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cheekygreenty · 3 years

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Little Witch - Part 21

The Darkling x Reader

The atmosphere in the Palace was welcoming and enjoyable yet you couldn't help but dampen the mood of those around you. Your smiles were visible fake, your laughs as forced as the diplomacy of the evening. It was hard to focus on anything but the Queen's request, you could still feel her cold touch on your hands, could still hear her voice as if she was standing next to you. Some would say being in the presence of the Royals was a blessing by the Saints, but to you it was a sudden blight; a curse.

The duties and obligations you had were out the window now as you looked for the particular head of red flame hair, completely ignoring the Kerch ambassador and his slurring words of trade agreements.

Did Genya tell her General that the charming Lantsov Prince was soon to be wed to the Deputy of the Second-army? Or did she keep that part to herself? You had a feeling it was the latter given Aleksander's behavior earlier but what if he knew- What if his obedient spy told him everything and he was looking at your predicament as an opportunity, even though it would hurt you to the core and shatter your moral values. There's nothing he wouldn't do for more power.

'Deputy Y/L/N, I presume?' A man in a military uniform adorned with colorful medals approached you from the side, silently shooeing the Kerch man away and taking his place despite your obvious air of hostility. You were in no mood for diplomacy.

'The one and only.'

'So I have heard.' You could make out the smallest tinge of an accent reminiscent of a Fjerdan rhythm through the spoken words. His blonde hair and long beard tell-tale signs of his druskelle service and enough for your anger to flare. 'Tell me, what kind of Grisha are you?' You didn't miss the disgust dripping from the word as he forced it through his teeth. No doubt he hated himself for being here.

'A powerful one.'

'More powerful than the Sun-Summoner?'

'Much.'

'I won't forget that.'

'I hope you don't. Tell your people too, it'll save me some time and perhaps some lives.'

'Is that a threat Deputy?'

'Yes' He snorted and looked around the lively room.

'Fjerda isn't here to fight tonight, we're here to party. I thought it would be the same for you, no?'

'I don't keep peace with people who wish my kind dead.'

'Neither does your General. But the West, I'm not too sure they're on the same page'

You bit back the urge to smack the tall man stone-cold. The West was a tricky situation that had been playing heavily on your mind for as long as you could remember. Although it was Ravka, Grisha were no longer safe there. Zlatan was coercing with the Fjerdans to capture Grisha in exchange for military backup and as much as it angered you to keep the First-Army General alive, it would create a whole other problem if he was found dead.

'West Ravka is Ravka. All Zlatan is is a mere General of the First-Army. He's no King.'

'You would be surprised. People would listen to a stableboy if he spoke of truth and justice.'

'And would Fjerda back him up too?'

He smirked and gave a nod of his head in amusement at your raging eyes. 'You drüsje get so worked up over words. It's actions that matter.'

'Not here in Ravka. Remember where and what you are. Then think of what half of this room can do to you' Without so much as a goodbye, you walked away from him with a huff and continued looking for Genya. You hadn't even seen Aleksander make an appearance yet but you didn't think you wanted to see him, not after your conversation with the Queen.

We wish for you to marry my son

Every time you thought you had shaken the haunting request, it came back with a shiver up your spine. It went against everything you ever believed in. You hated the crown, the Lantsov line, you hated the Ravka they created. But this didn't feel like something you could reject. It wasn't a proposal, it was an alliance.

You turned your head to the doors and watched as Zoya clambered up the stairs in her stunning blue silk kefta. Behind her, a Suli performer climbed up on her silks as if it were all she'd ever known. Her body swung gracefully and smoothly, not batting an eyelid at all her observers. It was memorizing and distracting, something for which you were thankful.

'Haven't you got some Dukes and Ministers to babysit?' Zoya appeared beside you, eyeing up the empty glass in your hand.

'Let them roam free for the night'

'As long as they're not groveling over me'

'Because your presence is so much more captivating than the Sun-Summoners' You rolled your eyes and made your way to get a new, full, glass.

'Thank you for finally admitting it'

'Where's Genya Saffin?'

She made a face and took a glass to, bringing it up to her lips and taking a small sip.

'With Alina. Why?'

'Oh nothing, just some details to hash out about Marie attending dinner' You covered up. 'I spoke with a Fjerdan dignitary. He had no problem hiding that West Ravka is coming to their aid.' Zoya was a good soldier and a great tactician, if you were to tell anyone such sensitive information, it would definitely be Zoya.

'I overheard a Zemeni ambassador say they were spotted at Zlatan's rallies. He's raising his ranks whilst our own coffers run out. We can't afford a war with each of our borders'

'Try telling the King that' The Lantsov King. Nikolai's father. Nikolai.

'Saints are you alright?' Zoya looked at you with wide eyes, then to the broken glass crumbling in your hand. You had been clutching it so hard you managed to smash it and slice the palm of your hand.

'Oh umm- I need a moment' You disposed of the glass on a nearby table and basically ran to the nearest washroom. Crimson red blood dripped slowly from your fingers as you tried to keep it from staining your kefta while you closed the door behind you.

This was the first moment since your talk with the Queen where you were alone. Truly alone, no ambassador looming over your shoulder or a Duke at your side. Alexander, Alina, and Genya were still nowhere to be seen and the demonstration would begin shortly but all you wanted to do was stay in this tiny and stuffy room, shut off from everything. You washed your hand down with water, hissing in pain as the water tinted red and carried away the signs of injury. The quarters were quiet and calm, a stark contrast to the liveliness in the hall not often seen in the Little Palace.

The Little Palace tended to be quiet, but the Grand Palace was different. The Grand Palace. The winter home of the Lantsovs. Nikolai. Marriage.

The gentle tears came like a surprise, rolling down your face with grace. 'Fuck me' was all you could say as your head rested on your uninjured hand. You still felt exhausted and overwhelmed now even more so but you liked to think you hid it well. What good was a Deputy in emotional turmoil at a party full of political vultures?

The door to the small space suddenly opened and none other than Genya Saffin walked in with ease only she possessed. She looked at you in shame then fixed her attention on her shoes, not meeting your broken gaze.

'I take it you spoke with Tatiana?'

'Why didn't you tell General Kirigan?' You sniffed and wrapped your hand in a handkerchief, not bothering to wipe away the tears that you continued to cry.

'I felt it wasn't my place'

'Why?' Your voice cracked, slightly distracting you but the meaning to your question was obvious. Why me?

'She wished to squelch his bastardry rumors with your standing reputation.'

'Does he know?'

'She wrote him, but he has yet to respond.'

'Why not Vasily? Is it to make sure a Grisha never sits on the throne?'

She stayed quiet, toying with her sleeve. 'She says you have the air of a false Queen but the mind of a demon'

'Nothing new there' You laughed and straightened up, using the handkerchief on your hand to pat your face dry, diminishing any last sign of your weak moment away. 'Is Alina ready?' She looked at you with pure pity on her face, the compassion bursting on her face busting at its seams.

'Yes. Last I saw she was with the General.'

