#corporalnik

•

•

•

If there was one thing Nikolai Lantsov knew how to do, it was pout. You caught him— more than just a few times— slouched over on the blush red couch with his arms crossed, face smushed into a scowl as he studied you packing your bag.

You sighed, casting an increasingly irritated glance at him as you folded the coarse cloth of your winter coat and tucked it away with the rest of your belongings. The weight would be too much to bear, but you knew it would be cold up north where you were headed alongside Zoya and the Bataars. 

“I’m leaving at dawn, whether you like it or not, Sobachka.” 

The King looked away briefly at your words, hating understanding that you were right. He hauled himself out of his seat and redirected his sulking to the world outside the large window. It was beautifully blanketed in steadily falling snow. 

“Will you really make our last night together a bitter one?” you commented.

“It wouldn’t be our last night if you’d just let me come with you,” Nikolai huffed. 

You exhaled, dreading that this would be the third time you had this discussion, which, in his world, was more so a debate.

The reason was simple: Nikolai had no business accompanying them. The objective of the mission to Fjerda was a peace treaty between the Drüskelle and the Grisha populous. As Nikolai fit neither category, it had been decided that he would stay back and continue to hold the country together.

“We’ve been through this: to bring more people on the expedition would only irritate the Fjerdans. Especially, the king of a country with which they’ve been at war for a considerable amount of time,” you reiterated. 

Nikolai shook his head again, unwilling to accept it. He refused to welcome the fact that the love of his long life would be away and in perpetual danger for weeks. 

The wind whistled as it bounded against the window, filling the room with a violent creaking.

“It’s dangerous, Y/N, why can you not understand—” 

You cut him off swiftly as his voice began to rise, “You watch that tone, Lantsov, or I’ll—” 

Now, it was Nikolai’s turn to cut you off: “You’ll what? Leave early?” The young man turned to you from the window and met your incredulous gaze. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We both know it's your only vice.”

“My only vice,” you mocked cynically. “In what regard?” 

Nikolai spread his arms patronizingly as if he were explaining the obvious to his childhood self.

“Your heart craves adulation,” he said, pointing a sharp, accusatory finger your way. “You’ll take any opportunity to leave Os Alta— leave me— and flaunt your gifts.” 

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. In anger or despair, you could not tell.

You would not lie to yourself. You knew with all your heart that, all things considered, your mastery of the Small Science was a blessing, hidden behind the mask of a devil. In the days you served faithfully in the Second Army, your gifts were revered and you were respected in the highest regard amongst your Grisha peers. However, in the years following the war, you became like everybody else. 

It was at the behest of your husband that you progressively began to use your power as an Inferni less as the days passed. Ever the political mastermind, he had approached you one summer evening and begged you refrain from using your power in public, claiming that the presence of a Grisha Queen was too much for his fragile country to bear. In the beginning, you had agreed, for if there was one thing that surpassed your love for your husband, it was your shared love for Ravka.

You knew that relations between the Grisha and the others were strained, and so you agreed, taking your husband's hand and promising to limit the displays of glowing orange flames which had burned your enemies as well as warmed the hands of your allies. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult to train behind a closed gate, under a roof, beneath the watchful eye of First Army guards armed with fire extinguishers. In fact, it had grown so stifling you had begun to resemble Alina Starkov when first she came to the Little Palace, with her pallor skin and brittle locks.

You brushed the aforementioned hair, now soft and healthy from the effects of tailoring, behind your ear as you placed the brush down and sharpened your stare at Nikolai’s face, shrouded in silver shadows from the icy light of the moon.

“Craves adulation,” you grumbled, knowing that if your voice rose any higher, it would betray every emotion storming around your heart. “Have a look in the mirror, Nikolai, and tell me which of us truly fits your description.”

His description, in all its insulting glory, fit Nikolai Lantsov to the tee.

Nikolai Lantsov, who would smile and wave to a crowd with a Sun Summoner on his arm, allowing you to watch with disdain from your place on a horse beside Mal. Nikolai Lantsov, who would hide behind a pair of gloves to escape the truth of what he had become. Nikolai Lantsov, who had pushed his wife into a state of sickness, albeit unknowingly, sacrificing her life’s blood for the sake of his country.

Nikolai Lantsov, who resolutely shook his head, running a hand through the already dishevelled hair on his head, before waving it dismissively, as if swatting a fly. “Please. You’d flick your hands for anyone who’d ask— if they clapped hard enough.” Nikolai moved for the bookshelf, drawing out a novel as if his words were mere small talk with an old friend.

Your anger blurred to shock. “Flick my hands—”

“Honestly, you take every opportunity to flaunt it. I’m surprised the Little Palace is still standing after having you inside for twenty years!” 

There was no sense to his vile declarations now. Though, Nikolai could not see it. The anger, betrayal, and frustration at being left behind were all that clouded his boyish mind as he hurled one unkind word after the other.

