in silence / in dissonance

she should've stayed in bed, that much is true. half-dressed, used to the absence of warmth, catherine finds herself resting her sadness and body on the very edge of an ornate balustrade, as her brown, tired eyes, still heavy with sleep, seek the comfort that only daybreak can bring. here's the thing about women and the sun; one always needs the other. but here and now, enveloped in something red, the princess' lodestar loses all its charm, forcing her to widen her eyes.

she sighs and laughs, as if to empty herself from all the expectations that didn't reach the point of fruition. disappointment then, has her by the scruff of her neck, followed closely by the folly of all that's transpired in the days that stretch between them like a silken thread ready to snap. "is this all there is to it?" to life? or to the sun?

Despite all that has happened, it was the quiet mornings he could appreciate; welcome, as he walked through the halls with no intentions other than perhaps another sneak into the library. Misha strolled on carefully, listening for the usual birdsong now reduced to an occasional chirp, and he was reminded all over again of their unfortunate predicament.

Then a sigh, a ghostly sound that froze his footsteps. Curious at who might be awake at this hour (relief that there was still life in the castle), he followed the laugh into one of the balconies. "Ah." He should do well to recognize the Crown Princess, and he tilts his head in greeting, "Your Highness." He doesn't approach her any closer, but turned his gaze out to the red sky. There is no proper answer to her question that may leave them both satisfied, still he tried to seek for it in their mother language, "[These are just flowers; berries will come soon]."

As soon as he sets her down — surely, a result of the sheer persuasive power of her leg-swinging when he held her up in the air — she produces an Italian coin with a flourish, happy to oblige.

"Oh Misha," she hums, satisfied with the clinking of her fresh contribution against all the other coins in the pouch, "It's been far too long. I've yet to tell you about all the elephants I've danced with!"

With a satisfied nod as Amrita dropped a coin into the pouch, Misha tied it back and stored it away (not minding that the pouch contained coins from all over, and they would have to do a lot of separating if they were to use it). But tradition is as such, practiced despite the inconvenience. "That is has," he agreed, the absence of his friend made itself known in various points of the day, and a little more in moments he missed such as with the elephants.

lev was a tempest, a storm that crashes suddenly and without warning, dressed in the finest clothes and the loopiest grin. he’d successfully gotten a tray of sweets from the kitchen and was carrying it in one hand, while the other stuffed a tart in his mouth. he’d already become a frequent visitor of the kitchens in the palace, befriending the baker who had quickly begun to dote on him as if he were her own son. once lev had made it to the end of the stone hallway, he creaked open the door to misha’s chambers, announcing his presence with his laughter that boomed through the room and echoed off every wall.

the room was warmed by the crackling embers in the fireplace and lev’s eyes landed on his friend, who was reading on a settee. gesturing to the tray in his hands, lev stepped forward rather clumsily, and handed it to misha with a beaming smile, “lucky for you, i have become excellent friends with the baker.” he dropped into the settee next to misha, his feet pulled up onto the cushions and exhaled softly, resting his head backwards. “i like it in here,” he mused after a few moments as he glanced towards the other, “it’s quiet. why is it so quiet in here?”

The laughter should have startled him, and it did for a brief moment when his door creaked open; but he would recognize that laugh anywhere. Fortunately for him, he was surrounded by many laughters that he learned to separate them. As he knew who the intruder was, Misha made no attempts to look up from his book, instead buried his nose deeper in it. Yet his arm still shot out to grab the tray that was handed to him and he carefully placed it on the tea table in front of the seats.

"You've made friends already." He hummed, flipping through a page. "Interesting." He read through three more sentences before he spoke up once more, "[it is better to have a hundred friends than a hundred rubles]." The proverb spoken in their native tongue offered no explanation but that in and of itself. He went through five more sentences after that. As if just noticing, he finally tore his focus from his book to look up at Lev. "It is quiet," he noted, eyes darting around the room in a quick sweep. He didn't answer the question, thinking it a rhetorical one, and nodded in approval at the lack of disturbance instead. There was also the matter of the colourful tray, which took his attention next. "What did you bring in?" He eyed each pastry with the intensity as one would have in interrogation.

Dark eyes rake across the ballroom , eyebrows dip into a frown. She did not enjoy this place. She followed her brothers here as the heavens knew the Hwajin men could not be left unattended for a second without stirring some kind of trouble and that had been the last thing this meeting had needed. But , she was not happy to be at the masquerade. Masks felt so concealed , so scary now that the sky bled red and the sinister voice made a bid of their lives. Why should she part with her soul ? Why should her brothers ? They owe nothing to these men and their hollow walls filled with poison. She leaves the room , mask discarded at the nearby table.

The aimless wandering leads her to the library and she finds herself at peace , the soft lilac dress rustling as she gathered the skirts to weave between the ajar door and the wall. There are books upon books lining up the wall , tomes of yellow parchment and dark , leather binds. Jiyoo picks the one nearest to her fingers and plucks it out , setting it down on a table , a candle ingnited after a moment. She will have to squint a bit under the light of a single candle , but she dared not ignite another one to avoid drawing attention to the room. But , the moment of being by herself had been fleeting and the heavy wood fo the door creaks , announcing. Jiyoo lifts a dark gaze from the book and her posture relaxes into the velvet chair supporting her back. "Is the masquerade over ?"

It wasn’t that he had a purpose in leaving the ballroom or that he let himself wander off where his feet takes him (this time), but Misha naturally gravitates towards libraries; and one in Santicarno’s palace promised to have a delectable number of texts unseen by common eyes. That alone was something he wouldn’t resist, having gone through one book he had packed already, he was in need for more.