'Thank you Ms.Saffin'

***

You didn't mean to miss the demonstrations, but you took your time walking back to the main hall anyway. It was only when you saw the darkened room and searing light did you stop dead in your tracks at the door. Alina stood there on the podium, the image of a Saint. Her black and gold kefta shimmered in her light beautifully, illuminating her face and smile. She was glowing. Her powers had brought her not only luxurious life but good health, something everyone prays for. The black looked well on her too. It set her apart from the sea of bright keftas and gowns. In a Palace full of Grisha and powerful members of society, only Alina and Aleksander wore the black keftas, not even you wore it tonight and it made you feel surprisingly insecure.

He stood to her side, enthralled by her show of strength and skill. He was fascinated with her, it showed in his eyes and on his face but it definitely wasn't a facade. Even watching them from afar you could see that he looked at her as if she was his Sun, the only thing capable of lighting up his night sky.

You didn't know how to look at her. Everyone around you was worshipping her, whispering silent prayers to Sankta Alina: the Sun Saint, but you stayed frozen and still. You were never faithful to the Saints, they never listened to you, so what good would pledging your allegiance to Alina be if you knew Aleksander planned to extort her?

The whole room was kneeling now, heads bent down in symbols of submission yet you stood. No doubt you stuck out like a sore thumb, but a leader does not bow to anybody, not even the Saints. He momentarily turned his head to look at you but his eyes were far from the softness he gave Alina. They spoke more than his smooth words ever could yet this time the silent exchange did nothing to soothe your muddled head.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to break your burning gaze away from the summoners and to a guard instead.

'Deputy, we have 2 First-Army soldiers who claim to have found Morozova's Stag' The Stag. Just my luck.

'Tell the General, I have no business with the stag' You waved him off and returned your stare back to the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk when her eyes caught yours. Queen Tatiana was looking through to your soul, demolishing any confidence you could muster at that moment.

Marry my son.

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Part 22

Taglist (tell me if you want to be added to the Little Witch taglist!!) @theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess @lunas1x1 @adoringb @grisha-of-shadow-bone @rosiethefairy @carlywhomever @allisjustok @keepdaydreamingbb @luciadiosa

#shadow and bone #the darkling #imagine #the darkling x reader #ben barnes #grisha #alexander #alexander morozova #alina starkov #fanfic #general kirigan x reader #six of crows

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remys-lucky-franc · 3 years

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Remy x MC (Queen of Thieves) - Kissing Prompt #14

This is the final ‘kiss prompt’ that I have on my request list. I’m sad 😔

I’ve really enjoyed working on these - this wee challenge got me back into the habit of writing regularly which is so nice as I’d been doing ‘sit and stare at a blank page’ thing for months, thank you for inviting me to join in folks.

Prompt #14 - a kiss so desperate that that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished - requested by lovely @mcira for lovely Remy

It’s a sort of a ‘good heist goes bad’ alt-version of the ‘first ever kiss on film’ heist from Remy’s S1. Also, I relocated it to Barcelona because Paris is too inland 😂

Written from MC POV.

Word count ~6100 (marked #long fic if anyone wants to filter it away - adding ‘read more’ isn’t reliable - don’t want to clog anyone’s dash x)

TW: drowning / broken bones

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[MORE]

[[MORE]]

—-

I curse, scrambling to keep my balance as the yacht lists suddenly to the right; my arms flailing, thrown backwards trying to grip at the doorway to stay upright. I collide with it and stretch my hands out to save myself as I hit the ground awkwardly: the crack from my arm makes me feel sick to my stomach. Furniture shifts. Decor clatters to the floor. Lights overhead flicker violently. What the hell was that noise? Something has gone very, very wrong.

—-24 hours earlier —-

Remy and I have spent well over a month on this con now, establishing and ingratiating ourselves with the obnoxious specimen that is Parker Vos. Ugh, even his name makes my skin crawl. Tonight we’ve met up for some drinks: Parker’s idea. Remy’s positioned himself between Parker and I at the bar of the plush cocktail lounge and I watch on as Parker charges his glass again, loudly laughing, clapping his hand on Remy’s shoulder. Remy clinks glasses with him, smile jovial, eyes full of myrth; swallowing down the liquor to perfectly conceal the bile I know is steadily rising within his throat. If there is anyone who dislikes Parker Vos more than I do, it’s Remy Chevalier.

Watching Remy work a con has been quite an experience. He knows instinctively what people want to see and hear - oftentimes even before they know themselves. He reads their body language with practiced ease and plays his part to meet The Gilded Poppy’s ends: a master of assuaging insecurities or fuelling egos. And I have never known an ego like Parker’s. He’s spent half of the evening acting like Remy’s his long-lost best friend, and the other half undressing me - his buddy’s ‘wife’ - with cold, soulless eyes.

Parker’s on his feet, moving to refill my champagne flute but I move my hand to cover the top, opening my mouth in a half-protest.

He grins at me as I giggle, “I shouldn’t - I’ve had too much already-”

Tutting and moving my hand away from the opening of glass, he pours another generous serving of fizz. I make a big deal out of rolling my eyes at him and exclaiming that’s he’s ‘such a bad influence’. Inside I’m far from smiling - I hate guys who behave like this.

Parker doesn’t seem to want to let go of my hand, his fingertips trace my palm casually, an amused, self-satisfied grin spread over his face. I feel colour rising rapidly from my chest to the tips of my ears and Parker raises an eyebrow at me - clearly delighted that he’s gotten me flustered - but it’s not his touch or his gaze that’s set me alight. It’s the way that Remy’s eyes burn into me from the next seat, flecks of gold and green glitter like fire and the mask he wears is one that I can’t quite decipher, the only clue to his true feelings being the exaggerated bob of his throat as he continues to pretends he’s oblivious to the game Parker’s playing. I simper as I extract my hand from Parker’s to toast our glasses. I know Remy and I aren’t really married, but Parker doesn’t: this guy really has zero shame.

Remy’s seamlessly switched to wearing a playful smirk as he reaches across me, clinking all three of our glasses together, “Ma cherie, the bubbles are going to her head, Parker - look how flushed she is!”

His free hand reaches up affectionately cupping my cheek and I feel myself sink longingly into his gentle touch, his daring wink makes my heart stutter as Parker drones on, boasting about only ordering the very finest champagne for his friends.

A short time later, Remy excuses himself and he hasn’t even reached the bathroom before Parker has slid across to occupy his stool, angling himself into me just a little closer than could be considered appropriate. He’s such a snake, it takes all my energy to fix a sweet, naïve smile on my face when his hand comes to rest on my arm; the way his touch makes me feel compared to Remy’s is so stark in its contrast. He’s watching my face intently as he smirks at me - always bragging about his wealth and possessions, always looking for any sign that he’s impressing me.

He’s acting shocked that this is is the first time I’ve been to this particular bar, given that it’s one of Barcelona’s hot-spots, wondering out loud why my husband never brought me here before now. I sip daintily at my glass as I tell him this sort of place is generally outside of our budget, that it would only ever be somewhere that we’d come for a special occasion. As Parker nods, sacharrine-sweet condescension guising as sympathy, I think about how Remy was absolutely right when he told me he reckoned Parker gets a real kick out of feeling like the Alpha Male in any room and I lean into it. He’s back onto his favourite brand of champagne again - asking me if I ever tried it before tonight. I have, but I play along, feeding the narrative, telling him exactly what he wants to hear: Remy would be proud of me.

