BONE IN THE WIND'S THROAT.

━━ ❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 ;; 𝐇𝐄/𝐇𝐈𝐌 ;; 𝐃𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐓 ;; 𝐒𝐏𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇.

written by: jen / 22 / she/her / gmt+2

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐌—a court of cruelty beneath the silks and the satins, but a known quantity. She has learned to forge her own armor, her own weapons against those who meant to do her harm and all of these things have left her wiser to the ways of the games of nobility. But her contacts in the Northern kingdoms, rumors and sailors alike, have all told her that the biting winds of the Queen of the North, icebringer and desolator alike, have turned what was once suffering into an unadulterated amount of atrocity. Rumors, for someone so skilled in diplomacy, are the wind moving the sails of opinion.

And an opinion is one that is duly present when Ambassador Zhenya walks beside her in a lush afternoon, only contrasted by the recent catastrophe that fate has seen fit to put along in her path. Zhenya is merely autumn, the prelude to a winter’s chill, and whether the winter that comes will heal the land or rake it desolate will only be evidenced by their actions in the following months. Her steps are deliberate alongside him, every glance at roses measured and every tilt of her head ensured to make her look as striking as possible to a wraith that even the grasping hold of the grave could not find.

“It is kind of you to inquire, ambassador, but you need not worry,” she replies, a bow given to show appreciation to what was an interruption of a delightful stroll through the gardens. A day’s rest will never be found in the capital, it seems. “How hectic it must seem for you, to have saved our most beloved Empress on one day and to witness an act of wayward magic only months after. I hope that the company you keep… comforts you.” A pause is given as amusement creeps its way toward her face, daggers of knowledge glinting beneath her sleeve. It is not a threat, of course, not until he gives her cause. “I would comment on your taste, but I always did appreciate a man in armor.”

The structured plane of politics flowed beneath their feet, a militant march of sharply-drawn lines and deftly-laid tiles that Zhenya need only ever call upon when pursuing his goals at court. After all, when in the Summer Palace, one did not craft the board or position the pieces; instead, one merely stepped up and made their move. Such was the purpose he had sought in his approach, and for a long, cuttingly cordial moment, Helene walked the path of its preordained outcome with utter compliance -- only to halt upon her next step and gracefully rip the arena from beneath his feet.

Now the lines were formed of heartstrings; the tiles scattered and misplaced atop a vacant slate, warped and disfigured as freshly-formed bruises along well-worn skin. Zhenya’s steps never wavered, yet his mind staggered; thoughts tumbling over tactics and swerving around lies as he rushed to adapt to the new territory. The bargain was now personal, the pawns blood-filled and vulnerable. He had foreseen such a game, had known it to be inevitable, yet he hadn’t expected to be thrust into it in a manner that stripped him so cleanly of his footing -- he had been unwaveringly confident in his own preparedness. Indeed, he had left himself open without ever lowering his guard.

Her fingers curl up to sink her nails into the flesh of her palm with as much force as she can manage without drawing attention to the motion and, behind her mask, her molars collide. His fluency in sycophancy revolts her and this chummy patronage, as though he were in any position to comment on how she ever was in her arguments, is even worse. Desperately, she wants to tear that lie to ribbons, that hideous assertion that he knows or will ever know anything about her, or more than that, she deeply wants to be the one to rip open his idea of himself, to do it with claws. It’s instinct to defend oneself, and yet she knows that to switch from a flurry of attacks to a defense is to forfeit the strength of her position, allow her conviction to appear to waver, and such a concession felt antipathetic to her very nature. Her jaw is set so tightly it aches, but she forces herself to relax enough that her words retain a fluidity, so that her venom flows unimpeded. Best not risk even a single barb being missed. “On the audacity of such an offence, we can agree.”

