" may I have this dance? "
ON FOREIGN SOIL SHE CAN’T SAY NO. It’s the only curse of expeditions to previously hostile lands, the tightrope of diplomacy forever stretched taut as she must navigate that singular line without daring to misstep. She was supposed to be speaking with the Tsaritsa. Supposed to have trudged through a fortnight’s worth of snow and bitter winds to discuss the potential for alliances rather than courting war - but Jean should be so lucky. She’d scarcely made it to within 50 miles of Zapolyarny Palace before the Fatui had been dispatched to intervene.
From there she had been given a personal escort into those beautifully crafted halls, led past the disparity of starving citizens fighting for scraps in the shadow of so grand a building, as the aristocracy continued to indulge as if there were no such thing as poverty at all. The juxtaposition was jarring, but even Mondstadt had once shouldered a similar class divide. The only difference there was that freedom had broken down barriers rather than fought to reinforce them; fleetingly she wondered then, just how much of a push it would take for this ailing land to do the same.
The thought was short-lived however, as politics muted into the background and booted feet led the Acting Grand Master into a hall abuzz with people; gowns and frock coats alike awash with colour in a swirl of music and movement. It was surreal. An insular world within a world that seemed so far removed from the reality that raged outdoors. There were no signs of the abyss, no signs of a calculated war on Celestia or feuds with rival nations. Just bourgeois splendour, without even a single humble citizen alike.
There’s a crinkle of distaste across the bridge of her nose, subtle but still very much present as she turned her head towards the party which had brought her here, frustration thinly veiled behind an air of civility as she questioned the lack of an audience with her majesty herself. ❝As lovely as this soiree is, I came to speak with the Tsaritsa…I —❞
" may I have this dance? “
A voice emerges from just behind her; silky and chilling as it cuts off her thought completely, leaving the blonde at the mercy of a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. If the Tsaritsa herself would not grant her the time of day, perhaps the next best thing was the second harbinger that was displaying an almost unnerving degree of societal etiquette. Would turning him down be like rejecting the Tsaritsa herself? Would it be an affront to Snezhnaya as a nation on the whole; an insult and symbolic act of outright disrespect?
❝You’ll have to forgive me, I do believe I’m grossly underdressed for the occasion—❞ Politely she tries to dodge the invitation, to draw attention to the mud that still cakes the edge of her boots and the flecks of scarcely melted snow that litter her hair. She has no gown to speak of. No silks or satins to swish and twirl, just a uniform and travelling cloak that has seen better days. It hadn’t been a social call after all - but a business matter.
Her refusal is met with a wry click of the tongue, teeth baring beneath that infamous mask in a smile that is more menacing than it has any business to be. ❝Nonsense grandmaster—❞ Before she can refuse there is a hand at her wrist, fingers coiling around bone as effortlessly as a noose would drape around her neck. The hand moves then, once the warning is established and drifts ever higher to grasp at gloved digits in a clasp that is malevolently intimate. ❝— Her divine majesty will hardly begrudge you for humouring an old man.❞
Yet it doesn’t stop there, for the other hand finds purchase in the small of her back, possessive and dangerous as if daring her to rebel at all. Like clockwork then, Jean falls into step, swept up around that ballroom floor with only the Doctor for company, lost to a concerto of strings like the dandelion of her namesake picked up and scattered to the breeze. It’s dizzyingly bizarre, suffocatingly so, in fact, yet the rationale behind it seems almost nonsensical. Why would he choose this of all things? Why would he opt for theatrics in favour of something more rigidly logical?
There’s more power than she’d care to admit in the performative nature of it. A show of uncharacteristic submission to the powers that be, by indulging such a banal request; but maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s testing the waters to see just how much of her dignity and autonomy she will sacrifice in pursuit of her nation’s survival. ( Well, that and the unmistakable fact that the last time a (former)knight had set foot in this very palace, a good number of people had died. Maybe this was merely payback for those terribly callous indiscretions.) Twas a pity however, that Master Ragnvindr had been unable to join them, amid his current excommunication as persona-non-grata.
❝Five minutes then.❞ It grieves Jean to relent and admit she is beaten, to melt into that hold and repetitive motion of feet as she moves along with him, step after step - the curious eyes of Snezhnaya’s elite burning holes into her body and the prickle of heat into her cheeks. Stubbornness digs its heels in, a final show of defiance in the wake of this unprecedented game. ❝That’s all.❞