“Nikolai,” You moved towards him, arm outstretched, eyes beginning to water. “Lapushka, please—” As your hand approached his, the storm heavier than ever. He wrenched his arm away from you, leering his head back to look you in the eyes.

“Truly, I can’t be sure why you haven’t left already.”

“For saints’ sake, Nikolai. Look at me!”

The dam broke as you flicked your hands, removing the tailoring to your appearance, unveiling the truth of your restrictions.

Nikolai stared with an open mouth and hard eyes as the warm winter flush of your cheeks was replaced with dulled skin, and the sleek shine of your hair was redefined with a brittle and unkempt bush.

“The only person from whom I crave adulation,” you whispered, “is the only man who’s too thick to look past a wavering mask.”

The Lantsov King swallowed, flipping the book restlessly in his hands. “Y/N—”

“Get out.” You left no room for him to argue, even when he opened his mouth once more. “I said leave!” You stalked to the door, pulling it open with a loud shriek of wood. “Now.”

Nikolai Lantsov, who spent the night in a guest room, in a state of perpetual regret.

No amount of tossing and turning brought any comfort to his aching heart, nor his pounding head. He flopped halfheartedly in the guest bed, stiff from lack of use, and from lack of you, revisiting the disgusting words he’d spat. The reason for them, however unjustified, sat heavily on his chest, suffocating him at an agonizing rate.

Nikolai Lantsov, who was afraid that— like his mother and father— you would grow to resent his blood, resent it for its stark difference to yours. The fear that you would  regret your marriage to what your people called an otkazat’sya: the abandoned.

The King figured it was only a matter of time before the title served him fully. 

It was reasonable, wasn’t it? To lash out at a time of vulnerability? Nikolai couldn’t be sure, having grown up in a family of despots who had never given him the time of day when it mattered most. 

Watching the tailored facade fall from his wife’s face, Nikolai was reminded solely of his mother, who, like you, was coerced into moulding her face into that of the perfect queen, at the behest of her husband. He knew then that all he had said and done was wrong. Wrong to her, and wrong to her people.

How could he bring himself to apologize? To walk into their bedroom and beg forgiveness? Would she forgive him? Even if he stooped— a king in tears and on his knees for the woman he loved perhaps more ardently than the country he vowed to govern— would she, in all her scorned glory, crouch beside him, take his face in her hands, and kiss away his regret?

Could he expect her to?

Dawn came around all too swiftly, rousing husband and wife from their fitful sleep in separate rooms, and with it came your departure to the northern lands.

You stood side-by-side with Nikolai as the carriages were loaded with provisions, luggage, and gifts for the Drüskelle, refusing to look at him. Instead, digging fruitlessly in your shoulder bag as an excuse to keep your head down.

The call came from the footman as the time arrived for you to leave. You didn’t make it more than one step forward with your hand gripping the leather strap of your bag before a firm grasp was on your waist.

“Wait,” whispered Nikolai, tugging you back. He cast a glance at the guard, letting him know that they would need a moment. “I can’t let you leave— not like this.” 

You held your gaze to the floor. Gently, he tilted your head back up with his thumb and forefinger. “Not now, not when you can barely look at me,” he continued. You held his stare as his hand shifted tentatively towards your jaw. “Not when I can’t be sure you won't come back to me, Milaya.”

You sniffled softly at the nickname, moving your own hand to his face and pausing to tuck away a loose golden curl.

“Please come back to me,” he said softly as if he were sharing a secret. There was an unspoken apology apparent in his reddening eyes while the seconds ticked by.

“Of course,” you murmured back, tipping his head down as you pecked his brow, then his cheek. “Nikolai, there’s not a thing in this world that could keep me away from you.”

You kissed him soundly, your hand running across the expanse of his jaw as he leaned into the tender forgiveness settled in your palm. When you broke apart, Nikolai took your hand from his face. He kissed your palm and walked you to your carriage. The King watched with concerned eyes as you took your seat.

Nikolai kissed your hand once more from his place on the ground and looked up at you. “Swear you’ll write,” he said. “Or I’ll crash the proceedings.”

You barked a hearty laugh, squeezing his hand as he tried to let you go. “I will,” you promised. “And I’ll see you when I come back.”

It was another moment before you let go of his hand. His palm hit the carriage door bearing the Lantsov crest. You watched as the carriage travelled further and further away, Nikolai’s frame disappearing into the horizon. 

“I promise,” you whispered.

•

•

.

.

.

Genya would 100% kill you for this. There was no doubt about it. You knew it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride the night before they were to be wed. It was especially bad luck if said groom was to, hypothetically, of course, scale the wall outside of your window just to catch sight of you. But you couldn't help but rush over to the balcony, heart bursting with joy at the sight of your soon-to-be husband clambering over the rails like a newborn gazelle.

