c&p but razumikhin got tired of raskonikov wandering off and fainting behind various bushes!!
second part of the fic because I wanted to post it separately somewhere
Unconsciousness is a curious thing that plays with time as a child does with dirtied thread, making it so Raskolnikov waked convinced that he had not been asleep for long at all, thoughts crammed lazily together in a head that seemed to be stuffed with swollen, discolored cotton, bulging with infection.
He is suffocated by a heat greater than a simple fever, obnoxious snoring rattling through the threadbare couch as it tiredly weathers the sound. His tongue throbs fattened and distended, unable to speak at all.
He had never imagined Razumikhin a loud sleeper, or a clingy one–yet he is wrapped around him in loosened embrace, heavy limbs securely tied.
Raskolnikov raises a hand, abjectly fascinated as it blurs and stutters, indistinct in its wavering. Razumikhin is asleep, and his handsome features pulse with Raskolnikov's rattled breathing, skin waxen and indenting when prodded at-- and prod he does, with an emotion similar to curiosity he presses two fingers against Razumikhin's melting cheek, coaxing flesh from bone and bone from itself, coaxing his skull—with a gentle tap—to cave in, deflating like a fleshy lesion with none of the rigidity skulls are to possess. Razumikhin's eyes fly open in surprise, registered too slow, finding Raskolnikov's face and freezing there as his eye, too, is taken by the inevitable collapse. He makes soft, confused noises, quiet gasps and whimpers as if he has not quite registered his undoing.
Raskolnikov observes his friend's death with a sort of wide-eyed blankness, acting with no urgency as Razumikhin was certainly dead, and at his hand, so easily, too. He has done it because he can. There is nothing to be changed now.
He rouses already gasping, and Razumikhin is whole, alive, rumbling with breath and blood. Raskolnikov's hand lays upon his cheek, the detached placidity that comes with dreaming slipping away to leave him shaken. And he is struck by the dizzying need to press his palm flat, to move and curl a hand into Razumikhin’s hair, to feel his skull unbroken as his breathing steadies.
This wakes Razumikhin, who starts to tease immediately– as he is not one to waste precious time.
“Ach! Rodya, what is your sickly self doing now, hm?” He said, and removed Raskolnikov’s hand from his hair with a good-natured smile. “You look terribly rattled, friend, have you finally lost it?”
Raskolnikov replaces his grip immediately, and with burning eyes wide and scouring— searching for a mirage already faded, dreading a fate that was not true— he looks, for all the world, to be half-insane. His hand moves sluggishly from Razumikhin’s hair to his cheek again and then across his lips and eyebags and jawline. All solid, with a comforting yield.
“Rodya?”
Razumikhin’s good spirits tremble as Raskolnikov drags the stilted quiet on. He does not remove Raskolnikov’s hand again, throat jumping when he continues.
“..what are you—“
“It is nothing.” Raskolnikov mutters then, blinking the madness away and withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean of touch. “My fever has subsided, Mitya, thanks to your care, no doubt, and I plan to rest. In solitude, as well.” He amends quickly.
“Subsided? No, you are sick!” Razumikhin cries, suddenly indignant at the idea of being sent away so soon. “Why, I never believed one quite so intelligent as you would be so eager to perish– for you ask me to allow you to run off and drop dead, no, I will not allow it, not at all!”
He jumps to his feet with hysterical energy.
“I’ve asked nothing of the sort.” Raskolnikov explains patiently, and if he appeared irate, it was certainly not his fault— for the texture of a softened skull has not faded, even in waking, and it bothered him so, to look upon Razumikhin’s face in the moment. “I only intend to sleep—surely even I can handle that?”
“Lies. If you truly intend to sleep, let me stay to watch over you, so I do not have to find your remains when you wander off—for you will certainly wander off, later if not now— all because I did not stay!”
“You catastrophize it when I rest and catastrophize it just the same if I start to stand… is there nothing I can do without your watch? Do you think me mad, or pathetic!? I will accept neither judgement. Leave me be.”