I shake my head wistfully, “It’s really delicious, it’s such a lovely treat to have something so decadent. I can understand it being your favourite, Parker - you have really good taste.”

He sighs, looking almost troubled, “You know it makes me sad that a girl like you can’t have everything her heart desires. I’ve got cases galore of the stuff on my yacht. I have it brought in directly from the vineyard just outside Epernay.” He pauses, quirking his head at me, “Say, have you ever been on a yacht?”

I think about what Remy’s always tells me about the best and most convincing cons: they stick as closely to the truth as possible. I feel a genuine smile blossom as I tell Parker about the little sailboat my grandfather had and how I loved spending time on it with him when I was a little girl. I can hear the warmth in my own voice and I know my eyes are sparkling as I think about those happy memories, but rather than ask me anything about my grandfather or my childhood, Parker patronises me and uses it as another opportunity to play ‘The Big I Am’. He chuckles as he tells me that wasn’t a real boat, then reels off what sounds like the manufacturer’s sales pitch for his top-of-the-range, fully customised yacht. Heaven knows, I really want to punch this guy but I nod, maintaining my rapt expression - all wide-eyed and utterly impressed. As he drones on, my brain wanders thinking how the same conversation would have gone sitting here with Remy instead.

Parker’s incessant boasting continues as he drawls about how much he would love to take me out on his yacht, “I think a girl like you would appreciate a boat like mine you know, and you’d look so good on it.”

Such. A. Creep.

I shoot him a rueful smile before biting my lip and looking down at the my hands. My fake wedding ring sparkles up at me under the low lights of the bar. I can feel Parker’s beady eyes on me watching my every move like I’m his prey. I fidget with the golden band and I know I’m working this con just right when he pushes my hair back from my face and tips my chin upward to look at him. A grin slithers across his face - poison hidden just behind the facade.

“Why don’t you come on the yacht with me this weekend, baby? You can have as much of this champagne as you like - I’ll show you how you deserve to be treated.”

I don’t have to fake being a little taken aback: I know it’s been our objective to get on that yacht, and I knew we were reeling him in, but the blatancy of his invite still knocks me off guard!

I glance towards the bathrooms and see that Remy’s making his way back across the bar. I use the shock of the invitation to my advantage, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth as I tell Parker, “Remy’s coming back.” I look up at him through my lashes and breathe, “Parker, I- I don’t know? It sounds amazing, but honestly, I’m not sure I should.”

Parker searches my dark eyes, voice smug, so confident that his charms have me falling for him; that he’s so irresistible I’d be ready to betray my husband with him, “I think you do know. You just don’t want to hurt Remy, because you’re a sweet girl. But I’ll make a deal with you, I’ll send you the directions to where she’s docked - and I’ll be there waiting. If you come...”, his thumb brushes across my lips and I draw in a sharp breath while my stomach lurches. His voice lowers as he stares at my mouth, “I’ll show you, I can give you everything you ever wanted and more besides.” Then he’s gone, quickly slithering back to his own bar stool, duplicitously clasping and shaking Remy’s hand as he returns, as though he didn’t just proposition his wife.

—-

Remy fumed about the audacity of Parker Vos the whole way back to the penthouse last night. And I thought he disliked the guy before... I’d hate to see how Remy would react if someone hit on his real wife because he is the most convincingly jealous fake-husband I’ve ever seen. And his attitude towards our mark got even worse when Parker text me with the coordinates for Port Vell Marina.

When we got back we debriefed Nikolai on all of the night’s events and came to the conclusion that me going to the yacht alone was not an option. I argued that I was more than capable of handling him but Remy was adamant that Parker was an entitled creep and it was too dangerous. Nikolai agreed with Remy, and when I huffed that he would trust Vivienne to fly solo, I have never seen him look more annoyed. He barked at me that he it was his decision, his responsibility and he refused to put any member of his team into that position alone, especially where there was no option for back up if things started to take a wrong turn. As much as I hated to back down, I knew from his tone that he was being completely honest and I should apologise and accept his decision. We spent the rest of the evening coming up with our next move - for Remy and I to arrive at Parker’s yacht together.

—-

We arrive at the beautiful Marina at Port Vell the following afternoon and I don’t have to feign how impressed I am. It is absolutely stunning - the sun dapples the turquoise blue waters while every gleaming yacht is sleeker and grander than the last.

Remy’s holds my hand firmly as we head towards Berth 26 where Parker’s imposing yacht is docked. Our play this afternoon is that I was heading out to meet Parker when Remy asked where I was going and I couldn’t think of any reason for him not to come along that didn’t seem strange or suspicious.

We reach the yacht and I see Parker. The irritate look on his face is replaced in an instant as he wraps us both in a friendly hug, before ushering us onboard. As he takes my hand to help me up the steps, he shoots me a look as though to enquire ‘why the hell aren’t we alone?’ and I drop my head like I’ve never been more deeply disappointed by anything in my life.

Remy has Parker chatting about the spec of the boat and I fear that he may never shut up about it. We spend at least fifteen minutes in the cockpit as Parker regales us with tales about how he got rid of his last captain, how he prefers to sail the yacht himself: bravado, bravado, bla bla bla. My cheeks hurt from the fake grin I have plastered across my face but I really lose the will to live as he places a captain’s hat on my head, cracking a joke to Remy about female drivers and saying that if I felt brave enough, he might even let me steer later. As we walk I ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ where appropriate, observing the ostentatious gold fixings and over-the-top ornate features and I conclude that no amount of money can buy you class.

When we eventually reach the sun deck, Remy raises an eyebrow at me, “Oh. Ma cherie, I think we may be intruding. Parker, were you expecting other company?”

I cringe as my eyes land on the biggest bunch of roses I’ve ever seen, sat next to a bottle of the same champagne we were drinking in the bar last night. I know Parker is a truly awful person, but I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. His cheeks colour lightly, clearly having forgotten that he paid someone to set this up for him and his mouth works hard at opening and closing for a few painful seconds before his brain catches up, “Oh! Those? A ‘friend’ of mine was supposed to join me a bit before you both arrived. Then I thought we could have some drinks together, all four of us.”

Remy nods, his expression neutral, but eyes sharp, “I see. And they’re running late?”

Parker shrugs, eyes flicking to look at me as he lies, “She cancelled at the last minute. Something else came up.”

Remy wraps his arm around me making a show of planting a soft kiss on my cheek, his sympathetic words juxtaposed to the smirk apparent in his tone, “How awful, cherie! Good old Parker’s been left in the lurch. And after going to all that trouble too!”

I grimace, “I’m really sorry to hear that, Parker.”

Parker clears his throat, snatching up the champagne bottle, “Yeah. I’ll grab us some glasses.”

As he heads inside, I dig Remy in the ribs with my elbow and hiss, “What the hell was that?!”

Remy grins, his face full of mischief, “It’s obvious that I suspect there’s ‘something going on’ here”, he gestures between me and the roses, “and if he knows I’m willing to fight for you mon couer, it makes you all the more attractive to him...”

Knowing he’s right, but hating it, I pull a face.