Her attacks are thrown haphazardly, anything and everything that has even the slightest chance to cut, but she’s left herself as collateral damage. It draws bright, vivid pain, Zhenya’s accusation of her own present ineffectuality. Gisele’s instinctively conjured up her retort, the one she’ll whittle into a shiv to lunge at Zhenya with - that she is here because she is obliged to be and is extracting as much use from the night as is possible - but it doesn’t stop her from committing his insults to memory. There’s something invalidating about being wounded by words, the way they leave no marks; When they rock her violently enough, she almost wishes they would break out over the surface of her skin, bubbling up to be as tactile as the pale knit of a scar. It’s difficult to tell if she simply takes it harder than most or if everyone’s nursing the same grim desire to have their unhappiness marr them visibly. Gisele assumes it’s the first– she’s always had an obsessive mind, prone to clutching every grievance to her chest like precious things, carrying them with her and returning to pour over them in quiet moments, like picking at old wounds. And yet, in Court, she cannot so much as hesitate when wounded, just brush swiftly onward and hope she does not bleed out before the night’s conclusion.

"You know, it’s funny, I assumed a dog would understand what a command is, but I suppose being well-trained does not necessarily indicate any intelligence. Is your Queen sending her better spies elsewhere or are you really the best the Northern kennels have to offer?” She chokes out an incredulous laugh, brief and bitter. “Don’t bother answering, I would only issue a genuine question if I thought you capable of anything even remotely resembling an answer in good faith. Although I do wonder if you’re enjoying your role as an actor in this farce or if deep inside you’re banging on the walls and screaming, I’ve long since resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never know. I assume a ‘true discussion’ or even just a single honest word out of your mouth would kill you dead on principle alone before the sound could take shape.”

One need not glimpse fire to latch onto its presence, and one need not grasp flame to feel its scorch. Such was the visceral intimacy of burning -- a language that had long since woven its smoke-strung syllables into their ireful entanglement; an impulse most familiar to their ashen tongues and blackened throats. It was the steadying fulcrum of each encounter; the governing force of every collision, and it now served as the guiding strobe light for his sightless eyes, drawing them along all that remained suffocated and unseen in Gisele’s hollowed expression. So viciously vacant, so crudely composed, yet there was no denying the way it burned. Zhenya couldn’t see the gnashing of Gisele’s teeth; couldn’t spot the bite of her nails or gauge the curdling in her gut, yet he could feel the clutch of that ever-familiar heat across his cheeks, accompanied by the undeniable sting of ash across his lips -- and that was more than enough. Intuitively, he knew that the icy splinters of his words had struck through the fire and sliced open its blood-rich core. Such a victory could only ever be embraced, especially in the face of one as armored and untouchable as Gisele Duval, and embrace it he did; blatantly trailing his gaze across the woman’s stoic face, chorded neck, and twitching hand. I see nothing, his eyes declared, yet I see everything.

Of all the rotten sentiments, gloating was not one that Zhenya readily succumbed to; he was often driven by his inherent sense of honor, except in matters where duty or necessity took precedence. Although neither of those crucial notions applied to his rivalry with Gisele, he still stood firm in it with great conviction, despite the undesirable responses it drew from him. After all, the heiress had struck him with the most unforgiveable of slights -- she had dared to define him. Seemingly before their paths had even crossed, she had decreed her judgement of him to be true, armed with nothing more than tatters of preconception and shards of fabrication -- yet still clutching them in a blanched fist that she audaciously, arrogantly held to his face as though it harbored a cluster of his heartstrings. It made him wish for nothing more than to witness her hand flare open with wounds, blood gushing forth in a trail as endless as the lengths to which he would take their feud in order to dismantle her false sense of knowing.

It’s too cold this time of year this far north, Patrice notes. If he ever plans on returning, he’ll have to time it just right to avoid this sharp wind. Of course, whether or not he returns may now depend entirely upon the amount of trouble this prisoner is about to cause for him. He’d been running through the list of things his crew had to do prior to departure when Paget had approached him, her face more serious than it usually was. She’d explained that some of the crew had found a stowaway when they were securing the cargo, and she’d demanded they apprehend him as soon as possible. “Bring him to me,” he’d demanded of her before stalking off to ensure they were ready for departure. They wanted a swift exit regardless of what was about to happen.