With this, Raskolnikov turns and pulls his quilt over himself, resolutely ignoring Razumikhin’s many cries until he is rewarded with an incensed huff and a ‘you confound me’ and then he is alone.
Only then does he tremble.
daily apology for debasing classical literature with my fujoshi tendencies but i will not stop
So in a huff of indignantly feverish words, Raskolnikov lies—restrained with little hope of escape—as a shivering animal is trapped in caring hands, foolishly perceiving threat under the embrace of comfort.
"..you impose yourself on me in some kind of jest, surely, surely you don't believe yourself heroic for this.. this fit of irrationality. You'll remove yourself before I show you out! Out, immediately!"
"I am a hero, Rodya, and you my fainting damsel. And I'd much rather you faint on me than on the cobbles, and you'd agree, if you still possess reason?"
"Reason suggests you do not physically restrain men of perfectly good health, and this is acutely unreasonable. You are unreasonable, and any amount of good sense left in you is disappeared, surely. I find you in this state, nothing but a mindless brute on top of me. Does it not bother you, to be so senseless?"
"Ach. You rant on." Razumikhin sighs, not very bothered at all.
"To dismiss a sound man's good argument as ranting--" Raskolnikov interjects, half-mad, squirming with the little force a sickly man such as him could offer.
"Eh? 'Sound?' Why, you swoon like a delicately diseased lady and look the part, too. I have half a mind to pin you forever, for that's the time it'll take 'til this stream of delusional postulations runs dry."
"..incredible. You think me delusional." It is muttered with such obvious disdain that it pulls a incredulous laugh from Razumikhin, the scowl of the deeply displeased man beneath him unseen or perhaps just ignored.
“You—“ Raskolnikov starts, cut off with an amused rebuttal.
“Debate me until your face is redder than it is now. I dare you, fool, try to to outlast me, and I will stay to listen.”
"I—" He sputters with such indignation that he is beset with fuming silence, gathering himself before continuing. "I.." Raskolnikov speaks with a carefully measured tone that falls apart until he is practically spitting. "..I am not red, nor am I asking you to stay--In fact-- in fact, Dmitri, you are inviting yourself, like some kind of mannerless, heavyset pig!"
Razumikhin just smiles at this, his aforementioned heaviness refusing to budge. "You are ever so witty, friend. Keep talking, see where it gets you, just know it won't get me away, for I refuse to allow you to stumble yourself into another fainting spell. If my actions become only a pig, as you so insightfully put it, then so be it-- let me roll around in filth and shovel slop as a proper pig should." He chuckles again at the thought, his joyousness unbefit to the situation. It was if he was enjoying this, this smothering of unwanted warmth-- a notion that only makes Raskolnikov's righteous anger boil until it's practically vibrating out of him.
"Yes, yes," Razumikhin continues, satisfied with his wretched misdoings. "I shall be the best pig."
The sheer absurdity of this childish, petty retort once again leaves Raskolnikov speechless. He stutters through several half-finished thoughts before abandoning the concept of speaking entirely-- for words are taxing to a fevered mind, and it is much easier for a man in such a state to close his eyes, intending to formulate a response in scholarly, dignified silence. But there is no counter to an argument that doesn't exist, and indeed Razumikhin had not put forth an argument of any sort-- no, he had simply stayed exactly where he was, and it was clear no amount of intellectual posturing or protests would budge the stubborn bastard.
But coming to this conclusion had tired Raskolnikov greatly, so that the weight on top of him was becoming heavier and heavier pressing upon his mind. As a branch dips subtly under the weight of gathering snow, it is that slow, gentle give of that strains his taxed head, forcing twitching, tense sleep upon him.
Unconsciousness is a curious thing that plays with time as a child does with dirtied thread, making it so Raskolnikov waked convinced that he had not been asleep for long at all, thoughts crammed lazily together in a head that seemed to be stuffed with swollen, discolored cotton, bulging with infection.
He is suffocated by a heat greater than a simple fever, obnoxious snoring rattling through the threadbare couch as it tiredly weathers the sound. His tongue throbs fattened and distended, unable to speak at all.
He had never imagined Razumikhin a loud sleeper, or a clingy one–yet he is wrapped around him in loosened embrace, heavy limbs securely tied.