He winks at me, “Plus, your Remy wants to have a little fun making him squirm.”

—-

We set sail a little after two-thirty, and as the afternoon progresses, it’s not just Parker who Remy is making squirm. Aside from a variety of vaguely passive aggressive jokes about being stood up and dating disasters - at one point even suggesting that I set Parker up with one of my friends, Remy is possibly the most tactile he’s ever been with me during this con: his hand is either holding mine, on my knee, or touching my face at every given opportunity. And his strategy is working because every single time Remy’s hands are on me, Parker’s eyes follow.

I know it’s all for Parker’s benefit but I just can’t help the way my heart races when Remy touches me. I have to keep telling myself it’s just for the con - all a part of his strategy. I repeat it over and over like a mantra: ‘It’s just for the con. It’s not real. It’s just for the con.’ But it feels so good. So real. And I want him so badly my chest aches.

Part of my role on today’s outing is scouting out the location of the reel of film we’re trying to steal. We’ve long suspected that it’s somewhere on the boat. So while the men continue to drink and chatter, I excuse myself and head to the restroom, getting myself deliberately lost in the labyrinth below deck. I’m fascinated by the amount of cool and interesting stuff that Parker owns despite being an uncultured jerk. I wonder if he has any genuine interest in any of it at all, or if it’s entirely for bragging rights and to impress other people. The further I wander unrestricted, the more I marvel and get to wondering just how rich Parker actually is? It’s so unfair - he deserves pretty much nothing that’s aboard this floating treasure trove... Then I see it - a can of film inside a glass case! Surely that’s got to be it? I quickly check the case, it’s pretty secure and looks like it’s inbuilt to the wall cabinet?! That means... This must be it - the first kiss ever recorded... I beam from ear to ear as I think about how excited Remy is going to be when I tell him!!

Unbeknown to me, upstairs whilst Remy and Parker stand at the railing staring out into the glittering dark blue of the Med, Remy decides to lean a little further into his role of suspicious and jealous spouse. Remy subtly turns the conversation from small talk to a grilling before Parker even realises that he’s walking into a trap, “It’s a shame your friend couldn’t make it, Parker. It would have been lovely to meet the woman who’s caught your eye... You were hoping that the four of us could have drinks together, right?”

Parker nods, sipping at his glass.

“But you didn’t know I was coming?”

Parker laughs, deflecting, “Uh, yeah! I got that wrong, I thought you were otherwise engaged. I’m so glad you could make it, buddy! It’s always great to see you!”

Remy cocks his head to the side, face still open and neutral, like he’s trying to understand, ”Sure, I’m glad I could join. But I’m confused? You were planning on the four of us drinking that champagne, oui?”

Parker clears his throat, suddenly realising that Remy might actually not be as much of a mug as he’s taken him for.

Remy continues, face visibly hardening as he speaks, “From where I’m sitting, there’s no mystery lady, and no Remy? And - well - that just leaves you and my wife sailing around the Mediterranean with a bottle of champagne and a big bunch of roses, Parker.”

Parker waves his hands in the air defensively, “Wow, Remy!! Slow down - I don’t know where you think you’re going with this, but you’ve got it all wrong! You’re putting two and two together and getting five, my friend!”

Remy huffs a bitter laugh, his voice now dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, five? So, I have it all wrong that my wife was halfway out the door to come here, to be with you, alone? Seems convenient that your lady-friend mysteriously couldn’t make it at the last minute? The one I’ve never heard you mention before? Please, explain it to me, Parker. Because it looks to me like you’ve got designs on my wife.”

Parker stutters to find an answer for a second before the yacht jolts violent throwing both men to the ground.

—-

I cradle my arm to my chest and grit my teeth as I clamber back onto my feet, nausea washing over me as I try my best not to move it again. Safe to say I don’t need a medical degree to tell me I’ve broken something.

After that god-awful metallic grinding, groaning noise everything has gone quiet. Eerily quiet. The normal lighting has gone, but the emergency lighting has kicked in casting a sickly green hue all around. I need to get back up to deck, to see what the hell just happened, to make sure Remy is ok!

I move towards the stairwell door and as I wrench it towards me, I’m met with a rush of cold water that makes me gasp. Oh this is bad. This is really, really bad. I stare at the fast-moving seawater spilling in, swirling around my feet: I’m rooted to the spot as panic rises rapidly in my chest. I’m not sure how many seconds have ticked by when I hear the roar of my name. Remy. I can’t see him, but I scramble towards the sound of his voice and call out to him, “I’m down here! Remy! I’m here!”

Water is rapidly filling the space below deck as Remy throws open the door of the opposite stairwell. I lurch towards him, sloshing through it, my limbs twice as heavy and struggling to stay upright against the slippery surface.

Remy wades through the corridor to reach me, calling to me, “I’m coming, cherie, it’ll be ok!” As we meet somewhere near the middle his hands grasp my shoulders as he gives me a quick once over, brows knit together when he sees how I’m holding my quick-swelling arm, “Merde! Is that broken?!”

I wince, nodding. The pain radiates from my wrist making my fingers tingle and my head buzz. Remy’s got one arm around me and he’s gripping at the walls with his free hand, moving us steadily toward the stairwell he came down: the water’s around my waist now. He keeps repeating, ‘it’s ok, it’s going to be ok’, but his usually calm voice jitters and I’m not sure if he’s saying it for my benefit or if he’s trying to make himself believe it. We reach the stairwell and Remy ushers me through the door. The tilt of the yacht makes it hard to climb the steps, but we fight to ascend. Up. Up. Up. We’re around half-way when the yacht jolts unexpectedly again; Remy grabs for the wet handrail. Every muscle in his body strains to keep us in place, to somehow stop us from careering back down the staircase. I feel lightheaded from the way my damaged arm jerks as he catches us, but it’s better than the alternative of plunging back down into the murky water. We resume our climb and make it up the final steps together. Only at the top do I truly appreciate the incongruous angle the yacht lists to, and start to properly grasp just how deadly this situation could be. The sounds of straining metal and hissing water fill the space around us and I’m scared. More scared than I’ve ever been in my life.

 We scramble our way out across the badly-angled yacht, clinging to the side rails for purchase as we move: we need to get off this boat. It can’t end like this. In the time I’ve been below deck, dark clouds have rolled in and the rain pelts down on us. As we reach the side of the yacht, and I suck in a deep lungful of air trying to black out the pain radiating up and down my arm. Trying to steady my nerves, I tell myself, ‘We just need to get on the lifeboat, getting upstairs was the hardest part. Come on, you can do this - you can do this! We’re almost there, it’s going to be-’ But my silent pep talk is cut short and a sense of dread floods through me as I watch Remy surge around and around, a hand raking through his soaking hair as he yells,

“He’s gone! That bastard! He’s left us!”

Remy’s hanging over the side, trying to locate Parker, frantically yelling his name out into the dank, misty distance. But it’s useless - he’s long gone. Fresh panic rises as what that means sinks in: that snake abandoned us and the sinking ship. And he’s taken the only life vessel with him. A storm’s rolling in and visibility is poor. We’re miles from the coast without another boat in sight. The water this far out isn’t frigid but it’s still cool enough to catch hypothermia without the right clothing if you’re in it for a couple of hours - but we’re likely to end up in there because this yacht is going down. I’m not sure how long I could tread water for with a broken arm? I choke back my horror as I realise - I don’t think we can’t make it back. He’s left us out here to die.