The man was brought to the middle of the main deck with a rather violent thud of his knees against the wood. Patrice had emerged at the sound, his feet making similar hard sounds upon the deck as the small crowd of his crew parted to make way for him. Some mumbled their predictions, whether they were of who this stowaway was or what Patrice would do with him. Others asked him directly. Yannic, one of the men standing directly above the stowaway with a hand firmly upon his shoulders, asked, “what are you going to do with him, captain?”

Patrice silently dismissed Yannic’s question with a wave before directing his attention to the man upon the deck. He peered down at him, studying his features and his expression. Patrice allowed his intimidating appearance to work in his favor as he made his demands of the stranger. He began to speak in a novice’s attempt at the language of this port they’d docked in. “Now, you’re going to be honest with me, as I don’t have much time. Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?”

Skirting his gaze across those gathered around him, he watched the crew, scouting for an advantage by attempting to gauge their dispositions and dynamics with one another. However, it was an endeavor made impossible by the common scorn that seemed to eclipse all else among the sailors, at least in terms of outward projections. A grave error on his part, to have devolved into violence immediately upon his exposure, instead of resorting to communication or taking a moment to assess the situation before taking action. Both were options that he would have certainly favored under any other circumstance, but in this instance, with hunger and exhaustion dulling his senses and the toll of several days spent in hiding fogging up his judgement, he had acted on primal, impulsive instinct -- and now he was paying the price.

Regret coiled around his mouth in a grim twist, though he skewed the expression just enough so it appeared as a hostile grimace in the eyes of his captors. An effective pretense; for it was swift to stir a reaction in one of the sailors, scrunching their face up in a fierce scowl as they hollered what he could only assume to be a hoard of curses before pounding their fist into his jaw. He reeled from the strike, vision momentarily lost to a swirl of color and a thrum of ache. Hunching forward, he silently spat blood between his knees, dazed and borderline delirious by the time he raised his head to respond to the captain.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 6th of Maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Summer Palace 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @zhcnya

The last few steps Cyril takes towards the room where she is told the Empress is seem to be taken in deep water rather than marble; they feel heavier and a tingling sensation of the calm before the storm settles in the hall the tailor finds herself in. Still, her eyes travel the already explored inches of the halls around her, her attention momentarily ignoring the guards that are station every few meters. 

On the back of her mind lies an awe, one that never seems to completely leave her whenever she’s at the Summer Palace —  Cyril loves beauty and the Palace was a perfect example of it, more often than not an inspiration for the outfits she designs for the Empress herself, knowing that Calandre’s beauty ought to surpass that of her home.

Her steps halt as two familiar voices seemingly dance together though Cyril can’t quite pinpoint what kind of mood is surrounding that exchange. Part of her knows that she shouldn’t eavesdrop and that same part of her knows that she ought to walk away and come back later. The other part of her, cultivated through years and years of always feeling like she’s on the outside looking in, can’t help but grow just a bit more attentive towards the words being spoken, muffled through the gilded door. 

And then, just as quickly as it had flared up, the conversation behind closed doors comes to an abrupt ending and Cyril finds herself frozen in place. Does she walk away or does she remain put? Before she could even weigh the pros and cons, the door flung open and a familiar face exited. For a heartbeat, Cyril’s eyes meet Zhenya’s and a tightness forms in her chest — one that screams ‘you were caught’ even in the silence that sets between them. 

“Zhenya, hello.” Her eyes go from her friend’s to the door he closed behind him. “I was just — I wasn’t listening. I was told to meet the Empress.” But I don’t know if I should do that right now, she continues inside her own mind. 

A weight seemed to drop in the wake of his departure, its heavy thump as sharp and resounding as the weary creak of the doors as they lulled to a close behind him. He could almost sense the way Empress Calandre’s shoulders grew leaden with it; taut as a bowstring and tossed into a hunch as the proud pillar of her spine bent and caved beneath the burden -- one that Zhenya had carefully poised and deftly positioned above the ruler’s unsuspecting back.