Raskolnikov raises a hand, abjectly fascinated as it blurs and stutters, indistinct in its wavering. Razumikhin is asleep, and his handsome features pulse with Raskolnikov's rattled breathing, skin waxen and indenting when prodded at-- and prod he does, with an emotion similar to curiosity he presses two fingers against Razumikhin's melting cheek, coaxing flesh from bone and bone from itself, coaxing his skull—with a gentle tap—to cave in, deflating like a fleshy lesion with none of the rigidity skulls are to possess. Razumikhin's eyes fly open in surprise, registered too slow, finding Raskolnikov's face and freezing there as his eye, too, is taken by the inevitable collapse. He makes soft, confused noises, quiet gasps and whimpers as if he has not quite registered his undoing.
Raskolnikov observes his friend's death with a sort of wide-eyed blankness, acting with no urgency as Razumikhin was certainly dead, and at his hand, so easily, too. He has done it because he can. There is nothing to be changed now.
He rouses already gasping, and Razumikhin is whole, alive, rumbling with breath and blood. Raskolnikov's hand lays upon his cheek, the detached placidity that comes with dreaming slipping away to leave him shaken. And he is struck by the dizzying need to press his palm flat, to move and curl a hand into Razumikhin’s hair, to feel his skull unbroken as his breathing steadies.
This wakes Razumikhin, who starts to tease immediately– as he is not one to waste precious time.
“Ach! Rodya, what is your sickly self doing now, hm?” He said, and removed Raskolnikov’s hand from his hair with a good-natured smile. “You look terribly rattled, friend, have you finally lost it?”
Raskolnikov replaces his grip immediately, and with burning eyes wide and scouring— searching for a mirage already faded, dreading a fate that was not true— he looks, for all the world, to be half-insane. His hand moves sluggishly from Razumikhin’s hair to his cheek again and then across his lips and eyebags and jawline. All solid, with a comforting yield.
“Rodya?”
Razumikhin speaks with confusion though he does not remove Raskolnikov’s hand again, throat jumping when it presses against his lips again.
“..ah, so you have gone insane…what is this?“
“It is nothing.” Raskolnikov mutters then, blinking the madness away and withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean of touch. “My fever has subsided, Mitya, thanks to your care, no doubt, and I plan to rest. In solitude, as well.” He amends quickly.
“Subsided? No, you are sick!” Razumikhin cries, suddenly indignant at the idea of being sent away so soon. “Why, I never believed one quite so intelligent as you would be so eager to perish– for you ask me to allow you to run off and drop dead, no, I will not allow it, not at all!”
He jumps to his feet with hysterical energy.
“I’ve asked nothing of the sort.” Raskolnikov explains patiently, and if he appeared irate, it was certainly not his fault— for the texture of a softened skull has not faded, even in waking, and it bothered him so, to look upon Razumikhin’s face in the moment. “I only intend to sleep—surely even I can handle that?”
“Lies. If you truly intend to sleep, let me stay to watch over you, so I do not have to find your remains when you wander off—for you will certainly wander off, later if not now— all because I did not stay!”
“You catastrophize it when I rest and catastrophize it just the same if I start to stand… is there nothing I can do without your watch? Do you think me mad, or pathetic!? I will accept neither judgement. Leave me be.”
With this, Raskolnikov turns and pulls his quilt over himself, resolutely ignoring Razumikhin’s many cries until he is rewarded with an incensed huff and a ‘you confound me’ and then he is alone.
Only then does he tremble.
Raskolnikov waked to tea over-steeped and porridge that is too thick to stomach, left by Nastaysa to eat upon his waking. It had been left out for as long as he had been unconscious. He finds that on this morning, the impartiality of sleep does not seem to have retreated, not as he slips on a coat and stumbles out with an empty head and no particular goal but to wander and to think.
And as it seems, his intense and logical thinking has led to the bank of the Little Neva, to Razumikhin's room on the fifth floor of a particularly ratty house. The door is open. Raskolnikov enters with feigned certainty.
