude, the dismissive way he'd waved his hand in the air to shush all attempts at conversation, cutting the other off rudely, his voice a serrated blade for no good reason.

he wondered if nikolai was spoken to like that very often. probably not. either way, the vitriol was not only random, but undeserved, unwarranted, and obviously unacceptable. james shifted his weight from foot to foot, and frowned deeply, almost like he'd been more insulted by his own attitude than nikolai himself.

it's not real to you, but it's real to me. his behavior, however out of it he'd felt in the moment, could not be let go with a shrug of the shoulders. james's voice, when it came, was sincerely apologetic, and a little ashamed as well, a slight tinge of pink creeping over his throat.

❛ no, it is very real! and i ought to watch my mouth more. ❜ an understatement, to say the least. usually, he was good at holding his tongue, composed enough to know when to go resolutely quiet. and yet... he looked nikolai over, and remembered, then, how disgruntled the other had appeared that afternoon; he'd obviously been having a rough time to begin with, something haunting him, making him tense. he thought he caught the curve of shadow beneath the man's eyes. ❛ will you forgive me? there is no excuse, to be so unpleasant, but i'd like to make it up to you... if you are open to amends. ❜

as he chased james out into the vast estate, haste under his steps where he came up behind him ( like a spectre, like a dark shadow of someone else ) nikolai's words were loud enough that they made james stop where he was, at least. the wind rustled through the trees, a low wind that spoke of rain soon that nikolai could smell in the air, and he wanted to wait james out until the rain came down on them both. not a punishment by his own hands, but an amusing little twist of fate from the skies above - nikolai learned to trust the sky, all its tells and tales, and he knew that set him apart from other nobles or the rest of his family, everyone in the palace, most noblemen and women. " i ought to accuse you of treason. if you would have slipped up in such a way towards my brother, that would already be in play, " nikolai told him once he stopped in front of him. it was good that they did this out here, where nikolai's family couldn't hear them anymore.

and all the while, nikolai endeavored to assist her, directing attention in that easy and charming way of his that she could never hope to duplicate. part of her wishes that she could adapt to appreciating it faster, while the other part of her still bristles defensively at the thought of needing help in the first place. colette has never been one to ask for it and she's not sure how to accept it even now. not that it seems to matter ; she doubts anything would succeed in deterring him. and truth be told, she doesn't want him to stop, lost as she is in this world of navigating politics above her previous station. there is so much she knows about their situation, so many minutia in which she has made herself half an expert – but to convert that knowledge into oration in front of so many strangers presents a challenge she has not yet managed to meet. the last thing she'd wanted was to become another problem for the inventive king to solve, but she worries now that she who was meant to ease the burden of ruling will become yet another burden in herself.

yet for all that, he seems to remain in good spirits, always in good spirits, with a joke and a smile on his lips.

as a huff of amused disbelief escapes her, she lifts her hand to his upon her shoulder, allowing her fingers to grasp gently at that warm touch, to anchor her where she sits. it's strange, to force herself to grow accustomed to leaning on another, to settling into the need to depend upon somebody – and even enjoy it. despite scoffing at his off-color humor, she squeezes his hand, keeping him near at her back. she stands by her insistence that she has no business stepping into this role, but the shadow of him behind her somehow keeps her steady. it seems foolish that she hesitates to examine that when she's already in this deep. but instead, she clings to his fingers, a silent request to stay.

" after all that, you are still not too tired to be clever? " yet if she wished to cut, the fondness in her tone makes that impossible, as does her cheek settling gently on the back of his hand. a sigh leaves her and she lifts a hand to her ribcage, to the impressive laced bodice constricting it. it's a wonder of embroidery and uncommon angles, a gown certainly fit for a queen and the only part of her she's felt may have been near genuine today, for all her love of clothing as art.

but even that has grown too much, especially now, when she no longer needs it as a sort of shield.

" i am never too tired to be clever. even if i were, i can't seem like i am tired, " he retorts good-naturedly though his gaze is focused on where her hand reaches back for his and holds onto it, their fingers a play of light and dark pleasing to the eye, and the feeling of her hand in his one he knows he won't forget so soon even when the minutiae of the day may grow obsolete in his mind once they are well through it. to have colette not only allow him to stay close but to reach back for him, anchor him at his back, is the sweet kind of competition he has not hoped for today or any time in the near future and one he cherishes all the more for that, all the more for her not turning away from him or telling him to leave. after the endless hours of fussing and planning she'd have every right to, and yet it seems the one person secretly allowed to lord over the king with her every word and whim ( if anyone would know, they'd sure suffer a heart attack or an outright faint ) somehow has decided that he gets to stay where he is, with her. her cheek against their joined hands follows then, heart-stopping for him as the only audience and receptor, and he inhales sharply as the back of his hand brushes against her cheekbone, as he finds her molding against the angle of his arm the most infatuating experience to watch, an enchantment he'll have a hard time escaping from. not that he wishes or wants to.