He had been reluctant to do so. After his achievement during the anniversary, a long-sought culmination of two rigorous years of progress, the last thing he wished to do was upset the order he had established or upturn the favor he had earned. However, the string of volatile events that was now dragging Celestine at its heel had left him with no choice but to act. He knew his Queen well enough to anticipate her stance on the current climate, and so he had taken the initiative and bore down on the Empress, just as his Queen would have ordered had he dawdled and left himself open to the barrage of her demands.

Yet he couldn’t say with certainty that he had, indeed, evaded the strike of his Queen’s dissatisfaction. After all, Empress Calandre hadn’t given him an answer; in fact, she had barely spared him a response beyond an affronted glare and a handful of curt remarks. He had nothing but scraps to offer in his report. Yet despite his frustration, he was unwilling to let this setback deter him. Regardless of his Queen’s response, she would want him to keep his foot firmly planted atop the new grounds onto which he had thrown the North and Celestine, and luckily, he had never intended to budge. He would keep pushing, until his homeland’s interests were held in place or the Empress’ shoulders were crushed.

Blood is blood.

It is a reassurance to Michel, that he knows this, and it is a comfort he recites over and over again. There is scarcely enough time to wash himself clean and return to the celebration, and he should be rushing, but the world has slowed almost entirely to a standstill. Men and women turn their heads to look at him, but they do not breathe. They are looking at the bloodshed he wreaked, not him. The moon is high overhead and cosseted by clouds, giving him little natural light to go by in his efforts to return to his office and reassemble himself, put the pieces back together well enough to feign normalcy or any sense of it.

Blood is blood. Hippolyte’s blood has as much weight to it as his own would.

Best, Michel thinks, to leave it there.

And then, because the world is cruel, he is not allowed to put it down. He turns to look at the Ambassador and feels his body almost revolt entirely. A beat passes, and he debates on bolting – running away, like a coward – if only to escape the inevitability of a conversation he doesn’t feel equipped to have. Hearing that Zhenya had been involved in some sort of tryst with Cecile and the Chevalier had been a relief in more ways than one. It’d been a much-wanted out for Michel, and he assumed, some sort of provisional shelter for Zhenya. No one would have to know.

But they know, the two of them, and Prophet’s fucking sake, he just wants to go clean his blade off and return to the doomed-to-be-miserable evening and down as many flutes of champagne before someone stops him. There is a time and a place for everything, and this is very much not fucking it. He crushes any semblance of irritation under his heel, fingers twitching for his helmet – he could put it on, but that would be dishonest, seem strange to don now after so many hours without it. Hippolyte’s blood still stains the silver plating. “Ambassador,” he greets with a wan smile, “what can I do for you?”

The cold, callously-strung array of words lined itself along his tongue; if I may ask, was it truly the vote of majority that drove your sword? Or was it the Empress’ whim? It is of my kingdom’s utmost interest that we have a proper grasp on what came to pass tonight -- and his ever-militant body language was quick to fall into the same alignment; spine rigid, chin hiked, lips taut. But then he caught the tremulous thread of weariness that hummed through the baritone of Michel’s voice, glimpsed an echo of the tremor in the frail smile that followed, and every orderly sliver in his structured disregard waned and faltered; the apathetic procession of his responses coming to a trembling halt.

His brows twitched in a fleeting frown, the subtle shift in his expression followed by a brush of his thumb across the knob of his wrist -- a dangerously apprehensive gesture that almost compelled him to tuck his arms behind his back and erase any lasting trace of it from Michel’s eyes. Yet instruction was quick to cull instinct, the crudely-carved teachings of his mentor scathing his shuffling thumb into stillness; ever-reliable in their burning where they had been etched beneath his skin. Don’t conceal your weaknesses. Disguise them. He recalled, the words as sharp in his memory as the following smack of his mentor’s palm against his tucked fists. Keep them visible, and never give anyone reason to believe that you fear them being seen. 

Where he sat, the stillness was visceral. Lining the air with a tangible weight as it glided through his nose; coating his tongue with an unnamable taste alongside the sting of sea salt; draping his shoulders in the hunch of its ungraspable ease. It was almost ritualistic in nature, the manner in which the tranquility of this hidden haven always inched him into its grasp; shard by shard and sense by sense, with elusive patience and otherworldly care.