It reminded you of how it was when you first got together, of all the clumsily passed notes, secret winks and stolen kisses in empty rooms; lest his advisors found out that King Nikolai Lantsov of Ravka had fallen hard for a grisha girl with the authority of a dozen generals, and the the disposition of a queen made to rule.

You opened the glass door with a smile, shivering only slightly at the breeze running across your thinly clad legs, and moved to help Nikolai to his feet.

He swept a hand through his golden hair, and beamed down at you. “Evening, darling,” he said, with the charm of a man forever young and beautiful, and gestured to your clothes, or rather, the lack of them. “Is this what you plan on wearing tomorrow?” He followed you back into the confines of your room, and set his hands on your waist, bunching up the cream colored linen of your nightgown between his fingers. “Because if it is, you’ll have me at your mercy by luncheon. Not that you don't always have me at your mercy.” He winked slyly and leaned in to you, one of his hands moving to tilt your head towards him as his lips met yours in pre-wedded-bliss.

Oh, yes, Genya would certainly murder you both, but, saints, after a whole 24 hours without him, you really couldn’t be bothered. Because, hell, if it didn't feel fantastic to hold him close, your hands on his neck and chest, his running across your back and through your hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers as he kissed you slowly, like he had the rest of his life to give you what you wanted.

He does have the rest of his life, you thought, a smile growing on your face.

“What is it,” Nikolai asked with a grin of his own, breaking away from your lips, only to dive into your neck, mouth latching to the skin just under your ear. You shook your head with a sigh. “C’mon,” he whispered, kissing you, just there, gently and with purpose. “Why the Cheshire grin?” He bumped his leg against yours, and began to move towards the bed. After laying you down underneath him on the plush of your mattress, he set to work against the column of your neck, careful not to leave a mark.

“This time tomorrow, we’ll be husband and wife.”

Nikolai paused in his ministrations, and hid his face in your neck for a moment before lifting himself to face you. His hazel eyes bore into yours with gentle concern and unyielding affection.

“You are happy aren’t you?” He stared at you in all seriousness, as if ten seconds ago he hadn’t been making his way down your neck with the slyness of a fox. “I know that my family can be a little, a lot, actually, overbearing, and I-”

You lifted yourself on your elbows and kissed him soundly. “Of course I’m happy.” You lifted a hand to his cheek, tender with all of the love you could gather for him in that moment. “Moi Lapushka, I would gladly walk through hell with bare feet just to hold your hand in mine.” Nikolai leaned into your touch, turning to kiss your palm swiftly. “A few of your disdainful relatives mean nothing to me. Not when I have you-”

A loud rapping on the door caught your attention, as well as Nikolai’s. “Nikolai Lantsov, you better not be in there!” 

Your eyes met once more, only now, they were filled with dread. “Genya,” you chorused. “Shit.” The woman in question knocked once more, harder this time. 

“Don’t make me come in there!”

 You and Nikolai stood up hastily, and you rushed to fix your hair. You turn to your fiance. “You have to hide under the bed.”

“What?!” You dashed for your vanity, and scanned your neck for any evidence of Nikolai’s visit.

“You heard me, moi tzar.” Nikolai stared at you indignantly.

“Why can't you hide under the bed!”

“It’s my room, Nik!” You placed two hands on his shoulders, and kissed him quickly on the forehead.

“I’ll just be a moment, dear.” You pushed down, maneuvering him into his hiding place, just in time for Genya to unlock the door. Standing straight with a manic spin, you turned to see your best friend, standing with her arms crossed over her knotted dressing gown, expectant eyebrows raised.

You faked a yawn as you clamored for your own dressing gown, and tied it in place. “Genya,” you said demurely. “Is it morning already?”

The red-head marched into your bedroom like a sergeant conducting inspection and narrowed her eye at you. “Nice try, sweetie. David says that Nikolai isn't in his chamber. We both know he’s in here.”

You smiled with faux confusion. “What makes you say that?” Genya sighs.

“The lovesick fool left a note telling you he was going to visit on his desk instead of sending it.”

“Damn!” Genya turned to the bed with wordless confusion.

You shrugged at her when she looked at you. “Creaky floors.” She shook her head, and stooped to drag The King out by his leg. Nikolai laid on the floor in his nightshirt and trousers, looking up at two women.

He raised his hands in surrender. “In my defense, look at that pretty face,” he gestured to you, and you smiled sweetly. “Who wouldn't make a fool of himself to spend time with her?”

“Out,” Genya commanded, and Korol Rezni knew better than to disobey. He kissed his fiancee softly on the forehead, making a show to hold his hands away, and swiftly made his exit, throwing a quick smile to you over his shoulder. 

Genya took a seat in the armchair in the corner. “Are you really gonna sleep there?” you asked.

“Clearly, you can’t be trusted.”

.

.