Tears silently streak my face, mingling with saltwater and rain as I turn to Remy. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, but he’s the most animated I’ve ever seen him, his hands shake and he curses as he pulls useless items out of one of the inbuilt storage benches, tossing them onto the wet deck behind him. I tug at his sleeve and rasp, “There’s no way off, is there?”

He refuses to meet my gaze, yanking his arm away from me, rummaging deeper, muttering in frustration. But I refuse to be brushed off, not now. I pull on his sleeve again, “Remy! Just, stop.”

He whirls on me, his usually smiling eyes are wild as they meet mine. And before I know what’s happening, right there on the deck of the part-submerged yacht, Remy pulls my face to his, mouth crashing desperately into mine. I gasp at the sensation of him. Rough. Passion-filled. Real. His lips spill every frenzied confession I ever wanted to hear and I’m losing myself in him; rapt in every disclosure. The surge of emotion between us swells my pounding heart and fills my soul, a choir with one refrain: he loves me, he loves me, he loves me. My body breaks into song - lyrical, a groan against Remy’s supple lips: rejoicing, dancing, dopamine-high. A million melodies, harmonies, symphonies rush through us as we cling to each other against the stormy saltwater spray. His touch is electric, flesh warm against my skin, deft fingers knotted in my hair drawing me close. Closer. So close I feel two heartbeats pulse through me like an orchestra nearing crescendo. I’m soaked, hurt and terrified, but somehow I’ve never felt more alive than I do right now, exalted in his arms. My hand grazes over the stubble of his jaw, the high arc of his cheekbone: my fingertips trace every beautiful feature, mapping every crease, every dimple. If this is our coda, if this is how it all comes to an end, I want to succumb remembering every delicious second of this kiss - every sensation, every caress, every breath, every poetic unspoken word. I want my finale to be us.

Our kiss ends breathlessly, foreheads touching: both unwilling to part. Remy’s lips hover over mine like we’re magnetised. Green eyes search my own as I gaze upon the face I love through dark lashes, trembling. I cover his heart with my palm - I never want to let him go. Seconds tick past that feel like minutes until he finally breaks away and I gulp for air. Bereft, my body aches for him.

Remy’s rifling through the storage benches again, items shoved from side to side, thrown and discarded until he shouts triumphantly, flare gun in hand! Slick hands fumble to load the cartridge, then he steps away from me, pointing the gun above his head, firing high. We watch as a plume of intense fire illuminates the sky above us, a beautiful SOS, hanging in the air before slowing making its descent to the sea.

The stricken vessel below us strains and groans as Remy grips my hand in his, “We aren’t going out like this, cherie.” He says it with such conviction and determination that my heart stutters. My eyes widen as he brandishes a life buoy at me. “There’s only one.”

Why am I not even surprised that a jerk like Parker went for 24-Carat light fittings but scrimped on the most basic of safety features and maintenance? I shake my head at Remy, fear threatens to take over, “We’re not jumping?!”

Remy exclaims, “We have to! We can’t stay on ‘til it sinks, it’s too dangerous! We need to get as far away as we can. We jump together and I promise you - I won’t let go of your hand. Ever.”

A cacophony of glass cracks and metal tears. Engineering crumbles against a backdrop of smoky neon as we huddle together at the edge of semi-capsized yacht. The rain continues to drive against us, and I understand why we have to jump, but I hate that it’s the only option. My hand fits inside Remy’s and he squeezes it tightly, my pulse racing as we count down together from three, two, one...

As we hit the cool water I cry out, pain seers through my busted arm and makes the world seem dull and frayed around the edges. Everything under water is eerily dark and silence rings in my ears as I plunge beneath the surface. In those seconds it feels strangely peaceful. Serene. My mind, so busy moments before, is a blank. An instant sedation - each nerve numb: novocaine static. It’s not until I feel Remy jerk at my hand, still firmly clasped in his, that my brain reconnects. I kick my feet and follow Remy upwards, breaking the waves, choking and gasping for air.

Remy manoeuvres the life buoy between us, urging me to take hold, his hand cupping my cheek, pushing back my sodden hair, eyes raking over me, “Are you ok??”

I cough and splutter as I nod my head at him: I’m fine. Remy doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue with me either. He takes charge of getting us away from the yacht and I follow him blindly, feeling dazed, clinging to the buoy. Minutes later, the yacht goes under and the rapid movement of air and water sends pieces of debris swirling perilously to the surface. A watery scrapyard bobs around us.

I feel sick and dizzy and I’m so cold that my teeth chatter. Did anyone see the flare? Is help coming?

Remy repositions himself and wraps both arms around me as we float aimlessly together. I don’t know how long passes, but every so often he says my name and jolts me to keep me awake, and honestly, I’m trying, but it’s so hard to keep my eyes open. I tell him I’m trying, but I feel so weak. Remy says I’m in shock and I mumble, “That kiss was the best shock I ever had.”

I feel the rumble of his laugh roll through me, and then his lips meet mine again. Soft this time. Slow. Tender. His affection washing over me. I feebly smile and sigh into his kiss, his comforting warmth surrounds me. His touch is like a beacon in the bleak dark water, keeping me focussed, keeping me hanging on. The situation is desperate, but at least I’m with Remy.

As time swirls past us, I drift in and out of consciousness, pulled back a final time by Remy shaking me, “Listen!! Do you hear it??”

I startle and try my best to concentrate... Then I hear it, a horn blasting. Someone’s coming! They must have seen our distress signal. Remy’s swimming as fast as he can for both of us, moving our heavy, tired bodies in the direction of the sound until we finally see it. Remy yells until he’s hoarse, waving, whistling - anything to attract their attention. As the vessel approaches, I hear rough, deep voices yelling in Spanish but my head’s too fuzzy and it’s fast for me to understand. Remy is shouting back at them to take me on board first, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being lifted - strong hands grip under my arms as I cry out for Remy. They pay me no heed: saviours in oilskins wrap me in a foil blanket, checking me over, patting my cheek and trying to get me to focus. I struggle to evade them, “Where is Remy?? You have to help him!!”

They won’t let me stand up, won’t let me move! Agitated tears blur my vision - they need to get Remy out of the water. And then I hear his voice and relief consumes me. The fishermen part to let him reach me, he’s dripping all over their deck and he looks so pale, but he’s here and we’re together. He throws his arms around me, clutching me close, face buried in my neck. We cling together, exchanging sweet words, counting our blessings and relishing the feeling of each other. A tall, thin, official-looking man wraps a second blanket around Remy’s shoulders, talking into his ear. Remy nods to him and then suddenly we’re moving below deck, to somewhere warm and dry. My good arm is around Remy’s neck, the other gentleman walks slowly by my other side, hand hovering to support me as my legs wobble. They give me a towel for my hair and large hooded sweatshirt to change into - Remy helps me and the feeling of the clean, dry fabric against my skin makes me want to weep. I sit on a makeshift bed, exhausted and sore, my head buzzing. Remy hasn’t changed into the fresh clothes they’ve left for him yet, he shivers but refuses to let go of my hand - as though he believes I might evaporate if he does.

