spare apparent

anton matvei lantsov crown prince of ravka philip ii sent sparta a letter threatening to raze the city if he captured it. the spartans sent back a single word; "if."

[insp0s]

“I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me ‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.”

— Richard Siken, Wishbone (via nonparaeil)

[antonlantsov]

annielantsov:

Anastasia’s heart fluttered at the sight of their eldest brother. Their Ivan, the noble of the family. In the back of their mind they knew it wasn’t real. The figure had a slight way about them– the movement and flutter of a ghost sent to visit. Yet, Annie still felt a slight smile fall of their lips. The same lips that cried in anguish not even a year ago when news of Ivan’s death spread throughout the land. 

Anastasia waited anxiously to hear her brother speak. They longed to hear him say that he’s back, that the death was a fault in judgement. They longed to hear him say that he missed everyone and that things would return back to normal. It didn’t register in their mind that it was Anton standing before them. They didn’t realize that Anton was speaking, that he was trying to pull them out of the trance they got themself into. No, all they did was smile and wait to hear that familiar voice.

That smile slowly faded when Ivan finally started to speak. It was like a whisper in their ear, a mantra they didn’t want to hear. Blood needs to be spilled. 

“No.” She whispered. Anastasia wasn’t like other royals. She didn’t believe that war and bloodshed were the answers. One shouldn’t have to rely on fear and violence to rule a country. Lower class citizens deserved to have a ruler that took as much interest in their health and safety as their own. 

Despite Anastasia’s refusal, the phrase kept repeating in her mind. Blood needs to be spilled. They whimpered as they clutched at the sides of their head as an attempt to block out the voice. “No, no, no.” They cried as their shaking body fell to the floor. 

Anton remembers feelings confused.

When Ivan was pronounced dead, he remembers very little except for feeling confused, except for feeling overwhelmed, except for feeling that he was completely and utterly apart from himself. When Ivan died, Anton was reborn in his image -- he forged himself into something stronger, into something altogether crueler, but also better. He had taken all of the best parts of himself and molded them in a future king’s image. Now, here, standing there with Annie staring at him with crimson-ringed eyes and a quivering voice, he knows he must lose the sharp edges that he had forged himself in, must find again the softness his brother had once shown his baby sister so thoroughly. 

Because when it comes to Anastasia, none of them had ever been selfish -- all of those Lantsov men bend with softness for them, fold themselves in half and let love for them unfurl in their chests like flames growing bigger. This was no different; it mattered not that she had fallen ill, that she so clearly was afflicted with the illness, for Anton had to go to her and catch her before she could fully hit the ground. This is safety in distance, but this was Anastasia. For them he might stop the world spinning on its axis.

Warmth. Burning flesh. That is what he feels now. 

Her skin is like fire on his own, as he wraps his arms around her momentarily to catch her before pulling back to put either of his hands on the sides of their face. They are heavier than he would have guessed they would be, but lighter too. (Truth be told, everything in his life now is heavy and everything is light -- nothing deserves to be heavy, everything needs to be light.)

“What can I do, Annie?” he says, not realizing that he is not who she thinks he is.

[antonlantsov]

ritajakov:

She turns, but he anchors himself to her, weighing her down despite him also being the storm, the reason for her strife upon the sea. And her name leaves his lips so easily, not as desperately as his leaves her—like a plea for mercy. But Anton is merciless, he always has been, whether or not he realizes it. Whether or not he even knows how cruel he can be. She doubts he does, doubts he even gives it a second thought to the way he holds her heart. The way he takes and takes and takes. She’s as much to blame as he is though, is she not? She offers herself up freely, bending to his every will and following his every command. 

Perhaps I deserve this, she thinks, another lump forming in her throats as she stares up at him. She desperately wants to flee, to run from the lake and head straight for her room. She’d bar the door if she could, never answer it again simply to avoid that pained look he has upon his face, that sad-eyed look he always gets whenever she says something stupid, something naive.

Its pity.

