#monabela

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“Do you know where Nadzeya is?”

“What—Olympe! I didn’t know you’d be here!” The bassist of Nadzeya’s band grinned, then gestured. “She should be back there somewhere.”

Olympe nodded her thanks and continued her trek through the bowels of the concert venue. She wasn’t supposed to be here at all, and almost wasn’t let in, but luckily, the keyboardist had spotted her outside arguing with security and vouched for her.

It was ridiculous, of course, that she couldn’t just go in to see her girlfriend and wish her good luck, but that was the way it was right now.

Although the kind of equipment being hauled around and the sort of people hauling it were markedly different from when Olympe played somewhere with the orchestra she was in, the atmosphere felt similar. An excited, nervous hum permeated the air backstage, and it made her smile.

“Olympe?”

“Oh, Nadzeya!” She didn’t see her at first, whirling around on her high heels to find where her voice was coming from, before spotting her in the shadows, dressed in all black as usual, only her pale skin and hair standing out.

“What are you doing here?” Nadzeya asked, sounding almost annoyed.

Olympe, having walked over, raised her eyebrows.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you,” she clarified. “Just wasn’t expecting you.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Olympe touched her bare arm.

Yes, her outfit was all-black as usual, but it was definitely a lot more intricate, featuring a leather corset and a flowy skirt that was cut high in the front to show off her tall boots, which, unlike most of her shoes, weren’t heeled. Not that it made much of a dent in their height difference. Olympe had seen the separate components of the outfit before, and they looked even better on her all together than she’d imagined.

“You look beautiful,” she told Nadzeya, who smiled a pleased little smile. She wasn’t wearing makeup yet.

“Thank you.” Nadzeya took a deep breath, then suddenly bent down and kissed Olympe, hard. Although she was startled, Olympe happily returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around her girlfriend’s waist.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly, her lips slightly sticking to Nadzeya’s with her lip gloss. Nadzeya made a disgruntled little noise. Her fingers flexed on Olympe’s jaw, sliding around her neck. Although her expression didn’t give anything away, Olympe knew her well enough by now, several years into their relationship, that she could read tension in the lines of her body, in the restless swiping of her hands.

Smiling, Olympe kissed her again, slowing them down deliberately even when Nadzeya tried to move quick.

“I’m just.” Nadzeya sighed.

“Nervous?”

“Maybe?” Another disgruntled noise. “Every fucking show, I get this way. I’ve been doing this for years.”

“I know the feeling.” And Olympe wasn’t even the lead singer. Although Nadzeya wasn’t actually the one generally doing the talking during her band’s shows, leaving it to the bassist and keyboardist most of the time, she was very much the one with the greatest expectations placed on her. “Is there anything I can do to help, now that I’m here?”

A grunt. Olympe smiled, amused, and let herself be pulled into another restless kiss.

“What do you usually do?” she asked.

“Probably annoy people,” Nadzeya said, dryly. Her fingers tapped against the side of Olympe’s neck, so Olympe took her hand and pressed it softly against her lips, smiling when that made her sigh again.

“Feel free to annoy me.”

“I don’t wanna annoy you, Olympe, I just… Ugh.” She ran a hand through her hair, and then bounced once on her toes, before abruptly pulling Olympe into another kiss as if that was the only thing that would distract her.

And that was absolutely fine by Olympe. She was more than happy to provide that distraction, making an encouraging little noise when Nadzeya ran her hands up and down her sides, curving over her breasts and down around her back to pull her closer. Someone whistled as they walked by, and Nadzeya lifted her head to glare her fiercest glare, though the person had already walked past. As always, the look was gorgeous on her and made Olympe’s heart skip a beat. She rested one of her own hands on Nadzeya’s neck and let it slide down slowly.

“I could distract you,” she whispered.

“Wh-what?”

Pushing her glasses up, Olympe raised an eyebrow at Nadzeya, whose dark blue eyes had gone wide.

“All I’m saying is, I know some very effective ways of taking your mind off things, Nadzeya.”

“You… Do,” she agreed. Olympe could feel that her heartbeat was fast. “That’s a crazy idea. I love it.”