Such was a wonderment that was ever-recurring in his visits to the location, and the realization sent his gaze smoothing over his surroundings in relaxed appraisal. The stretch of sand across his buried feet and far beyond; the rolling waves and the vast expanse of sea from which they arose; the dark, featureless silhouette of the abandoned building that loomed at his back. All were details highlighting a small, secluded beach, banished into the shadow of a long-forgone armory on the outskirts of Val Faim. Amidst his exploration of the countryside upon his initial arrival at the city, Zhenya had gotten lost around the area, and glimpsing the broad shack from afar on his aimless walk, he had sought it out under the assumption that it was inhabited. Yet despite the discovery of its abandonment, he couldn’t find it in himself to leave; not after catching a glimpse of the soothing scenery it concealed.

He had moved on eventually, as he must, yet he never quite left it behind; returning to the location later on and repeating his visits enough times that it soon became his favorite haunt in Val Faim. One that he had grown to share with a stranger who must have stumbled upon it the same way he had -- or perhaps had scouted for it deliberately. She had never told him how she had found it, and such was simply one of many things that remained unknown between them; for despite the anonymous amiability they shared, they remained strangers to one another. It had come to be the location’s greatest appeal.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the 12th of fiacre, 936 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: le palais d'été / the summer palace, by the entryway to the empressian gardens 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @zhcnya​

“Ambassador Zhenya!” Sidonie calls, curls bouncing as she turns to catch sight of the man strolling past the entryway to the Empressian Gardens. Her hands still and the foliage and cobblestone under command stops, unnaturally bent and warped by an incompletion of a new parlor trick she was working on for the next time Court was called–at Calandre’s request, of course, and who was she to deny her Empress? However, she quickly abandons the vines and stone and instead opts to join the ambassador’s side for conversation. 

“I haven’t had a chance to speak with you since the masquerade.” The way she speaks of the masquerade is pleasant, much like how one discusses the weather and not at all how one should discuss the brutal beheading of Brousseau in front of all deemed worthy enough to watch. But, as an extension of Calandre, she is to remain on the side of the Celestinean ruler at all times–especially in the company of the ambassador from the kingdom of the North, no matter her personal feelings and curiosities. “It was a great and noble thing you did in saving Her Imperial Majesty’s life, monsieur,” she says. 

“I’m sure your Queen is pleased in knowing her ambassador foiled an assassination plot against Celestine’s Empress.” 

His steps drawled to a stop at the call of his name. When he turned around, a trail of shivering stones and slithering vines fluttered into view, almost as though it was carrying the free-flowing voice towards him -- and Zhenya recognized the person to whom it belonged from the vision alone, long before his gaze drifted beyond it and settled upon Sidonie’s form. Indeed, the ensnaring sight of her gift was not one that was easily forgotten or disregarded. He sometimes wondered whether such was the impact of Sidonie’s charm, or simply the result of his awe towards magic and all of its untouched mysteries. However, he hardly ever pondered the question long enough to seize the answer.

Yet it now lingered at the tail of his thoughts like an intrusive shadow, its sharp hue forming the curious gleam that stirred in Zhenya’s eyes as he appraised his newfound companion. A rather pointless thing to contemplate, yet still undoubtedly intriguing. “Yes, it’s quite unfortunate,” He said in response to their remark on their lack of interaction since the masquerade, before tipping his head with a pleasant smile. “Speaking with you would have certainly dispelled the grimness of the past few days.” Although he nodded in acknowledgement of her following words, his smile was quick to fade in their wake. The more praise he received, the more uneasy he was in the face of the actions that had garnered it. “Thank you, Sidonie. It was an honor to shield the Empress and repay her for all the generosity and accommodation she has shown me.” With an amused chuckle, he went on to say, “My Queen is not easily pleased, I’m afraid. She’s a highly practical woman, so her interest lies in the results and outcome of what I’ve done rather than the achievement in it.”