“Don’t give me that! Don’t say those stupid words.” He’s infuriating, spewing a motto he only seems to use when it’s convenient, when it suits him most. But how much do they matter when he’s between her legs? Is it not sweet little nothings he whispers instead? “Shouldn’t it be gentle? It shouldn’t hurt,” she turns away and for the first time, she takes a step away, unlocking her arms from his shoulders. The dock creeks beneath her feet and she takes a deep breath, meant to steady her, to calm her nerves, but it seems almost impossible without him holding her in his arms. “Loving you… is…” she trails off in search of the right words, in search of the words to convey exactly what she feels. But it’s impossible to describe, this feeling, this loneliness in the arms of the one you love, this pain in even the happiest of moments. And by now it’s impossible for her to hold back the tears, but she refuses to sob, to make a spectacle of him mangling her heart for the hundredth time.

“Loving you is the hardest thing I have ever done,” she gasps more audibly than she wants, reaching up to her cheeks with the back of her hand, wiping away the tears as they fall. However dramatic her choice of words are, they’re true. Each moment with him is bittersweet for she never truly knows if it’s the last. She’s lost him once, watched him from afar, only to dream of being in his arms once again, but now that she’s here, now that she’s tasted his lips once more, felt the warmth of his touch, she wants nothing more than to cave. To give him her heart for the second time. She turns back, tightening her kefta around her shoulders, “I’m not sure I can do it any longer.”

And she lingers there for a moment, memorizing his face in the moonlight, as if it could once again be the last time. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” she whispers, turning her cheek in an effort to hide the look upon her face, “I’m quite tired.” Her voice is low, cordial, crueler than she thought possible, but it seems Rita Jakov is full of surprises tonight. She curtsies, bowing her head before turning and walking back the way they came.

EXEUNT.

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧  I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧ for annie

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧  I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you (on the forehead). ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧  I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you (just because she protects Annie). ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me (more like she wigs him out). ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you (while sparring, not intentionally). ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you (hard maybe). ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧ for both

for gemma:

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

for viktor:

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. (ish, definitely ish) ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically). 

[antonlantsov]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧ I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[antonlantsov]

infinitegreed:

Mutual dilemma, he says and Aleksander scoffs, shaking his head and taking a step forward. He walks past the boy and begins to pace as he talks, half listening, half wishing him dead. Such ignorance, such arrogance from a mere child who knows nothing of suffering, of pain, of loss. Born with a pristine silver spoon in his mouth and he’s only ever tasted as such; his tongue only gracing the most holy of places, the most decadent of foods, the most sweet of ambrosia. And it’s a joke, his stern face, his concerned voice. Acting as if he gives a damn each time one of his people fall, each time of his kills them, burns them, cuts them open.

“Agreed, if they were even in the same league,” he smirks, pausing and turning to look at the bastard before him, “if they were lead by a true king.” Perhaps then, yes, Aleksander would agree and even condone working together. But these words come from that of a boy who does not belong, a boy who has done more drinking than training, more fucking than fighting.

He’s a disgrace. To his family, to his nation, to his name.

Taking a step forward, he turns about and approaches the large table before him, a map sprawled out. It takes up nearly every inch of the table and he gazes upon this world, sighing slowly before he speaks again. “The Shu Han have always been a problem, but thank you for taking notice when and only when they lay their savagery at your feet.”

He leans forward and rests his fists against the table, frustration rising at an alarming rate, and there’s no stopping him now. One man can only handle so much disrespect in his lifetime, and Aleksander is surely filled to the brim of his barrel. “How generous of you to offer up your band of misfits led by an incorrigible general.” He stops and spins slowly, now leaning against the edge of the table with his arms crossed over his chest, “and to think,” his voice is low and steady, sarcasm dripping through his teeth as thick as molasses, “I thought you’d have nothing to offer me.”  

Anton lifts his eyebrows slightly, unfazed and unamused by the antics of men. (Truth be told, once you were witness to the antics of his younger brother’s own outbursts, little else could faze you -- and Anton had endured more than his fair share of jabs from the younger prince.)

A part of the boy-king wonders if the man (Was he to be called a man? Or was he something altogether other?) standing before him even understood anymore what it was to be human, or if the rancorous taste of darkness had so thoroughly claimed his soul and left him bereft of any humanity. Oddly enough, it was vaguely comforting to see in the Darkling someone so completely demon, to see him scoff and shake his head and resort to such petty insults as insinuating him a bastard. O, woe is me, he thinks sarcastically,  the thoughts in his head accompanied by an internal eye roll. O, the pity is mine, a cross for me to grin and bear. Well, bear it he would. Oddly enough, he finds it entertaining, to see the Darkling (the all-powerful, the great, the terrible) be childish. The novelty of other men’s weaknesses never seemed to fade, and the Darkling’s would certainly continue to amuse Anton: the Darkling underestimated him, and the could be a very, very dangerous situation for the god of darkness to be in. 