“Excellent.” Olympe looked around, and was delighted when Nadzeya pulled her behind a partition, where, apparently, she’d set up a little dressing room. Or, at the very least, a table with a mirror and her makeup bag on it. “Does this venue not have dressing rooms?”

“Something happened to them, I guess.” Nadzeya rolled her eyes, but somehow managed to look almost giddy at the same time. Well, by her standards. The space was dark, the lamp on the table not on, and Olympe thought that was quite perfect for what she had in mind. She pulled Nadzeya down into a kiss.

People often assumed Olympe to be the most risk-averse out of the two of them, and she could see how that was an easy assumption to make when her girlfriend was wearing black dresses and combat boots and a lot of very dark eyeshadow while Olympe was in pastel blouses and pencil skirts and shiny lip gloss, but it was also wrong. Although Nadzeya was brash, she was also cautious and, in many ways, guarded. The black clothes were sometimes just a mask. One that Olympe had slowly but surely broken her way through.

So she reached down and pressed her hand boldly underneath Nadzeya’s skirt, making her gasp—which in turn made her clasp her hands over her mouth and look over at where people were working busily behind the partition. Closing her eyes briefly, she laughed under her breath.

“I love this idea. Distract me, Olympe.”

“Maybe you should do your makeup while we’re here,” Olympe whispered, moving her hand slowly. Nadzeya was wearing shorts underneath her skirt, which was very sensible. “You know, for expediency.”

“I would poke myself with my mascara,” Nadzeya replied. She leaned back on her hands on the table, her long hair falling back over her shoulders. Olympe smiled, and then sat down on the chair in front of her.

She ran both hands over Nadzeya’s thighs, swiping her thumbs down over the inside, brushing the heated fabric over her core. Nadzeya sighed, biting her lip as she looked down at Olympe. Slowly, Olympe pressed her hands up until she found the waistband of the shorts, and she hooked her fingers into it to tug.

With the shorts down around Nadzeya’s thighs, she leaned forward to press a kiss to the jut of her hip, while she ran her fingers softly over the front of the woman’s panties. She pressed between her legs, following the familiar shape of her vulva and running her fingertip over her concealed clit, which made Nadzeya twitch just a little. Smiling, Olympe took off her glasses to set them down on the table.

“Oh, I’m starting to like this more by the second,” Nadzeya whispered. She touched Olympe’s face, running her fingers over her lips, so she kissed them again.

Olympe could feel that the fabric of Nadzeya’s underwear was heated and getting slightly damp, and she didn’t want her to have to be uncomfortable putting it back on, so she pulled the underwear down to a soft gasp. Alright, that was really quite self-serving—now, Olympe could press her legs apart just slightly, as much as the clothes around her thighs would allow. She pulled back a little to get a good look, which made Nadzeya laugh under her breath. There was really no need, so Olympe could understand that. She knew exactly what Nadzeya looked like, and she knew exactly what she tasted like, but it was always good to be reminded.

So, leaning in again, Olympe pressed her lips to the smoothly-shaven skin of Nadzeya’s vulva, and dragged them down. Nadzeya leaned back on the table a little more, still touching her jaw while her tongue flicked out over her clit. The hand quickly retreated to be clasped over the woman’s mouth again, and Olympe smiled. She used her fingers to pull back the hooded skin over Nadzeya’s clit and flicked her tongue out again. She was going to be so relaxed going into this show.

With methodical movements, Olympe gently licked and sucked, running her other hand over Nadzeya’s thighs, brushing against her vulva. She licked down into the woman’s folds to a muffled moan and her legs trembling. Her own blouse was starting to feel quite warm, so Olympe used both hands to quickly undo some buttons, moving her mouth a little more messily against Nadzeya. When she brought one hand back up, she ran it along her thigh and then pressed it against the wet heat of her vagina. She looked up at Nadzeya, whose hand was clasped tightly over her mouth.

“Are you distracted yet?” she asked softly, licking her own lips.

“M-hm.” Nadzeya nodded, and then she muffled a sound that was probably a curse into her hand when Olympe pressed two fingers into her. She looked around as the table shook a little, but the sounds beyond the partition just kept going, unperturbed.

“Good, I’m happy to help.” Olympe ducked back down.