THE FOURTEENTH OF FIACRE AT THE SUMMER PALACE. closed for @zhcnya​

unable to remember and terrified to forget, agrippine sits on the memory for days and days and days. the rich timbre of calandre’s voice as she challenges each noble to decide the fate of a life. the gleam and glitter of chandeliers overhead, its beauty contradicting the horror unfolding. they try to remember something new each time: the exact words a noble condemned hippolyte, the degree of calandre’s arm as she motioned for michel to make the final blow… and at last, zhenya’s name.

there is something tragic about his heroism, agrippine thinks. to save the life of the one who will end another… does it feel like a betrayal of the act, like you can save someone a hundred times and still open the door for a hundred and one more transgressions? does it feel righteous, or like justice? 

agrippine doesn’t understand, can’t wrap their mind around the complexities of what is right and wrong, the moral fallacies of the court — but they can hold onto one detail, at least. zhenya saved someone’s life. it is an act worth honoring, and when agrippine sees him out of the corner of their eye while traipsing to savatier’s door, they reach out to speak to him. they know from prior experience that zhenya is something like a shadow; blink, and you will wonder whether you saw him there at all or if he was merely a trick of the imagination.

“zhenya,” they call out tentatively. in their brief experiences with the diplomat, zhenya has only confused them. curt and cold, a harsh edge lurking beneath his every word, zhenya seems to have made up his mind about agrippine; and he won’t tell them what — or why — that is. “i’m told that you saved the empress’ life. it was noble. i admired it.” their eyes flitter to the usual route that takes them to savatier’s door. “that was all i wanted to say. goodbye.”

The voice at his back was vastly different from the one that prowled in his memory, yet it still stirred his recognition; and as he turned with its tug, the momentum of his body seemed to lurch reality and recollection into a jarring collision. For even though he and his companion were standing apart from one another in civil stillness, he could see himself bearing down on them with vicious force, forearm lodged against the frail column of their neck as he gnashed his teeth around threats and demands. Even though their words were spilling forth in a tentative trickle, so carefully posed and cautiously uttered, he could hear that very same tongue pave their outpour as each one of his accusations was repelled with cutthroat confidence. Even though they had called him Zhenya and he knew to call them Agrippine, he could only perceive the two of them through the slivers of their tattered false names; not as notable ambassador and renowned jockey, but as dutiful defender and pernicious enemy.

Torn between latching onto the past and banishing it in favor of the present, as he often was when in Agrippine’s company, Zhenya remained quiet; inscrutable and still. He lingered in his conflict for a long, obstinate moment, toying with the impulse to sneer at Agrippine in scornful greeting. He soon quelled it, however, expelling his disdain along a calming current that tumbled through his nose in a sharp, resolute sigh. After all, self-indulgence was never a suitable reason to let his mask slip, nor was it ever worth the repercussions it wrought.

Although he couldn’t see through the smog that gripped Val Faim in its chokehold, Zhenya could feel the shift that ran beneath the inscrutable veil. The lengthening of the board as it stretched like a gaping maw, swallowing newly-added pieces and eating at long-standing boundaries. The tilt of its lines as they grew jagged and skewed. The blur of its slots as they merged and melted into one another. Until it seemed as though every stroke of order and tinge of structure was lost to the encroaching haze.

He was not daunted by the change; having learned from the winding trails and elusive pitfalls of his path to never lean into his steps, to never trust his footing lest it was ripped from him. Whichever arena he traversed, he could only swerve with the turn, adapt to the shift, and halt before the collapse. This instance was no different. However, he couldn’t deny that the unprecedented and rapidly broadening scope of development left him quite ill at ease. Most prominently because he couldn’t latch the blame for the disorder onto the swiping arm of the Empress, despite the fact that she had singularly governed the landscape of his duty for the entire duration of his stay and up to this decisive point. It was clear that the board no longer sat solely between Celestine and the North; not with Widrowem striding in with its own agenda and the Obsidienne lingering in the periphery with a hoard of mystifying secrets and malignant omens.

where: the gardens of the summer palace when: the ninth of fiacre, just after the execution of hippolyte brosseau who: @zhcnya​​

The air is alive with the rich, unsettling smell of blood, and haunted by whispers that can only mean worse to come. Cecile remains composed as the crowd pours out into gardens, but her heart has dropped into the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t fear blood - nearly everyone she’s loved hands’ have been stained with it, and she will hold them tight and wipe the red from their skin as many times as they need her to - but she does fear what comes next, when it splashes on the floor of the Summer Palace. Her stomach is in knots and her head swirls with shock, confusion, frustration, and countless others’ she has not had time to take pause and name. They point her in countless directions, and there will be endless delicate and difficult conversations to be had.