In that moment he feels pity for the Darkling. He had no idea what Anton could do to him. 

What a naive little god Anton is. 

“Your insults are terribly dull, moi soverenyi,” he says, his tone flat and bored, disinterested in wasting time jabbing the other with words when their time could be better spent arguing strategy. He continues without a second thought to the words that dared to pass the other’s lips -- “You’re forgiven for wasting my time with them.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, his eyes bearing the oh-so-familiar characteristic of a challenge, of overdone confidence. It would be almost comical if it wasn’t so genuine, but Anton had never favored over-confidence, always believing his actions to be justified to the highest degree. “Now, may we continue?” He moves from the place he once stood still and staring, moving his hands from the place clasped behind his back so that he might rest them against the edge of the table as he begins examining the pieces standing there, choosing to give pause before he continues with the strategy he developed.  

[antonlantsov]

annielantsov:

ALL AROUND ME ARE FAMILIAR FACES

date: january 15th time: 3:15 pm location: north wing hallway availability: closed for @antonlantsov

They felt trapped. They longed for the taste of freedom that came with wandering through the city. The rush of euphoria that came with handing a little child a piece of bread or giving a mother to be a new blanket to sleep on was becoming lost to the princess. It was one thing to look out a window at the city that lay behind tall metal bars, but it was an entirely differently thing to actually slip through those gates and explore around.

Anastasia knew being banned to the palace was ultimately a good thing. The thought of someone catching the plague because of her hurt her heart. She knew most of Os Alta probably had gotten the plague from the snip its heard from passing conversations, but they held hope that the death rate wouldn’t become too high. 

Even though Inessa had advised that Anastasia lie down and rest, the insomnia and fever from the first stage of the illness prevented her from doing so. Instead, Anastasia used the time to get some of that energy out and wander around the halls. 

She traced her finger on the wall of the north wing hallway, vision blurring in and out at times, but they shoved it aside and kept on their adventure. Glancing upwards when footsteps could be heard, a confused look fell on their face at the sight of a familiar being.

“Ivan?”

The plague had hit home, and home was burning. 

Anton had been locked away in his quarters for the better part of the day now, every single one of his advisors telling him to stay in his bedroom to avoid anybody who might have contracted the plague, but there comes a time where walls once merely familiar began to feel like bars of a cell, like a cage to hold him hostage instead of protect him. Nearly a week in and he’s barely left the North Wing, summoning others to his doors to hold conference instead of venturing beyond the walls. If only he had known the sickness was already in his home, already in the one place they had thought to be a safe haven. 

Quietly, he slips outside of his door, and he hears the footsteps before he can see who they belong to, but he would known that delicate flutter of a voice anywhere, would know it shouted across fields of war and weaponry, would know it whispering in shadowy corners. Anastasia. 

Oh no, is his first thought when he hears that word, that name pass Annie lips. Oh no, oh no, oh no. This cannot happen. She speaks the name like a question, like an omen, and it’s far from lost on Anton’s perceptive ears. Stepping further into the sunshine and out of the shadow of his doorway (the doorway to a bedroom once belonging to his elder brother, to the man his sweet Annie now seemed to see), her words feels like an anchor in his chest. “No, moya sestra. It’s me. It’s me. It’s Anton, don’t you see?” He knows that he shouldn’t go near her, knows that the soft lilt of her voice was also discolored by fever, by the gasping breath that could only belong to someone ill. I’m probably already sick, he thinks and steps towards them. 

“Don’t you see me?” His eyes are transfixed on them, and he does his best to smooth the worry creasing his forehead. Anton does his best to summon a smile, but doesn’t quite succeed.

He’s foolish to think he has any control over the situation. 