It was easy to lose herself in the movements, in the smell and taste of Nadzeya. Even absent the noises that would usually let her know whether she was doing a good job, Olympe had no doubt Nadzeya was liking it as her breath got heavier and her legs kept trembling intermittently. Olympe herself felt heated as well, but she left her clothes alone to instead bend her fingers inside Nadzeya, almost as if she were playing her harp. She moved them gently until Nadzeya muffled a groan and grabbed Olympe’s head as she arched back against the table. The woman didn’t pull, but her long fingers curled into Olympe’s braided hair as she continued to eat her out.

It was, to Olympe, impossible to tell how long it was before Nadzeya started to tremble just that much harder, before she started to squirm and her inner walls started to throb around Olympe’s fingers, but Olympe kept going with determination. On another day, preferably in a bed, she might draw it out, because she loved to see the normally so stoic woman slowly fall apart at her touch, but today, that wasn’t the intention. Today, she continued to lick her clit and finger her until Nadzeya breathed in sharply through her nose, muffled a moan into her hand, and tugged on Olympe’s hair as she was coming, and she kept going even then, delighted.

Eventually, Nadzeya pushed Olympe away, and Olympe licked her lips again as she looked up at her girlfriend. Her pale face had a beautiful flush, mostly hidden behind her hand, and her breathing was deep.

“Distracted?” Olympe asked her again, while she slowly pulled her fingers out of her. As Nadzeya was removing her hand to reply, she pushed the fingers into her own mouth, and Nadzeya immediately clasped her hand back over her mouth to muffle a moan. Olympe smiled. “Apologies.”

Nadzeya let go of her hair to run her own fingers over her wet clit, seemingly almost in wonder. She sighed when she finally removed her hand from her mouth.

“I’m distracted,” she whispered, “but I could use some more.”

“Hm?”

“Maybe you should help me do my makeup,” Nadzeya said, which wasn’t what Olympe was expecting, but she was willing to go along with it and see where that led.

With some amusement, she watched Nadzeya use a paper towel to dry herself before pulling her underwear and shorts back up, and tugging Olympe out of the chair to take her place. Immediately, she was tugged sideways into the tall woman’s lap, and shushed when she yelped a little.

“I see how it is,” Olympe whispered, smiling when Nadzeya kissed her, licking into her mouth. When they parted, she reached for her glasses so she could actually see her this close up, and then reached for the makeup bag, tugging it closer. While Nadzeya ran her fingers over her thighs, up under her skirt—which, luckily, wasn’t a pencil skirt today—Olympe rummaged through the bag for some cleansing wipes to use on her own hand and also to run over Nadzeya’s still-flushed face. That made her roll her eyes, even as her long fingers brushed over the lacy fabric of Olympe’s underwear.

“I hope you don’t poke me with my mascara.”

“We’ll see.” Olympe might just leave that to her.

Nadzeya’s stage makeup wasn’t that different from her usual look, just a little bolder perhaps, and mostly involved a lot of eyeshadow. It was easy enough to get the initial steps done even with those fingers teasing over her core. Olympe didn’t do this often, but she always enjoyed the opportunity. She gasped softly when Nadzeya’s fingers wriggled underneath her underwear, tugging it to the side, while she was trying to apply primer to her eyelids.

“You have to stop smiling,” she just said, which only made Nadzeya smirk more, her eyes scrunching up further. It was an amazing look on her, but it did really make it more difficult to do her makeup. “Close your eyes.”

“Of course, whatever you say,” Nadzeya said dryly, but she did, even as she pressed one fingertip against Olympe’s clit, softly pushing.

Olympe couldn’t resist, as she took her girlfriend’s chin in hand to tilt her face to the lamp she’d flicked on, pressing a kiss to her lips. That actually made Nadzeya inhale sharply again, though her eyes remained closed, and her finger started rubbing tiny circles. Her other hand curved around Olympe’s waist, sometimes up to grab at her breast while she got the eyeshadow.

Concentrating, Olympe could almost ignore Nadzeya’s touch while she brushed powder over her eyelids. She only jerked her arm a little whenever her finger pressed down a little harder or changed its rhythm. Up so close, it seemed like far too much eyeshadow, but she knew it would look great, and very dramatic, from the crowd.

Two fingers now pressed against her clit, rubbing steadily, and Olympe couldn’t help a small moan, which made Nadzeya’s lips twitch.

