#manyfucks

Would this office ever truly feel like hers, Zelda wondered as she took a look around from her seated position behind the sizeable desk, His desk. Always his. Faustus, Edward, and so on up the long list of High Priests. Never a woman; never a High Priestess. Not until her now, and not until Lilith. Not until them both... working together.

Together. She nearly scoffed at the thought. It was still hard to believe, in quiet moments like now, that they had done it. She and her family had worked in tandem with the mother of demons herself to overthrow a... well, she wasn't sure what to refer to him as now. Perhaps she wouldn't refer to him ever again. If only they could erase him entirely and build a new faith from scratch. It might be easier, she mused, than having to adapt the old while attempting to build off of the, frankly, minimal new information Lilith was willing to give during their meetings.

After dark, the Tower of Worship casts a much different shadow; during the daylight hours, and particularly at dawn or at sundown, the highest part of the castle is one of Milena’s very favourite locations if not only for its silence. The tower’s design is for privacy and for reflection -- but now that Milena finds herself there alone, after nightfall, the heavy sense of isolation which pervades serves her no other purpose than to have her palms clammy with nerves. 

It had never been her intention to offend Mother Miranda -- she doesn’t have a death wish, after all. But her honesty is so frequently a blight and given the topic of her family’s orchestrated untimely passing, she had found herself either unable or perhaps simply unwilling to lie. 

There had been no time to tell her mistress of her audience with the priestess. Mother Miranda was to see her Lady that evening, and her directions were that Milena should await her immediately in the Tower. As an odd, distracted fancy, Milena wonders if the Lady will miss her tonight, will grow angry when her little pet isn’t there to answer to her calls -- the thought makes her feel empty, and colder than she already is, the surface of her skinny arms breaking into gooseflesh. She’s divested herself of her apron tonight, her pressed little black dress the only thing remaining. The softness of the material, the shining of her patent heels, the pearls around her wrist -- all of it screams ‘special,’ ‘favourite.’ 

Strictly speaking, it's not true. Thomas Cromwell is here because of some great, international exchange between two proud nations that are not Roman Catholic. For the English, it represented possible trade and support from the oh-so-recently culturally relevant Russian people. And for her? Well, there's this pesky idea in the mainland that she's somewhat barbarous, that she killed her husband, the king, and ascended quite unjustly.

England and Russia both stood to gain something from this, reputationally. Allyship for England, or acclaim for Russia. All hinged on this little man's subservience to her. She wondered what had made him fit for it. She wondered what he thought of her - his eyes were like wells. He must be either fanatically loyal to this King, or he must be a relief to remove from Court. Are you here for punishment or providence?, she'd like to ask. But, she is still assessing.

Her reputation will shape his perception, and his will shape hers. Two shadows, stretched out and distorted by the white nights of Russia, the ever-sunned summers and the black winters.

"And I am Russia's Ruler." It is a satisfactory answer. His denotes submission, and hers dominance - but he must show a deferent bond to her. She need not show him anything. Her piercing eyes assess him. A man who came from nothing, her courtiers tell her. A man who spun his power like a spider, her advisors tell her. He's got hair like candle-smoke, and a quiet, pensive voice. How does her long hall of painted-faced, French-inspired courtiers compare to his little England? She wonders. There is so much to be learned, and all the time in the world to needle at his mind. It's exciting.

A soft, smug smile, very practiced and well-worn, splits on her face, one eyebrow still arched. "Rise, Cromwell, and be no stranger to your Empress. I remember what it was like to speak no Russian. You'll learn quickly." He's taller than her, because everyone is, but she is stouter than him. They both are older - lucky, too, that their minds are still dazzling. Lucky also, that they both speak French.

"Have you tried our vodka, our darling water? It is the pride of Russia. At our Imperial Court meal, you'll try many kinds - and zakuski. You never will have lived so well." Russia outshines England, and you'd better tell all those little European swamp-squatters as much, this means. All of her generosity is also a demonstration of power, but she likes to think this is not duplicitous: it comes as naturally to her as breathing.

Like that, their first meeting is nearly over. Her mind is constrained by time, always - it is true, after all, that she would spend long hours in the night reading, and had her court time narrowed into five-minute slots for adjudication. Only afternoons and evenings and this show of generous force remained as wild time, for her to explore the courts and people there. She'd like the man, she reckoned, if he remained clever.

the queen's gambit.

dear nick,

it is endearing, how you go about choosing your words these days, carefully honing each and every trip of the tongue into a double edged compliment that cuts one way while enticing me the other. you have learned what things about me i like to hear, what things to notice and acknowledge to remind me that you are still clever nicky, that you have not forgotten what it costs when you aren't. just for fun, i remind you what it will cost if you don't continue to rise to that very reasonable standard : i lay my hand across the swell of my stomach above the table, a pensive little stroke of fingers across polyblend fabric that i hate, and i watch the little seed of your smugness wither and retreat into the seam of your mouth. i must say that i am pleased that you don't look away.

part of me wants to reach across the table and take your hand as it lies there like a dead thing next to the board, next to the pawns of mine you've taken. it would be the closest we have been since i came home to you, even closer than the cap of my knee that nearly brushes yours under the table. ( how aware i am of you, nick. how aware we both are. ) you switch your gaze between your conquests and mine, and i wonder now if you still find your joke to be funny.

emotionally stunted idiots.

he laughs, a gust of air as immaterial as the parody of disapproval that colors it with the fairest hues, packaging his amusement as some sort of wearied byproduct of house's typical lack of tact. in truth, any other reaction would have been uncomfortable : wilson is as at home in receipt of that bluntness as house was in its offering, in the unspoken pact between the two of them to always balance upon the edge of that knife. compassion offered in the cut of classless words, care shown primarily between lines of condescension and insult. it does not escape him that this is the ultimate depth of what his friend can offer him. that this is as genuine as it gets. he feels the faintest pang in his chest in consideration of this, a hand scrubbed over the bottom half of his face as he shakes his head. "annoying for whom." he does not frame it as a question because it isn't one, he knows which of them would be most inconvenienced by baring themselves any further than they already have. a moment passes in which wilson readjusts in the chair he's sat in, his gaze dragged up from the carpet to catch on those of his opposite.