He heard them before he saw them, a voice that floated through the room, one he was not expecting and one he wasn't so inclined to converse with. Still, he answered, as he must, when he finally put a figure to the voice. "I do not believe so. Such events tend to go on longer than necessary." If his soft complaint wasn't exactly meant to be worded aloud, it was the safety of the library that led him to speak so freely. Recognizing his mistake was swift and he bowed lightly to reset his actions. "Forgive my fuss. I was not expecting to see anyone in the library when all the merriment is happening elsewhere." He noticed the book on her table, the candlelight did not offer any clue as to what it could be, and so he stared at it a little longer than necessary. When he could not decipher the upside down words, he spoke once more, "may I ask what you are reading?"

The flowers still smelled wonderfully, in spite of the thin layer of red ash coating them. It felt like ash, it smelled like ash, but she wasn't entirely sure it was ash. At least once she dusted the petals of a rose, she found the flower possessing its usual fragrance. She was still in the middle of processing the events -- the demonic voice hissing at the from the above had been center figure of her worry. Though, she couldn't quite say why she had been so worried -- the pope's disappearance and the conclave panicking about this affair had not really been her problem. If Shiva wished to see their end to restore the better humanity, then so be it.

Footsteps had drawn her attention from the lush, evergreen flowers and trees. A greeting smile upon her lips, Sharvani turned towards the intruder. She had longed for some solitude after such a long sail and ride to Santicarno, and the bath she took did little to truly relax her. At least the change of clothes had been welcome. Still, she did not mind the company, once provided. "I would have thought the ash to harm the blooms, though I am happy to see they've been spared of divine wrath. Have you come to enjoy the scenery or escape the anxiety in the room?" she asked.

Often times Misha would find himself lost, wandering to where his feet took him, and his eyes still buried in his book. But he always found his way back, or someone will find him; perhaps Yuri, perhaps Alina, perhaps another wanderer. This time he was still outside waiting for the crowd to disperse. Further in they go into the palace, not unlike sardines packed in a barrel, and so the garden he found himself in offered a fresh space to wander — even with the red ash.

"Lady Sharvani Bhatti." It was not quite a surprise to see her here, but, "it has been a while." He turned his attention to the flowers, carefully studying it, as if trying to see what she saw. "I could not tell you the state of the room, as I have not been. In that regard, I suppose I may be escaping it." He doesn't say any more, content to let the silence take the lead, but there was an itch to make a conversation. One that sounded very much like Amrita telling him Sharvani is her sister. "How have you fared, my lady? I trust your journey to Santicarno was an agreeable one?"

The red ash had drifted like snow through the fractured sky, catching in Ekaterina’s curls and melting on her bare shoulders like a lover’s breath. - Now, hours later, she found herself just off-center from a long banquet table, goblet in hand, lips stained the same shade as the storm. The feast had begun again, in that glorious, delusional way only the nobility manage. As if a guttural voice hadn’t just threatened the end of the world, and as if blood hadn’t neatly painted the stones outside. Those who weren’t praying in the chapel, where here drowing in their delusion. Just like herself.

She was smiling. Laughing, even. A sound too bright, too careless. It was the kind of laugh a woman gave when she wanted no one to notice her fingers trembled. “You know,” she said to no one in particular, or perhaps to the room or to someone just now drawing near, “I’d bet you one of my precious jewels that there was at least one fool who stuck out their tongue to see if it was wine falling from the sky. Question is, who? My bet is on a pious one.” Her eyes, a fair shade of icy blue dancing with her familiar dash of mischief, flicked across the room with exaggerated thought. “They act all innocent, but beneath all those layers of cloth...”

She took a sip of wine that had gone warm in her palm, then turned slightly toward whoever lingered near. “Well?” she asked with a sly tilt of her head. “Tell me your guess, and I’ll tell you what it says about your soul.”

There was a small sense of urgency as Misha flipped through his book, one of wrongs and warnings, just to make sense of the red ash that had scattered through them as they made their way into the castle. If it was real, and he doesn't take such things lightly, then it must mean that this is truly the end that he had mourned for. Inside the banquet hall, the smiles and laughter was telling and he couldn't decide how much fear would incite such disregard.

His ears picked up bits and pieces of conversation as he lingered. The mask on his face was kept for its purpose, to keep himself hidden while he stayed in the shadows. Yet even he could not outrun the social conventions required of such an event, especially not one from his very house. With some reluctance, he lifted his head from the book. "Grand Duchess," Misha began in greeting. "It would be foolish of me to make guesses a game of chance. Though… I suppose I wouldn’t doubt the nature of man to have wished for wine to fall from the sky." His gaze shifted towards the rest of the room, the anxious air was palpable and barely concealed. He found himself speaking again, softer than before, a thought that may provide him what little answers he could find. "What would you find in the souls of those who may have wished for such a thing?"

She'd recognize him anywhere: the gentle slopes of his lithe frame, his lips pressed into a thin line, and the morose, singular palette of his attire were unmistakable even from a distance, and even if half his countenance was obscured by the shadowy mask he still had fastened.

If not for the heavy, rushed, and not to mention nonuniform footsteps that sped up with every step, it was the Russian curse word that told him who the blur of shapes and colours headed his way was. With just another second of thinking, Misha lifted both arms out to grab the crown princess as respectably as he could, and the result could not be any further from the proper way to carry a princess, hardly a problem for either of them.