The eyeshadow was finished, and Olympe said as much—and apparently, that was a cue for Nadzeya to start rubbing her with more purpose. She opened her eyes and leaned forward to kiss her, so that Olympe’s gasp was muffled into her mouth. The woman pulled her close. Olympe had been on edge for a while, and it didn’t take long before the purposeful touch of Nadzeya’s fingers tipped her over. She twitched in her lap, and felt her smirk as she moaned against her lips, heat rolling through her.

When Olympe pulled back to breathe properly, Nadzeya bit her own lip, eyes shining at her amid the dark eyeshadow.

“That’s an even better distraction,” she whispered, a dangerous edge to her voice.

“Happy to help,” Olympe breathed again. She took a deep breath. Beyond the partition, people were still busily working; nobody had noticed what they were doing. Nadzeya’s fingers slowly stilled on her clit, though they still pressed down every now and then, just to make her twitch. “I can’t do your mascara like that.”

“I’ll do it,” she said, but didn’t move to grab the tube just yet. For now, they sat silently, faces tucked close together.

“I’ll be in the crowd,” Olympe said after a while.

“Don’t get caught in the mosh pit,” Nadzeya told her with some amusement. “I think they’d crush you.”

Olympe was not planning on it.

After a while longer, Nadzeya finally pulled her hand out from underneath her skirt, though she didn’t adjust Olympe’s underwear back, and reached for her mascara. While she applied it, Olympe also didn’t correct her underwear and re-applied her lip gloss. She kissed Nadzeya once, just before she stood up.

“Hey!” Nadzeya touched her lips, pretending to be affronted. She didn’t usually wear anything on her lips, but Olympe quite liked this shiny look on her. She raised her eyebrows innocently, adjusting her glasses.

“Nice makeup,” she said, and Nadzeya barked a laugh. Beyond the partition, someone’s footsteps stopped.

“Nadz? Is that you? Where’ve you been?” It was the bassist, calling out.

Compared to Monaco,Belarus is young. Although she is confident, maybe she doesn’t know herself aswell, her life always having been wrought with change and uncertainty.

Ukraine hasnever heard her talk about anyone the way she talks about Monaco—even if it isstill not a very regular occurrence, because Belarus just doesn’t talk muchabout her own life—and she wants to be glad, because finding companionship thatmight last beyond the lifespan of a human is great, and rare, but… Well, shewishes it could have been Lithuania she was hearing so much about, is all. Or Romania,or even Belgium. Someone less Monaco, a little more in touch with theworld.

Someone lessmythical.

--

Seychellesknows people don’t take her seriously. Most of the time, that’s fine by her. She’sbarely 500 years old; it’ll come.

She met Monacofor the first time when she was just a girl, and looked up to her immediately.She probably would have fancied herself in love at some point if not for theknowledge of how much of a waste of time it would be, even at a young age.(Younger than now, that is.) Monaco was, and still is in many ways, a bit of amentor to her.

That’s why she’sso confused about Belarus.

Admittedly, shedoesn’t know her well, but she does know that the way she regards Monaco is notlove, she doesn’t think.

They lookbeautiful together, all regal and kind of haughty, but Seychelles doesn’treckon they look in love. The thought that maybe they’re too old forthat crosses her mind, and that makes her kind of sad, so she tries not tothink that anymore. (She has no idea, really, how old Belarus is. Everyone inEurope is just ancient to her, although don’t tell France she said that.)

This sort ofalmost-deference is not what Monaco deserves. (Well, maybe it is, in a way, butnot from a partner.) It’s probably not what Belarus deserves either. Seychelleswouldn’t know.

But they seemhappy enough, when she sees them, which is admittedly almost never. Happy andbeautiful and it’s definitely not her place to interfere, so she doesn’t. Butshe wishes, even if no one will take her seriously, that Monacowould be taken seriously, just for who she is as a person.

There ishumanity to all of them, and even Monaco deserves her flaws, and to be honestlyloved despite them.

--

People talk,obviously, and that includes nations. People always talk. But in Poland’s experience,Belarus doesn’t talk much. Not about her personal life, anyway.

Of course, thismight have something to do with how they’ve only fairly recently started to be ondecent terms, but he does think that it’s true in general.