[tomshardy]

[antonlantsov]

gemmapavlova:

Looking at him now, she can’t quite make sense of man’s enduring preoccupation with the element of surprise, as if it lends any sort of ferocity to the act or threat itself. She’s learned, over the course of many years spent in villages and countries far less sheltered than Os Alta, that the deadliest things often arrive not without warning: wildfires, lightning strikes, plagues—and yes, even a crown prince’s terrible wit, razor-sharp and strangely humbling. She knows even before the last of her words have leapt from the tip of her tongue that she’s made a misstep, given him ammunition by virtue of the topic he’s entreated her to discuss, and she steels herself for it, blue eyes gleaming proud and painted lips restrained in a show of neutrality; she waits for him as she does any other thing that will be the end of her, because it’s what a man like him not only demands, but deserves.

Perhaps it’s done her good, being dragged out of the home she grew up in—newly orphaned and picking apart the remains of a nest raided by illness—and thrust into the light, into Ravkan politics, into a world she’d always known existed but had been more than content, as any girl of her station would have been, to let it well enough alone, paying it homage in the form of a question or an imaginative thought and little else. Perhaps it’s humbled her in a way she hadn’t thought necessary (and isn’t that the bane of humility, really?) or possible, to be tossed into a plush lion’s den and left, save for the few mentors she’d been gifted, to learn how to roar. She’d thought she’d known all she needed to know about the world as a girl, the daughter of a merchant who had seen it all and decided his own homeland was far more suitable, but she’d been proven wrong in a way that stung, that smarted like a slap to the face. She is well-read and well enough mannered and not terribly naive, but no amount of worship nor tailor’s powder could conceal the truth: Gemma Pavlova is as woefully unprepared for Os Alta as it is her, and it unsettles her like nothing she’s ever known.

But so, too, does he, despite being more or less removed from the realization that she’s alone in a place filled with people and their ways she knows little to nothing about; he gets under her skin, the Crown Prince, makes her reach somewhere far within herself for memories long-forgotten and nerve long-dormant, and makes her itch for more all the same. And she supposes, in another life, if he wasn’t the Crown Prince of any nation and she wasn’t the Sankta his people wanted her to be, that there could have been thousands of different outcomes to their first meeting; she could’ve written him off as a fool, a menace, a royal pain in the ass, they could’ve become friends in spite of it, or perhaps they might have even chosen to never speak again at all. A thousand things that might’ve been, each of which she might wonder about one day, when Anton Lantsov is but a memory and the mark he’s left on her, however big or small, has set in like a scar.

But now, in this moment, only one of these things happens: he steps closer, and she doesn’t step away.  

(When they write their history books, they’ll neglect moments like this, but one must always remember that history evolves quite differently from the creatures who take part in it; it needs not a thousand years, not always—at times, the span of a mere breath will suffice.)

“Anton,” she croons, taking up his love of suspense and drama like a cross even as her cheeks warm at his words, even as she’d like to curse him for drawing some form of sympathy out of her for the sole reason of making a fool out of her, even as she wonders if he means it, and if she wants him to (and it’s complicated, the notion, and if that’s all she knows for certain, it’s more than enough). “There’s nothing humble about you.” And then she closes up like a book that’s grown rather tired of having its contents laid bare, lips turned up kindly in a genuine smile. “Come now, what ever happened to being honest with each other?” Playful though it may be, the question rings true.

There’s nothing humble about you. The words sting far more than they should. 

This, of course, is the problem with speaking so candidly, with speaking as though the world lays ready and willing at his feet, as though he knows everything and everything is made for him. Sooner or later, people see you for who you are, and they call you on all of the grave errors you’ve made. He should know better, but he doesn’t know Gemma better, doesn’t know the keenness of her intuition, and though he is learning and learning fast about the unbearable wit she has to match his own -- he didn’t learn fast enough, and she’d found him out. He know the tone of her voice, recognizes the golden croon as the same kind he’d treated her with only moments before. It feels different when it gets thrown back in his face. When she’d first spoken his name, he’d had the feeling of walking on air, the same kind of feeling he got when he stood on the deck of a ship and stared out over the ocean. A kind of limitlessness. A very particular brand of confident. 

Then it shattered, and he was stuck in some torturous moment where suddenly he felt examined, where suddenly he felt lost. A ship adrift at sea with no wind and no stars, foolish and blank. 