The sailors tell us the coastguard is on their way and it won’t be long til we’re back on dry land. I can’t wait for my feet to be firmly on the ground. Remy asks the sailors for something to drink, but they refuse telling us not until we’ve seen a doctor. But Remy insists and eventually they relent, giving us both a large brandy. I swallow it down, grimacing at the taste and the burning sensation in my throat. I lie on my side, cheek pressed against a soft cushion, still shivering. I cradle my swollen arm to my chest, rising and falling as I struggle to come to terms with everything that’s happened today. Remy’s finally in dry clothes, and has crawled into the space by my side on the bunk. It’s going to take a while to process all of this, but it feels so nice to lie here with Remy gazing into my eyes, bodies close, to see him smile at me. I feel drained, but calmer now I’m near to him. I reach out and trace his features, just as I did when we kissed on the yacht a short time before; his stubbled jaw, the curve of his cheek, the little dimple that appears when he grins at me. He catches my fingers in his, and presses gentle kisses to my knuckles, to my palm, his other hand smoothing out my damp hair, “I promised you I wouldn’t let you go. We’re safe now. Your Remy’s here, it’ll all be fine mon coeur. ”

—- 24 hours later —-

Leon pats my knee affectionately as I slide into the passenger seat, “Ready to go home?”

I nod and thank him, as Remy reaches over the headrest, squeezing Leon’s shoulder, “Merci, Leon. Thanks for coming back to drive us.”

Leon meets Remy’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, brows tight, looking perplexed, “It’s no problem. I still can’t believe Parker just... Left.”

Remy shrugs, “I can. Proves he was exactly the type of person we steal from.”

I sigh and scrub my hand across my face, “Except we didn’t steal anything from him, Remy. Everything’s gone. The film, lots of really amazing sculptures and artwork - all at the bottom of the sea...”

Remy shrugs, “But you and I aren’t at the bottom of the sea, and that’s what’s really important mon couer.”

And I know he’s right, but it just seems like such a terrible waste, that’s all. I suppose it might be better that no one has all of those treasures, than Parker hoarding them all and appreciating none of them. It was all just ‘stuff’ to him, for bragging rights, nothing more. Someone so shallow didn’t deserve any of-

Leon makes me jump, chuckling while reaching across me to clip my seatbelt in, exclaiming, “What’s this?!”

I glance down and see black Sharpie ink on my plaster cast. I lift my reset arm, and tilt my head to see it properly, there are two doodled little stick-people, one with my initials, one with ‘RC’, surrounded by sweet little hearts and the words ‘je t’aime, toujours ’ scrolled below. I feel my heart leap as I take it in. My cheeks start to colour as I stammer, “I don’t know- I- When-?”

Leon’s sporting a knowing smirk at Remy’s reflection, “To commemorate your fake marriage? Because there’s no need for you two to pretend anymore, right?”

I twist round in my seat to look at Remy who simply leans forward and cups my face in his palms. His eyes gaze into mine, face open and honest - no mask in sight. He meets my lips with a warm kiss as he confirms, “I’m done with pretending.”

#long fic #queen of thieves #remy chevalier #lovestruck #tw: drowning #tw: broken bones

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blacksdale · 3 years

Text

useless apologies

a crappy zoyalai fic for @chenhideos

sh: zoyalai idk what this is im sorry want one?

Nikolai found Zoya in the palace gardens after their meeting. She sat staring at the distance, a melancholy look in her sapphire eyes. The light from the setting sun cast a faint glow over her, outlining her features as if she were in a painting, her eyes closed with her lashes fanned out against her cheeks, dark hair lifted slightly by the wind. Her kefta was pulled tight around her to fight against the chill in the air, making her seem almost small as if she was folding in on herself. His unbreakable commander somehow seemed fragile, like something had managed to slip through the cracks in the walls she had built up.

Nikolai hated more than anything that he had been the one to cause it.

He took his place beside her on the bench, focusing on the sunset in the distance, trying to keep his heart from pounding faster than it already was. He looked a little higher to see semi-realistic clouds bathed in the light pink and gold of the early evening sky. If Zoya never talked to him again, at least he would get to enjoy this view with her.

“I hope you know,” he began softly, “I really am sorry.”

A huff came from beside him, and he could hear Zoya shift to cross her arms. “Well, you should be.”

Saints, what had he done?

Nikolai had spent so much time trying to earn her trust, trying to get her to hear it, get her to like him. She had come to work with him when she was only 18, having to run a crumbling country when she should still be in school. Despite how she would not have conversations with him outside of official government settings, he had tried his very best to know her, to learn what she liked, what she hated. He had brought her a different tea every day for a month, just so that he could know what made her happy, and when she told him it was chai he found someone to teach him how to properly make it so that she could have it every day. He found out what desserts she liked at parties, which music she liked to listen to while she worked. He had told her about his childhood, his time in the army, about Dominik and how his death destroyed him. He had told her about the time he spent on the Volkvolny, how trapped he had felt when the Darkling had cursed him. He told her about his troubles and anxieties he had about ruling so that she would know the facade he put him wasn’t actually him, hoping that maybe she would see him as a person and someone she could talk with, to know him in a way that was genuine and true. It had taken him a year to earn enough trust from her to the point where she finally told him about where she grew up, her mother’s antics, how Liliyana took her in, how she had run back after the battle with the Darkling to find a scribbled name on a wall to be the only thing left of her aunt. And he had thrown that trust away with a single ignorant question.

“I shouldn’t have been so quick to anger,” he told her, “as you were only asking a simple question. I was just confused since you were the one who pushed me to marry in the first place.” He paused. “I suppose it’s going to be a change for all of us, this marriage. We will be working more with Ehri now.” He smiled sadly at Zoya, whose black hair was obscuring her face as she continued to avoid him. “We have gotten used to our routine. Just you, me, Genya, and David. Our little cohort.”

“That’s not why I’m mad.”

Nikolai turned to see that she was facing him, blue eyes puffy and cheeks flushed. He felt a tug in his chest, and all of his emotions suddenly sank because he had done this. He had somehow managed to crush her, and he didn’t know how. Which meant he couldn’t fix it.

He had told her, “You were the one who said to marry. So why are you so mad that I did?”

All he wanted to do was fix it. The need for her to like him from when they first met suddenly returned, causing his thoughts to race and his pulse to quicken. He needed her to forgive him. She had to. He didn’t even care if she really did; he just wanted to hear it from her so that he could trick himself to think some part of her no longer hated him.

“So,” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, “why are you mad, then?”

Zoya crossed her arms, folding in on herself again, focusing on the horizon again. “You can’t be that oblivious,” she said, her voice flat.

“Zoya, please.” Maybe she would listen if he actually said her name. He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away from him before he could reach her. “Oblivious to what?”

A sigh came from beside him, and he turned to see a tear run down her cheek. “It would only complicate things if I told you,” she said, her voice breaking at the last word.

A sense of panic suddenly came over him. He reached for her hand again, though he had nothing he could say that he knew would make things better. “There must be something I can do to make this up to you.”