Right. Nothing fairytale about the way she had pied pipered Nikolai's crew toward the soft cradle of her lips, every bit hung upon the chime and whistling sways of her voice like the Argonauts had been to their incandescent Orpheus, his lyre, and life-keeping song, once upon a time. A life at sea will starve you the beauty of flowers, is all. And so... these maritime minstrels, these saltstruck sonnet-makers, must tend, with great reverence, to the perianths of the town's most precious and husbanded bloom, you see?, because it is a natural thing to do.

As natural as the light of the sun.

Nothing fairytale about the reason why the daylight makes Adelaide want to die, either. No— it is the poor tenderness of her ivory skin and evil-eye blue eyes alone that limits her walks to hours like these; the trickery hours, the lonely lover hours, the children-are-easy-to-lose, and people-are-too-easy-to-butcher hours.

She had seen him walk this path before, the man with the scars and eyes like wet loam turning beneath a pesky sun. The smart one, the tall one, who proves thus far un-prone to the charms of snake charmers. And who meddles in the affairs of mutilated bodies like— like a hero? Like a woodsman, a soldier, a white knight plucked off the pages of some fantasy?

❝ Yes, Nicolaino, I am humoring you. ❞ She answers, crouched just beside him. Mirth is cozied in the silk of her voice, and she keeps his stare as well as a man could. Imilia teaches her daily that this awful, indecorous habit must be trained out from the lids of her eyes. The lessons, however, have yet to take. ❝ I have a very small life; I'm no doctor, and I don't know my way around a hurt body, all I know is what songs, and books, and Imilia tell me. Lately, she's been telling ghost stories when your friends have dinner with us. The White Bride of Catania... Were you there for that one? Well, I don't know what else could hurt someone so uniquely, and Catania is not all that far. It could be her work. ❞

Her steadying palm lays flat upon the sand, blood trickling into the seams of her glove. The wind drags the fog towards the black cliffs, and the ribbons done neatly in her hair trail along that same current.

if he has to pinpoint a soul of evident eccentricity, and of romantic notions, the person is with him on this cliff-side now. adelaide looks as perfectly disturbed for a moment as anyone in her position should, but slips away and trails into the distance like the ribbons in her hair or the fog making way for a few more slivers of light. she has managed to bewitch the likes of specht and tolya, even tamar for the first time she saw her, but nikolai has stayed at the back of his crews' enchantment. a songbird in a former life, he knows those beasts with their coats in glorious colours usually promise vast plunges in the deep end, no point of return or safety measure given. where the townspeople find him delighted and in a good mood, he keeps an eye out. as he does now, where they are the only two people in on a secret, or so it seems for now. he flashes a smile at her over the corpse of the poor man, wide and with his teeth on display.

she does not know how to admit that any more than she knows how to explain what she means, how she sees him, the things he seems not to understand.

" you would be who you are, no matter whether you were a pauper or king. environment can only change so much. " she inhales against his skin, fighting the brief impulse to smile, to impart such fondness on what simultaneously so frustrates her about him. nothing about love makes sense. how can she wish to alter, for his sake, that which also endears her? " so much of the time, it feels like I see you as more of a person than you do. that you can only see yourself as a vessel for the wants and needs of everyone and everything around you. "

colette has never been able to be as careful with her words as she wishes, no matter how she tries, and she knows the subject she handles now is impossibly delicate and should be handled with care. her inability to be anything but direct betrays her again and all she can do is hope he understands her beneath what others see as abrupt and callous. the emotions which burrow in her flesh are anything but callous. so often in her life, despite her logic, despite her pragmatic approach to everything, she has thought what a blessing it would be to feel less. in no world could she put proper words to those feelings and so it becomes an experience too lonely to comprehend, one trapped in her own mind that she hasn’t the skills to share. she wonders, too, if it would surprise him to know just how deep her well of emotion goes, when she knows she always seems so collected.

" I'm not trying to tell you what you are or aren’t. just what I see. and I do not know if there’s words enough to put to my thoughts, to make them … make sense. " she takes a breath against his shoulder, inhaling deeply. adrenaline. sweat. blood. smoke. and something below the fresh layer of scent left by the day’s excitement, something that reminds her of the woods in the depths of winter, something that reminds her of the spray of the sea. colette wonders if it’s just her imagination playing tricks. " but I will try. "

and she will hope that it can be enough, that he might understand her even if this ultimately resolves nothing in the end.