But she talks arelative lot now, and it’s troubling him. Which, you know, is notsomething he’d ever predicted he’d think about Belarus, but there you go.

It’s Monaco’sfault, somehow. With her stupid upside-down flag.

In a good relationship,these are things Belarus should be sharing with her girlfriend, but she’sdumping them on Poland instead. He tries to tell her, obviously, that he’s notthe one she’s dating—he has no desire to be dating her, thank you everso much—and that maybe she should tell Monaco about her feelings and herweird-ass interests instead, because, you know, she’s supposed to beinterested in that or at least pretend to be, and while Belarus is at it, maybeshe can call Monaco late at night and just breathe into the phone if shethinks that so hilarious, how about that?

Belarus saysshe doesn’t want to burden Monaco, and that doesn’t sound like her at all. Besides,she has no problem burdening Poland, obviously.

So thatconcerns him. He’s pretty sure—admittedly, it took him a while to get to thatpoint, but he knows now, okay—that the whole point of a relationship issharing stuff. Just stuff, all kinds of it, and trying new stuff together. Evenwhen you’re Belarus, and even when you’re Monaco-the-woman-the-myth-the-legend-the-upside-down-flag.

But, in theend, who is he to judge? It’s not as if he has any life experience or anything,right?

He’s just hereto listen.

--

People talk,and France always listens.

He hears whatthey say about Monaco and Belarus, and he doesn’t want to believe any of it,but Monaco is different when he visits her. She might have heard whatthey say. Monaco listens, too. They might not actually be related, but theyshare that trait, and in many ways, they do care about each other like siblingswould.

She pretendsnot to have heard, and he pretends he doesn’t know she’s lying. It must hurt,since she, lovely strong-willed Monaco, always seems to be the bad guy. He doesn’ttell her this, but France is worried, too. Not about Belarus, really, but abouther, about Monaco. She isn’t perfect, he knows this and loves her dearlybecause of it and despite it, but she pretends she is. She always has, so that’snothing new under the sun.

But shepretends even with the nation—the woman­—who should love her for who sheis.

He’s anoptimistic person, is France, or he tries hard to be anyway, so he holds outhope that it will grow. It is not much hope, but it is there, so he lets it live.That’s his duty as her brother. All he wants is for people to be happy; for herto be happy, and for Belarus to be as well.

Perfection sorarely equals happiness, though, despite everyone’s best efforts.

“skyline” Belarus/Monaco

It’s odd, maybe, but Belarus can hear the sea over everything else, over the expensive cars, the countless different languages being spoken, the not at all metaphorical ringing of money in the sloping streets of the city.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Monaco, behind her on the deck of the penthouse that Belarus is sure cost more than her entire GDP. (Maybe being here has made her prone to overstatements, she thinks drily.)

“It’s the sea.”

Monaco tilts her head, squinting. She looks strange without her glasses. Almost vulnerable—as if she’s capable of doing so at all.

“The sea?”

Belarus shrugs, turns back to lean on the railing and look down at the moonlight glittering on the water, the reflection of the skyline of Monaco’s home. It’s loud, somehow, and she wonders how it feels, to have a side of you so exposed.

(One day, Monaco will understand, when the silence surrounding Minsk makes her as vulnerable.)

 “rebirth” Czechia

What is beauty compared to grief?

Sometimes, it’s difficult to see it. Czechia will look at the buildings of her beautiful capital and only remember the loss the city’s experienced. Sometimes, it hurts to walk the streets of Prague, to cross the Carl’s Bridge, floating along on the stream of tourists who have no idea, no idea, who she is, what she’s been through.

But sometimes, Czechia stands at the top of Petřín hill and looks out over the city, feels the wind in her hair and her people in her heart, and it’s not so bad.

She’s still here.

 “footsteps” Seychelles

Seychelles likes looking backwards when she’s walked along the beach to see her footprints on the gilded sand. She has perfected the art of it over her five centuries.

Too close to the surf, the ocean washes them away in violent blue. Too far towards the forest and the dry sand fills in the holes within seconds, leaving no trace of her presence. There’s a certain poetry in that, she thinks as she dances around in a long-memorized pattern, creating a map of herself in the sand.