Before he can blink he feels like a shell, hollow and empty, suddenly painfully aware of the show he was putting on. He suddenly feels as though he’s made collateral damage of himself, the fracture within his own body thrumming as he thinks about all of the many faces he has trained himself in. Which one is real? Does he even know anymore? A bloodied soldier, ready to fight -- a gory kind of glory waiting for him at the end of the line. There’s a feeling of being on the edge that suddenly fills his chest, the feeling of standing on a precipice, of being caught on the borderline between king and boy. It creeps up on him like some kind of unwelcome disease, spreading across his chest even as he smiles, even as he continues to keep his shoulders straight and his mouth firm -- doubt. Is this the truth? He wonders, and it’s not a warm and fuzzy path for him to stray down. The thoughts are bitter and caustic, burning in his throat before he has a chance to fully grasp them and take control; they run away from him, searing their way through his bloodstream, twisting and turning his insides until he feels weak with the emotion. Vulnerability had a way of doing that, striking you when you least expect it, and her words had strengthened that cord of unrest before he could even blink. 

He laughs, and it’s full -- there is nothing soft or consolatory about her words and he returns the tone with vigor. His heart aches with the falsity of it, struggling to break out and declare itself, not that it would know what to say if it got free. It nearly makes his hands shake, nearly makes his smile falter, and he wants nothing more than to let it. Anton had always been selfish by nature, and he had never felt that more so than he did the moment she declared him unhumble. He doesn’t think it’s true, doesn’t want it to be true, but could he be wrong? How much of his life had been an act? How many of his actions before becoming heir apparent had been for the benefit of his people as opposed to the benefit of himself? Yes, he had served in the infantry alongside his people, but did he do so because he thought it the right thing to do, or because he liked the idea of being that guy, the good one, the one who earned his place? He likes to think he knows the answer, but the truth is he doesn’t know what’s an been an act and what has been genuine. 

“Now that’s not fair,” he says. His eyes are playful, but he can feel the lump where his heart was meant to be slowly beginning to frost over, and a kind of helpless inability to speak threatens to take hold (To be fair, this has happened to him before. More times than he can count, and his voice had always, always won out over his fear). “But I don’t suppose we have time to argue the point. I fear the people must be beginning to notice our absence, and as I said, they do love to talk.” 

He pauses for only half a heart beat, collects himself again, then continues. 

“I must be getting back, but I’d like to know -- might I show you something I’ve been working on? Perhaps tomorrow, or one of the following mornings?” He doesn’t miss a beat this time, giving no time for his heart to skip at the thought of his words before they came tumbling out. If he was going to be recognized for the sincerely unhumble fellow he was, then he ought to go all out. “Careful of your answer; a prince with a broken heart tends to be quite useless.” 

[antonlantsov]

ritajakov: 

Her eyes drift back to his, a silent plea, a muted prayer. And in the blink of an eye, the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, he kisses her. Just as she had asked—had begged—him to. And his lips, oh, his lips are just as sweet as she remembers, but his kiss and this hunger behind it are more dangerous than ever before. The way his hands fall to her waist and tug her forward, the way he pulls her hips against his own, it’s urgent, desperate, and for the first time she wonders if he knows that is exactly how she feels for him. An urgency, a desperation to clutch his bare heart within her palms, not to squeeze but to protect, to take care of, to nurture with that of kindness and love.

While his kiss says I need you, hers says let me love you. And there’s no doubt in her mind that he can feel it, that he knows each time he graces her lips with his she is making a vow to love, to cherish, meanwhile he’s breaking his. His duty is of an entirely different kind and of a vastly different caliber, and though he thinks she does not understand, she does. She always has. Rita Jakov has known from the first time he looked at her as more than just a girl, more than just a tailor. His heart can never be hears, so why does she keep asking for it? Only to be hurt time and time again. The definition of insanity, she knows it well. And to say Anton, the future King of Ravka, drives her absolutely mad is an incredible understatement.

She leans into his embrace, resting every inch of herself against him as one hand clasps at the base of his neck, the other pressed against his heaving chest, and her fingertips ache to slip inside his shirt, to feel his skin against hers, to feel the warmth against the pads of her fingers. But he’s holding her so tight, there’s no room to move, no room to breathe, and the moment she’s ready to resign herself completely, to let the ritual of his boots traipsing all over her heart begin, or rather, to resume it, he breaks away. He steals his lips from her like a their in the night and she’s left breathless with a deep aching for the man holding her and she wishes this was a new kind of longing, once she’s never experienced because perhaps then it wouldn’t feel so bittersweet.