" you love ravka. you should. thankless as this country is, I find no fault in that. I think ... I think you love it so much that you could talk your heart into anything, into ... loving anyone, for her sake. when I say it would be easier if it were forbidden, I mean I would never wonder if you pursue me because I am good for you or ... good for ravka. "

acceptable, she means, a respectable match by the standards of the nobles and advisors. how easy it might be, she has feared for so long, to conflate duty and love, to convince the heart to lessen the burden of responsibility. it helps very little that she's never been certain of love for anything but what people perceive her to offer – be it beauty, or status, or perhaps even suitability. but colette does not want to be merely suitable to him. desire drums a rhythm in her ears as he holds her near, a desire impossible to identify even as she reaches for its threads. desire to be seen. desire to be loved. desire to be wanted. desire to be desired both for what is within and without. a strange dilemma, one she did not expect. normally, she longs to escape the wandering eyes of men. but she stopped minding nikolai's lingering long ago. and at some point she cannot identify, she began to enjoy it. then crave it. then wonder what his hands, inventive and stalwart, might do if she allowed it.

those hands which seem to burn through her cotton shirt where he touches her back, which may be able to set her aflame if they tried, she realizes.

" it's greedy of me. worse, it's ... completely impractical. you are you, of course. nikolai the man and nikolai the king, both, one does not exist without the other, not in this time, this world, it's preposterous to think otherwise, so this fear has no ... meaning, no basis in reality, and yet it is there and I don't know how to– " she stops herself and her breath catches as she holds herself still fast to him, letting the moment settle, letting herself settle, and making every effort to disregard the distracting heat of him pressed to her. another beat of silence later and she continues, more quietly, " and because you are you, maddening and wonderful as you are, everything you have is for others, with none left for yourself. I couldn't abide that, in a marriage. "

there is nothing in life you couldn't live without. nikolai has learned this early, one of the first lessons the world ever taught him. it is in his mind now, as he feels nearly inclined to tell colette that for all her assumptions, and for all her opinion that cuts through him like a knife through warm flesh, she might not know how much easier it is for him to give up those parts of himself, that have made him a person once before, than to fail at this - than to be the foregone conclusion the lantsov name carries, a young king carries on his back automatically, a wounded soldier knows intrinsically. instead he holds onto her even when she looks at him, his arms around her shoulders, and finds it in himself to give up another small thing: a smile just for her, not as worn-down as he feels, but light as air, light as the white touch of snow on a field before deer and herons rip it apart with their arrival. " you might be the first person to tell me i should be more selfish. do you not know? second sons are nothing but selfish. no titles and no care in the world, just living as they please, " he tells her, summarising the crux of the problem they are facing, or rather that he is facing and would not be burdening her with, with what lies beneath this statement alone. he was supposed to be nothing, a blip in the radar of a golden family, entertainment for the masses and mostly for his family, but instead he has made himself substantial through sheer survival, stubbornness and absence going hand in hand, salt water turning him so audacious it has made him dangerous. the king of scars came with them ready-made, the ones now only followed what has already been there. does colette not see this? he has been made for taking this, a body made of seismic shifts outpacing death for now.

her voice is a velvet rope around him, binding around his heart and pushing the muscle together until it becomes painful to bear thinking about it to begin with. the reality of their situation doesn't leave any room to breathe, to force this on her would be inexcusable, but at the same time he knows if he ever were to indulge any prospect of marriage he couldn't do it in a way benefitting only him, or only her, or without the eyes of the world looking in through the glass. even if he would try to keep everyone else away, a king by nature can't exist in secret, can't rule in shadows, and if he ever were to be married the union would be fodder for the cannons of political bidding the moment an engagement would be announced. such is the nature of this role, woven into the privileges and the responsibilities, and he knows where he stands that no one at the palace will ever let him off the hook out of seeing that he might seriously be in love, and marry for love - anything nikolai does is something he does as the king of ravka, not as himself, and the same fate would befall the person whose hand he ties to his. colette would be ideal, in his heart of heart he can feel the longing for her every time she is in front of him while simultaneously out of reach, but her being ideal in his head, and on paper, doesn't mean he can just do this to her. it doesn't mean he can freely choose, and freely give her anything he wants and that she should have, even if he wants to. he wants it so much, he realises, with the fierce look in her eyes and the damning truth of it in his chest, making it hard to breathe. for the first time in years he finds that for once he doesn't want to be king.