She minded, though, when her inspiration waned in autumn, when she needed it most. She had to find a new coat for the winter, among other things, and the vegetables were almost all harvested by now, so there would be no selling those. She sat wrapped up by the lake often, with her quill pen and her inkwell and a completely blank piece of paper that stayed that way. Even telling stories to the still water didn’t help.

And then there was her.

She showed up at Olympe’s door the morning after the first frost, like the ice come alive. Everything about her was pale but her eyes, which were instead dark blue like the lake.

“Who are you?” Olympe asked, mind running a mile a minute. This woman was not only mysterious, she was also beautiful, and it seemed to be that she brought some inspiration with her.

“I am here to help,” said the woman. “You can call me Bela.”

“As in beautiful?”

She smiled slowly, wickedly, showing teeth. “As in white.”

And, even though Olympe was not a very trusting person by nature, and all evidence screamed to be wary of Bela, she let her in.

Not just that once, as she had feared. The mysterious woman disappeared in the evening, yes, when the first moonlight reflected on the still water of the White Lake, but she returned the next day, and the next, and many – almost all – days after that. Olympe was curious – how could she not be curious about this woman who had brought her creativity back with her simple presence? – but she also had the distinct feeling she shouldn’t ask questions.

Did Bela have a home? Was she human at all? God knew there were plenty of legends about the mountains, hailing from the medieval times when the town in the valley had just been a small village, some from even earlier dates. Olympe had thought about compiling them in a book at some point, but never had come around to it.

It was perhaps foolish to be keeping on like this, but she didn’t care.

  Even as winter set in, the mountains became bitterly cold and the lake froze over, Bela kept coming. She didn’t wear warmer clothes and didn’t want to borrow any off Olympe either, appearing unbothered. She read what Olympe wrote and, increasingly, offered her opinion. Bela was blunt and it made Olympe laugh sometimes just how different she was from her target audience in the cities, or indeed from herself, with her wealthy upbringing.

“This book doesn’t bear your name,” Bela said one dark afternoon, when she seemed the only light.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a woman. No one will want to read a book written by a woman.”

Bela was quiet. It really was as if she was from a different world altogether sometimes. But other times…

“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. Olympe laughed, and laughed more when Bela looked surprised, and pleased.

“The world is stupid,” Olympe said.

“You aren’t.”

She snapped her head up to look at Bela, who was actually looking less pale right now. Was she blushing? That was new. Olympe decided she liked it.

“You aren’t stupid either,” she replied.

Bela only shook her head, dark eyes downcast.

“I am very stupid,” she said cryptically. Before Olympe could push it, she had gone, just like that.

She didn’t think Bela was stupid. Quite the opposite, actually. It was true that the she didn’t know much about social interactions or the finer points of etiquette, and that she had no idea who the current ruler of the country was, but Bela could tell Olympe a great many things about the history of the mountains and their myths and legends, and knew nature in a way that seemed to be becoming increasingly rare.

And, yes, her white dresses were about 300 years out of fashion, all trailing sleeves and embroidered pearls and she never wore a hat, as if she were a woman of easy virtue, but that added to the mystery, and to the things that inspired Olympe to write yet more.

Bela knew much, but her knowledge seemed to stop past a certain point in history, much like her way of dressing did. Olympe had never met anyone like her, and didn’t think she ever would again.

Once, her cousin Francis came to visit her for a few days, and Bela didn’t show until he was gone.

“You could have greeted him,” Olympe said, not knowing how she would actually feel about sharing Bela.

“He didn’t ask,” Bela replied, which made little sense, but Olympe decided to let it slide. She wondered, though; had she asked somehow?

Later, she tried to ask Bela how she had known that Olympe needed help, needed a muse, but, unsurprisingly, the woman only smiled ever so slightly and gave no reply at all. Olympe was not sure she would want to know, when it came down to it.

That was something else she wondered about, if that was all her, because she was a curious woman by nature, whether society liked it or not. It was unlike her to let things slide so often.

  “Who are you?” she asked Bela again, one day in spring, as the tall woman was standing in the cold water of the White Lake, which pooled around her ankles and soaked the hem of her dress even though she had lifted it a little. She looked at Olympe with eyes as deep as the lake.