She shook her head, standing up from the bench and wiping her eyes. She looked at him again, the sorrow in her eyes becoming almost too much for him. She didn’t look angry anymore, just sad. “No,” she told him, “it’s not your fault.” She began to walk back toward the palace. “I’ll see you tomorrow, your Highness.”

Staring at the sunset, Nikolai pondered his general until dark. Sometimes he forgot he still had so much to learn about her. He felt so ignorant for never realising something so obvious. Maybe behind all of her anger and walls, she still wished for someone to know her too.

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looking-for-wisdom · 5 years

Text

It had begun with the standard political dinner, as if Zoya hadn’t already had enough reason to hate them. Such was the trouble of being an important person— there was no hope in slipping away undetected. Nikolai had insisted she’d come despite the fact he was bargaining for sponsorship. Zoya had never found finance particularly interesting, especially when it was a matter of wooing the rich. She’d had quite enough of wealthy men for one lifetime.

Unfortunately, she didn’t trust anyone else with the job of Nikolai’s partner. So she’d gone, and faked a smile and laughed at mediocre jokes and whispered silly secrets to Nikolai.

Men were horribly stupid that way. They blinded themselves with their assumptions of her and she never failed to be amused at their shock when they found out the King’s giggling arm candy had been speaking their demise into his ear the whole time.

It’d been going so well. The Count had done everything but vocally promise his support. It would have only taken a few more moments, but for perhaps the first time ever, Nikolai had decided to put his feelings before the state’s affairs. Zoya had always called him a fool but she’d never once believed it until then.

“If I were so inclined to agree to your terms,” the old man said, a mirth in his voice that suggested Nikolai had already convinced him, “perhaps you’d be grateful enough to allow me a night with your general. I’ve heard only good things.”

He said the word “general” as if it were a title only put before her name to justify her spot as the king’s whore. That was the rumor, after all, and why would he believe she was a threat when he’d never seen her play that role. She could have gutted a man in front of him and he still might have made excuses for her. How could a woman so beautiful have room left for cruelty, men like him would wonder, as if cruelty and beauty hadn’t always gone hand in hand.

She’d inhaled sharply, barely keeping her rage in check, but bit her tongue. The insult to her intelligence was more infuriating than his poorly hidden lust. She was used to the latter. The former was almost as common, but she allowed less people to get away with it.

Juris had taught her the importance of biding her time, though, so she smiled stupidly all the while thinking of how she’d destroy him when he’d least expect it.

She’d been about to answer with a regretful excuse when Nikolai had jumped in, mistaking the way her body tensed for fear rather than anger.

“She is not a gift of mine to give or, for that matter, a prize of yours to take,” he’d answer with coldness in his voice that sucked any trace of humor from the room. When no one spoke he opened his mouth again as if to further scold the Count, but Zoya didn’t give him the chance.

She placed her hand on his knee. To an onlooker it might have looked like an act of comfort, sweet, even. But Nikolai knew how tightly she was gripping him. They’d worked together far too long for him to miss recognize her threat.

She hummed gingerly and broke the silence. “Now, now,” she cooed, relying on the one rumor that could save them, though it was a more dangerous one now that Nikolai’s fiancé was in the picture, “there’s no reason to be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go around.”

She winked at the Count from across the room, becoming more irritated by the second that she was the one forced to clean up this mess. The King could afford the gossip of being territorial of his lovers— his father had survived such rumors. He would not, however, endure being painted as the enemy of all disgusting men. They were a needed enemy for the time being— they held 70% of Ravka’s wealth.

Zoya felt him strain even further beneath her hand, but he got the message. She didn’t want his help.

The Count still seemed on edge, but he at least seemed to understand the explanation. Encroaching on another man’s property was frowned upon. Doing so to a king was just foolish.

“Unfortunately,” Zoya continued when she was sure the situation had been diffused as best as possible, “I fear I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Perhaps we can finish this discussion in the morning when our minds our fresh?”

The Count nodded though there was still a hint of strain in his face. Nikolai offered him a half-hearted thanks, though Zoya didn’t count doing the bare minimum as coming to his senses. She wanted him out of there as quickly as possible, before he could completely ruin their chances.

“Nikolai, would you be a dear and walk me to my room?” She asked, her voice honey sweet but her eyes assuring it wasn’t a request.

They weren’t two steps from the dining room when Zoya’s facade dropped, but she waited until they were behind closed doors to truly let lose.

The guest room she’d been allowed to stay in was large, albeit tacky, but with sun gone from the sky the room’s only source of light was the fireplace in front of the bed. It was there that she finally stopped and turned to meet Nikolai’s eyes. His expression was unreadable and sent a fresh wave of anger through her.

“What was that?” She snapped, finally, like a predator pouncing on its prey.

Any evidence of that impulsive, stubborn anger was gone from his face. It was almost enough to make Zoya think it’d never existed in the first place. Outbursts like that were rare from Nikolai— no, unheard of. Not once had she ever seen him lose his temper so suddenly. Not once, at least, before that dinner.

When he spoke, he did so with nonchalance, as if there had been nothing strange about it. The act made Zoya want to steal the breath from his lungs just to stop his words.

“You are a member of the Grisha Triumvirate, appointed by the King of Ravka. The Count knows you rank above him. Such behavior is completely unprofessional and a disrespect to the crown itself. To be completely honest I’m surprised you hadn’t torn him limb from limb before I had the chance— we both know your perfectly capable of it,” he answered with a half smile as if he expected her to return his banter.

Zoya was in no such mood.

She should have expected he’d know exactly what to say. Nikolai always did, and yet she was still taken aback by his approach. Leave it to him to appeal to her logic and pride of her position. When he said it like that, it almost made sense. But she had been in the room with him, and the distain in his voice had not been that of a cleverly worded warning. It’d been the distain of a man playing the part of the noble hero. He had come to her defense not because they both knew damn well she had more than earned the Count’s respect. He’d done it because she was Zoya— a human being who deserved to be treated like a person, not an object.

Zoya knew it with every cell in her body, because if he’d really been driven by the former she would not be feeling a long buried hope rising in her again. There would not be a part of her who was grateful to him, despite the stupidity of his actions, because she was convinced that no other man would have even thought to call the Count out that way.

She forced that feeling deep inside herself and directed her focus on more practical things. His kindness meant nothing when Ravka couldn’t afford a king who picked reckless battles.

“We don’t need some crusty old man’s respect, Nikolai,” she retorted, once again shocked that he of all people needed this reminder. “We need his money. Have you forgotten our country is broke or are you simply that stupid? If wasn’t going to have to sleep with him before, I certainly do after the stunt you’ve just pulled. But, of course, you’re right. Enjoy your petty fights, Ravka be damned.”

Nikolai paled and Zoya thought idly that her last comment might have been a tad unfair before he answered.

“No.”

“No, what?” She demand.

“No, you don’t have to sleep with anyone,” Nikolai answered, face fierce, leaving no room for dispute, “that is not your job. No one would ask that of you.”

She stared back at him, incredulous. This was not the usual assumption she could be softened and taught feelings. This was the assumption that she already had them— that she need not change in order to avoid being asked to sell herself. Zoya wasn’t sure which was the bigger insult.