Despite his irate departure late last night, Razumikhin is cheery and bright as Raskolnikov is ushered onto a couch–and it is his nature, to forgive, of course, so it was predicted. Razumikhin sits beside him, smiling simply.
"Ach, the madman returns." He chuckles. "And not a moment too late, for I was about to miss those insane eyes, those delightfully sunken cheeks. What was I to do without your poking and prodding of my hair, hm? To what do I owe this pleasure, madman?”
Raskolnikov smiles thinly. "I would much prefer Rodion, if you would."
"Ah! Of course, of course, Rodya. Anything for you. I hear madmen require special treatment, treatment I am eager to provide for a dear friend.” Razumikhin’s arm slings around his shoulder. “So again I ask– why have you come?"
"I have come.." He is not quite sure why he came, and so Raskolnikov finishes in a stately, steely tone, as to make up for his lack of objective. "I came."
"Haven't we all?" Razumikhin adds.
“And what is that to mean?” Raskolnikov asks, maintaining his austerity.
“It means what it is to mean and it is that which it means, Rodya.” Razumikhin responds in an amicable parody.
“Hm.” He frowns, absentminded, sinking into the bone-thin couch. Why had he come? He had come for a reason, for every successful action requires a reason. And if there was no reason, it was not reasonable to stay, to linger. Yes, Raskolnikov agreed with a purposeful nod. There was no reason to linger, and therefore he was to leave.
“Goodbye.” He stood, shrugging Razumikhin off, the other staring at him with incredulity that borders on humor.
“Why, you are a mystery of a man.” Razumikhin mutters, standing up as well. “You, seeking me? It was too good to be true, fortune would never be so kind. So what are you off to do now, Rodya? Walking? Roaming? Perhaps even traipsing?”
“Thinking.” Raskolnikov objects.
“And can you not think in my company? It is rather overwhelming. Yes, yes– many find themselves distinctly unreasonable around a presence like mine.”
“Indeed, your company seems to repel thought,” He said shortly, “A queer phenomenon that explains your simplicity.”
“Ah, flattering, truly flattering. You are so lovely today, as you are every day, for you are a lovely person. The loveliest. So lovely, in fact, that I find myself in the mood for a thought too, to imitate your perfection. Come, Rodya, I will walk with you.”
“You won’t.” Raskolnikov dismisses, disgusted at Razumikhin’s shameless bluff.
“I will.” Razumikhin pulls on a coat.
And so it is that Raskolnikov finds himself walking again without purpose, talking little and thinking even less. Razumikhin maintains good spirit alongside him, silent yet gratified with his own presence, the aggravating thing. His seething annoyance at the man had come quickly and subsided, leaving Raskolnikov in about the same, empty-headed state that he had started with.
“You still follow me.” He observes.
“Yes!” Razumikhin agrees with great enthusiasm, “I do, indeed, and I have been thinking all the while, and what wonderful thoughts I have had. Among these enlightenments was the notion that I shall continue to follow you.”
“Undoubtedly.” Raskolnikov mutters with no spirit at all.
They pause at a bridge, Raskolnikov leaning onto the damp stone ledge with little fear, staring at the churning waters below. Razumikhin joins him. He does not speak, and Raskolnikov is the one to finally do so.
“..Is there a point to this? In your stalking me?”
“Your awful, hurtful wording aside, no. There is no point, friend. No point at all, but my enjoyment and your obvious, desperate love for my company.”
“And you don’t mind there being no point?”
“No more than I mind being here.”
“Hm.”
Raskolnikov is silenced for a moment as he considers Razumikhin’s simple words. There is something irritating in them, in their hopefulness. In the notion that a lack of purpose–ambition, meaning–could be substituted with… what? Enjoyment? Love? Good company? These thoughts are pushed around, slow and laborious until they are no longer slow, instead turning into a burning, aching anger.
"Say, Mitya–” Raskolnikov says suddenly. “If you'd humor such a foolish question– will you still follow me, even here? Now?"
"Where?" Razumikhin asks curiously. "Over the bridge? Why, yes, I would–and without a moment's pause, be assured, friend. Ha! What a foolish question after all."