“Whoever you want me to be,” she eventually replied. Her voice seemed hoarser than it already tended to be usually.

“I want you to be yourself.”

Bela bowed her head so that her pale hair fell over her shoulders like rivulets of water and hid her face.

The water rippled around her bare feet but stayed otherwise still.

“Who do you want to be, Bela?”

Now, she looked up again.

“I want to be your inspiration,” she said matter-of-factly. Some unseen force rippled through the entire lake. Olympe thought she might understand.

“You are.”

Bela nodded sadly. “I know.”

  With all the writing she had done lately, Olympe hardly had to sell her fabrics anymore, but she liked to interact with the townsfolk every now and then, so she went to the market anyway. Bela never wanted to come along, insisting the mountains were her home. There would be so much to show her, Olympe thought wistfully. And perhaps they could find her a more modern dress, one with a higher waistline and tighter sleeves and maybe a hat to match.

Not that Olympe disliked her mysterious muse’s hair. It was the opposite, in fact. Lately, however, she had been struck more and more often with the desire to run her fingers through it in a way that had little to do with seeking inspiration and everything with how fascinated – one might say infatuated – Olympe was with her as a person, something that she saw more of every day.

Maybe, she thought, Bela never had been herself before and somehow Olympe was her inspiration too, in a much more profound way. She liked thinking that, because she couldn’t actually tell if she was worth as much to her at all.

And so summer rolled into the mountains with the scent of drying grass and wildflowers, and Bela’s eyes seemed to brighten with the sun even as her skin remained pale. They spent a lot of time by the lake, sometimes talking, sometimes silent but for the scratch of Olympe’s quill pen.

One day, Bela said, à propos of nothing, “I have done many bad things.”

Olympe carefully put her quill away and turned to look at her expectantly. Bela just looked out over the lake, her silhouette sharp in the sunlight.

“I have never felt remorse until now.”

“How so?”

Bela looked at her with one light eye.

“I never cared before.”

Warmth blossomed in Olympe’s chest. Much as she wished the circumstances were different, it was good to know that Bela cared in her own way. She didn’t ask what it was she felt remorse over, feeling she would not like the answer, provided she received one at all. Instead, she just put her hand, which looked tiny, softly over hers. Bela breathed steadily. Her skin was cool, but warmed under Olympe’s fingers.

They sat like that for a long time. Eventually, Bela turned her hand over and entwined their fingers.

  Long hair whipping in the October wind, Bela walked along the edge of the White Lake. Olympe thought it looked like she was searching for something, but had no idea what it would be, or she would help.

As it were, she could only watch the lone, distant figure in white through her lorgnette, and wait.

After a while, Bela strode up to her cottage, hair wild and eyes dark. Olympe didn’t expect to say anything about what she had been doing, and she didn’t, but what she did do was far more surprising than that. The tall woman dropped to her knees, dress pooling around her, and looked up at Olympe with an indefinable emotion on her face.

“Bela, what is…” She gestured vaguely. “Are you alright?”

“I wish…” Bela started, reaching her hand up as if she wanted to touch Olympe, then letting it fall.

Slowly, almost afraid of startling her, Olympe mirrored her, sinking to her knees. She reached out with caution and wrapped both hands around the one Bela was holding in her lap now. She didn’t speak. She waited.

“I wish I could be more,” Bela eventually said. Her voice was barely audible over the wind that howled around the house.

“You are enough,” Olympe replied. This was true in many ways. She gripped her hand tighter, hoping to impart this message without words. Bela’s eyes were deep and sad. Olympe could almost see herself reflected in them, a small woman in blue with a tight braid, so different from her muse.

“You are more.” It didn’t sound accusing, or jealous. It sounded almost admiring.

“I do not think I am so much,” Olympe said bashfully, lowering her gaze. Bela put her free hand on hers, her fingertips ever so gently stroking Olympe’s wrist. Her next words were barely more than breath.

“Olympe, you are everything.”

When she looked up, Bela was closer than before, and it was all Olympe could do not to gasp. Instead, she followed her instincts, pushed up, and pressed her forehead against Bela’s gently. Her skin was cold; it always seemed to be. Nevertheless, she breathed warm on Olympe’s neck, steady and reassuringly there.