“No one is asking anything of me,” she said sharply, “I am willing to do whatever it takes to save my country. In fact, the point of this conversation is to remind you that you have always done the same.”

There was a pause as she watched him straighten and shift, mouth set in a thin line. She knew this persona well, but she couldn’t remember the last time it had been used on her. This was Nikolai the King, not Nikolai the colleague.

“You will give that man nothing,” he stated, “that is a direct order from your king.”

Zoya’s eyes narrowed. She spoke slowly so he would understand what she was saying.

“Nikolai, I chose to follow you all those years because I thought you would be good for Ravka, but do not mistake me. I am not some pawn to control as you please. I have acted on your former requests because I have found no reason not to trust you. I suggest you do not make me reconsider that decision.

The room was silent for a long moment and Zoya found herself feeling sick. This was not the Nikolai she had come to know. This was not the boy she had saved from the thorn wood and fought along side in the war. The incident at dinner was perplexing, but at the end of the night she could have reduced it to a simple fluke. This was different. This was like seeing the old king out of the face of a boy she’d grown to depend on. This felt desperately close to losing him.

But then his face softened and Nikolai was himself again. Zoya felt herself let out a breath, though she hadn’t realized she’d ever started holding it.

“That is the Zoya I know,” he said finally, “I don’t understand where she went tonight.”

Zoya searched for words as a new anger rose in her chest. The hypocrisy of it was almost laughable. Just a moment before he’d had her thinking she had lost him to his own power. The grief of the prospect was still fresh. And now he asked how she could possibly act the part of something she was not?

Before the thorn wood perhaps she might have reacted the way he expected, before the civil war there was no doubt about it. But since she and Juris had become one she found that vengeance could wait. Patience was no difficult thing when she could feel lifetimes coursing through her. She almost thought it rude that he saw her as such a liability.

“I would burn down cities for this country. Enduring one evening of ignorance is nothing if it means we will be able to pay for the upcoming war. You know that as well as I.“

This time, Nikolai didn’t argue. Zoya relaxed with the knowledge that Nikolai’s oddness at dinner had been just that: an oddity. She still didn’t understand what cord had been struck to trigger such an uncharacteristic reaction, but she took comfort in the reassurance that it would not happen again. Besides, it was an equal trade, she supposed. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind her actions either.

“You know, I have dealt with the Count’s brand of stupidity for 13 years and have yet to stumble upon a new insult to rile me. You, on the other hand, have quite the knack of finding new ways to spark my frustration whenever I think I’m immune,” she teased allowing the conversation to fall back on more familiar banter.

“You give them too little credit,” Nikolai retorted, following her lead, “Surely you weren’t nine when it started— maybe when you really hit year thirteen they’ll find some clever way to spite you.”

Zoya quirked an eyebrow at that. He thought she was exaggerating the disgusting tendencies of men?

“If anything it’s been longer. Nine was simply the first time they put me in a wedding dress,” she said, feeling as if she’d won this round.

His next words kept her from feeling too smug, though. “That’s not legal.”

Only three words and yet they conveyed a whole world of naivety— a trait she’d never associated with him. Too late she remembered the incredulous look on his face as she’d suggested possible suitors. She’d thought it was a personal standard— she could understand refusing to wed a fifteen year old. Teenagers were beyond irritating. But the prospect that he truly thought it a universal belief that taking a child’s innocence was wrong? It was a moral she shared but knew most did not.

A sharp laugh was all she could manage. It might have been a bit cruel, but she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed by his horror or simply annoyed by his ignorance on the matter. “That’s not legal,” he’d said. Zoya wished that statement had been true for the nine year old her mother had tried to marry off.

“Your pampered upbringing is showing,” she commented, knowing how much effort he’d put into understanding the life of commoners but not caring as long as it wiped that pity filled look from his face.

Once again he said nothing and Zoya thought absently of all the times she’d wanted to put him at a loss for words. This was much less satisfying than she’d hoped. She knew she’d never mentioned it before— to be frank she hadn’t meant to let it slip out— but she’d never expected such a reaction.

“Quit looking at me like I’m an injured doe. Nothing came of it. I was discovered as grisha and brought to the little palace before I could go through with the wedding.”

“And if you hadn’t been grisha?” He asked eyes cold with an anger that wasn’t directed at her.

If she wasn’t grisha? Zoya didn’t want to think of that. Would she even be herself without her power? Would she be alive without it?

“What does that matter?” She snapped, not wanting to consider it any longer.

He stared at her for a moment, a silent conversation transcending between them. His gaze seemed to analyze her for any hint of pain left over from an incident over a decade before. Perhaps she would have had something to offer if he’d been there thirteen years ago. If Nikolai had been there... it was an interesting thought. If they’d known each other back then when she’d had Liliyana and unhampered ambition. If they’d known each other when she’d been cruel, a pawn in the darkling’s plan. Would things have been different? Would the grief in her be any easier to bear?

If she’d known his warmth during the worst of her life would she be able to give him up to Ehri in a few short months?

She was shaken from her wondering when Nikolai finally spoke. “Do you have any parchment here?” He questioned.

It took a moment to process the odd shift in subject, but Zoya gestured to her right. “In the desk.”

He nodded and settled at the poorly lit table. He didn’t speak for a long moment, focusing on whatever he was writing. Zoya watched him from her place by the fire, confused but not willing to start another conversation.

After what seemed like hours he stood and turned to face her, paper in hand. “We return to Os Alta tomorrow morning. Upon our arrival I begin the process of declaring this law.”

She took the page from his outstretched hand. It was a legal document— a bill amending the legal age of marriage thirteen.

It was obvious that he wasn’t completely content with it— if he’d had it his way he probably would have gone so far as sixteen or eighteen, but change was slow in Ravka. Zoya, however, did not share his disappointment. At thirteen she would have understood what the marriage entailed. She would have fought back. It was a step in the right direction.

She felt an aching gratefulness go through her body as she thought of the little girls who would be saved from her past. This time, Zoya was the one without words. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her impulsive temptations down with it.

Still, she could not chase away one realization: she had not known him all those years ago. She could not change that. But somehow having him with her now made the tragedy a bit easier to handle. He gave her suffering hope.

She wanted to do something, anything, to tell him that. But in the end she knew she had no such luxury. There had once been a time where they could spend entire nights spilling secrets. Nights where she could watch him in guarded wonder as his kindness prevailed despite Ravka’s often infectious despair.

Those nights had ended when he’d taken her advice and chosen a bride.

She handed the decree back to him, before replying. “It’s late. You should leave before people are given any more reason to believe you aren’t taking your engagement seriously.”

He pursed his lips and for a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only nodded.

“Good night, General Nazyalensky.”

Not trusting herself with an apathetic reply she stood on her toes and planted a small peck on his cheek. She hoped it might say what she could not.

After he’d left Zoya had laid in bed for hours, cursing him for being impossible to stay angry with.

#im actually kinda nervous #this is my first zoyalai piece since kos came out #it took 300 hours and half my soul so lets hope its good #king of scars #kos #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lanstov #zoyalai #nikolai x zoya

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