But not tonight. Tonight, cutting through the crowd, she exactly knows who she needs to see. 

“Zhenya.” 

Her fingers circle around his arm as she looks up at him from beneath her mask.  She reaches up to him, gently cupping his face in her hand, thumb gently tracing over the bottom of his mask. She almost wishes she weren’t wearing hers - despite how grateful she was to hide her eyes during Hippolyte’s unconventional trial - so that he could more easily see now, the gentle concern on her face. 

She’s sure he’s seen much worse than this in his time as a diplomat, but she cannot help but worry, not knowing it was him who stopped the assassination - that the lives of two of the people she cares for most in the world were at risk at once. These attempts may be a semi-regular occurrence for Calandre, but not for him. There are so many things she will want to ask. But not yet. Now, only question burns in the forefront of her mind. 

“Are you alright, mon chéri?”

It was as though the thread of time had coiled itself into a noose around Brosseau’s neck; for it was severed by the same clean, clear-cut swipe of the Commander’s sword as it tore through flesh, bone, and chorded muscle. The scene drawled to a stop before him, its slow, gradual halt blinding his eyes to the splatter of blood and muffling his ears against the plummet of the corpse as Brosseau crumbled to the floor amidst an ensnaring silence -- no longer a man, but a mere token, left broken and empty of value.

Strips and dollops of his blood clung to the air, scattered and suspended. And with each gruesome trace of scarlet that Zhenya’s eyes glimpsed, a certain consideration of the scene weaved itself into the expanse of his perception, alighting his eyes one red ripple at a time -- as though his thoughts and ponderings were laid out before him in a tangible cluster, raw and perfectly reflective of the dreaded nature of the dilemma.

Empress Calandre’s disarming callousness; Brosseau’s veiled motives; the North’s looming interests. All were angles which took up equal precedence for him, though none of them were quite as daunting to ponder as the fact that it was his own hands that had shoved Brosseau into the shadow of the blade -- in a deliberate maneuver that had yet to prove fruitful or justified. The man certainly hadn’t been innocent, having charged at the Empress with glaring hostility, but what if he hadn’t been entirely guilty? What if it had been the Empress’ rash judgement that had sealed his fate, rather than any true treachery on his part? And if not, what if he had been merely a pawn, set to incite a tailored trail of events that could be unfolding right at this very moment, utterly unthwarted by the blood that had been pointlessly spilled?

Zhenya had come here to serve his homeland, not to condemn others while catering to his guise.

Was that truly what he had done?

His surroundings were governed by such calm. Still waters lapped at the flanks of the anchored ship, the gentle ripple of them merging with the weary creak of timber in soothing whispers. Seagulls flew overhead, their coos and calls swallowed up by the holler of sailors and the grunts of brawlers along the brimming length of the harbor. Far beyond, the streets of the Northern city breathed in a tranquil cadence, humming with motion and thrumming with activity. All around him, life drawled on, idle and unhurried; ever eager to sustain its oblivion towards the halting horrors and terrorizing trials it so callously incited.

Yet within the confines of his body, there was only disorder; loud, paralyzing, and all-consuming. His heart thrashed, barreling up to his throat with each erratic pulse as though aiming to toss itself against the barrier of his teeth. His ears rang, clinging to the dastardly drag of his feet and the purposeful pound of his captors’ steps. His gut roiled, gnashing with hunger, ache, and dread alike underneath a smattering of bruises and wounds. And he could do nothing but hover at the heart of it all, weak and overtaken.