He rests his head against her once more and it forces a lump to form in the base of her throat, the tenderness of it all so cruel and unimaginable, but of course, that isn’t the problem; the problem is that she doesn’t care. No matter how hard she fights it, a smile spreads across her tingling lips and she grins up at him from ear to ear, and prays he cannot see the sadness that lingers in her deep blue eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers, but her voice falters and she pulls away from him, shaking her head and balling her fists. “No,” no she thinks, but the word follows and she gasps, a hand rushing to her mouth. Moonlight bounces off the rippling water of the lake and oh how she wishes to dive in, or to run—to be anywhere but here, dealing with this, with him. Saints, she loves the way it feels when he looks at her, when he touches her, when he kisses every inch of her, but it is always coupled with unspeakable pain, with insurmountable heartache, with devastating disappointment. She wants more, and she wants to be treated as if she deserves more, not as an outlet, a reprieve from his daily routine, an escape.

“Will it be different?” She asks, turning back to him and drawing him close, “I need it to be different…” she pauses, eyes falling from his perfect features and locking onto her hands as they grip his lapels in her hands, “it has to be different than before.”

His lips mourn the absence of her the moment he pulls away, but he doesn’t regret the choice to part when he hears her first word. 

Yes, and his heart is walking on air. Even he isn’t immune to her, even as he knows that he does not love her (This, of course, is a lie. Anton loves Rita. Anton loves Rita with the same kind of tenderness he gives to Ravka, with the same ferocity he gives to his people. This, of course, is the problem. He loves her. He is not in love with her.) She says yes and he thinks he has never felt quite so human, so desperately human, in want of a warmth all humans need. But then he heart is on the ground in front of him, caught and frozen in the snow under his feet. No, and everything feels lost.

There are a million thoughts rolling around that head of his, like marbles, like a starry nights sky full of sparkling diamonds. What am I doing to you? What are we doing to each other? With every passing moment he falls in deeper. Every moment, every flicker of his long eyelashes, every breath passed between them -- it feels like a dream. It feels like a sign. I should let you go. But he won’t. He won’t because he needs her. He knows exactly what he feels for Rita: warmth, an all consuming, all encompassing warmth. Rita is soft, a safety blanket for him to call home, a seed that planted itself on his rotting heart, a seed that hd grown roots so deep he feels them in the roll of his shoulders, in the heavy fall of his boot on the snow. At some point she’d lodged herself there, and he knows she needs to be uprooted, the trunk cut down and left to decay. If only he had the courage to take a knife to the heart. I’m sorry about the blood I’ll spill here. 

His hands reach out to her as she pulls further away still, but he makes no connection. He can’t be bothered, if he’s being honest, with hiding the gesture. His hold on her is bird-bone thin, brittle and close to snapping, and now as she flutters away from him -- the erratic beats of his heart are deafening. He cannot believe how he feels in this moment, how she feels like blooming marigolds beneath his palms, how the loss of her feels like the death of a star. “Saints, Rita, please don’t run from me,” he says, and he nearly falls to his knees before her in the process. The words hum with divine tenderness, drip with the honeyed warmth that he feels for her. He’s always known it, always known how desperately he needs her -- the problem lies within the fact that he does not always need her. 

The words hang unanswered, the word please deliberate and strained. 

Will it be different? He wants to lie, to promise her yes, a thousand times yes. He wants to tell her that he will fill her life with sweetness and love, that the life he will give her can be one filled with sliced strawberries and sweet-everythings whispered at dawn. He wants to tell her that he will make her happy, wants to say something soft and sweet that might hang on his tongue and infect his life so thoroughly it will be the truth. Because goddamnit he wants to give her everything she deserves, wishes he could throw the nation aside to give this girl the life she deserves -- but he would not be the man she loves if he did that, and that would be no better. 

“Different how, malen'kaya ptitsa?” He says instead of all of the truths he wants to give to her, all of the truths that he knows she deserves, all of the truths that he so selfishly holds back. Instead he speaks in tongues, giving her nothing -- and yet, perhaps everything. “I want to tell you yes, you know that.” But does she? Has he ever given her any reason to believe such to be the truth? “Not all love is gentle. Ad astra per aspera. To the stars through adversity. Maybe this is our fate, to endure the difficult.”

A lie, or perhaps the most honest he’s ever been with her.

He doesn’t know anymore.