“Please stay,” Olympe heard herself say. “Please.”

“As long as I can,” Bela promised.

  Finally, Olympe could indulge the need she felt to run her fingers through Bela’s long, loose hair, or let her know in other, small ways how she felt about her. Nobody could ever know about this, of course, but most people did not care much for what Olympe did either way. It was good.

And then it ended.

It was the night of the new moon. Olympe jerked awake for reasons unknown in the very early morning – it was silent outside, and still practically pitch dark. Yet, after a brief disoriented moment, she rose from her bed and padded to the window, grabbing her lorgnette on the way. She didn’t expect to see anything.

Maybe the more accurate word, she thought, would be hope. She hoped she would not see anything out of the ordinary.

But, no, there she was, truly looking like a supernatural being this time, a spot of light against the darkness of the lake. Bela, walking into the water every so calmly, barely disturbing its surface. It didn’t seem as though she was looking for something this time – more as though she knew exactly what she was doing. But that made no sense. Granted, many things about her didn’t make sense, but this was truly something else.

Olympe wanted to run outside, but was also afraid of losing sight of her muse for even a second, afraid that she would simply disappear. Indecision and fear paralyzed her.

So she watched, unmoving. Frozen as the edges of the lake, still like the mist over the water. Was that all her?

The very first ray of sunlight falling through the evergreens illuminated Bela in blinding white, and when Olympe blinked, she was gone. The water was still as if she had never been there.

Had she?

Was it a dream?

  Olympe called out for Bela in the morning when she didn’t show, walking around the lake with chattering teeth, pressing her lorgnette to her nose as if she could see more that way. It yielded no results. Not a single hint towards the mysterious woman’s presence. The lake was dark, and remained so when Olympe glared at it, yelled and pleaded at the water. It had given her so much… And it had taken everything.

So she wrote, and wrote, and wrote as if it were her final day every day for the lonely next month. She wrote a letter to Francis, asking him to come visit in the approaching spring and to take her manuscripts with him so they may be made into books. But mostly, she wrote about Bela, and about the hateful White Lake. She wrote until she ran out of ink and her fingers cramped and even her lorgnette could not help her see clearly.

It had to be done. Olympe couldn’t say why.

And then, that too ended.

All at once, the new moon was back. The day before had brought a storm that could still be heard in the distance, but the mountains were quiet around her cottage. The lake was still. The lake was foreboding, Olympe thought. She’d thought so many times.

  She came wearing black.

At first, Olympe thought she was a dream – a nightmare, perhaps. Everything about her was pale but her eyes and her dress, which were both dark as the night reflected in the water of the White Lake.

“Bela,” Olympe breathed, sitting up in her bed. The woman simply nodded. She dripped on Olympe’s floor, the water like an ink stain in the near-darkness.

She looked away when Olympe tried to catch her eye, and walked to the door when she got out of her bed, tried to reach for her. Olympe followed, somehow unsurprised yet still terrified of what was to come.

Bela stood at the edge of the lake on bare feet, her black dress floating around her calves. Her back was turned to Olympe, but she could still see that her hands were clenched in tight fists.

“Who are you?” Olympe asked. Bela looked at her over her shoulder, wet hair plastered to her forehead. A hint of a smile flitted over her sharp features, but it was a sad one.

“Bela, as in white,” she reminded Olympe. The water of the White Lake rippled out from her feet. Olympe swallowed. She wished she could say something that meant something, but her mind was blank.

“You helped me,” she just said.

“Yes.” Bela waded deeper into the water. Olympe followed her to where the shore became rocky and plunged straight into the deep. It was unwise, she knew that.

“Is there no way for you to stay with me?” she asked. Her own hair fell across her shoulders when she knelt on the rocks, touching her fingers to the freezing stone.

Bela shook her head. “You must understand. The lake demands payment.”

“The lake, or you?”

She raised a hand above the water and ran her fingers through Olympe’s hair, swept her cold thumb over her cheekbone. She didn’t answer the question, but, as with so many things Olympe had asked her, she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to know the answer. She leaned farther forwards, cupping her own hands around Bela’s face.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. She clutched the fabric of Olympe’s nightgown with her free hand, the grip nothing short of desperate.

“I know.”

“Your memories belong to the lake now.”