At this, Raskolnikov smiles, a sort of creeping grin that spreads thick and cloying.
"Over the bridge indeed. I don't think you would."
"..huh? Do you believe yourself the only person capable of crossing a bridge? How arrogant! How amusing! You're quite hilarious, really." Razumikhin says this quickly, as one does when they are trying very hard to not understand
"Over." It is said with such purpose that even Razumikhin, with his forcible cheer, falters at the gleam in Raskolnikov's fevered eyes, the subtle, sickening thrill that shakes him. "If I were to cross over… would you follow me?"
"..Rodya?" Razumikhin grabs for his hand, turning it over as if the lines of Raskolnikov’s palm would reveal what was wrong with his smile. “Are you still feverish, friend? I’d thought you recovered, since you had gathered the heart to travel, but…”
"It is a simple question." Raskolnikov continues, disregarding his ramblings.
"Rodya." Razumikhin says, pleading.
Raskolnikov leans forward, head tilting in an unnatural sort of way, unused to the strange angle he is contorted at. He watches, owlish, as Razumikhin's joy shrinks under his scrutiny. His power. It has been quite a while since he has had power–true control, though it is ill-taken and sickly–and he has found it to be rather enjoyable. Razumikhin himself seems to be shrinking as well. Or Raskolnikov is growing, or perhaps the world has no logic and he is simply meant to enjoy the sight of such a tall man beneath him.
"If I were to jump–" He starts, softly, delicately, deliberately– forging ahead in a playful, awful cadence.
"I would follow!" Razumikhin cried suddenly, in such a state that he is near shouting. "..if only to fish you from the river, I doubt you would sink, given how horribly light you are– but I would follow, Rodya, and you truly are a sick man for posing such.. ghastly hypotheticals, and what is your point!?"
"There is none. I simply wanted to know."
Razumikhin stares, disbelieving, before he flies into ranting, eyes wild, tugging Raskolnikov’s hand to his chest. "Tell me, are you going to jump? You’ve been–have you planned it all? Am I to watch you bloat in the sun, am I to be your unwilling, petrified audience? Tell me, reassure me that you are not willing to jump!""..ah.” Raskolnikov sways at the burst of movement. “No. I have no plan. No scheme. No point." He muses, thoughtful, smile stretching dreamily. Razumikhin’s distress stretches as well. The sight is amusing, fear and anger spinning into a whir. The sight is fading. He is still swaying. "No point at all, I’m afraid.”
He is caught in a strong grip and a burst of frantic expletives as he collapses.
quick ooc scene i wrote for my ocs in this universe!!
ao3 engagements been slow recently.. so I'm just kinda putting this out there to prod at the algorithm
keziah’s a fucking bastard— tilting his head, giving me that sorrowful, pitying look— like he knows my head, inside out. like a knight understands me better than i can.
better than me— the insanity.
keziah’s saying something, a comforting murmur drowning in the bloodflow through my skull. “you need time. i’ll–”
he’s too far. standing above me, stepping towards the door. away from the heir to the fucking throne.
a word– more of a plea, really, though it sharpens itself to a point– rips itself up from my throat, acidic and jagged.
“stay. kneel.”
it cracks like too-thin glass. i feel it when the shards hit keziah– his jaw clenches, a twitch from a statue of pure stone. he holds his hands up, placating. “really. i’ll go, it’s fine–”
“i’m not asking, knight.”another flinch. tension gathering in him like a tsunami, wrestled down by sheer force of will– but i see it. he can’t hide so i won’t either.
“you forget yourself– it’s not your place to leave.”
“axel, please–”
“kneel.” i force it to come out harsh, like my father’s general. shrapnel-spiked. heavy with power that feels unnatural on my tongue.
keziah doesn’t move, frozen still and regal. he sucks in a breath, like i might’ve actually surprised him. pale eyes fix on me, frightened or perhaps simmering with rage. unreadable.
“..they’ll burn us alive.”
“they’ll burn you alive. they won’t do shit to me.”
“are you sure you want–”
“it doesn’t matter what i want. i said it, so don’t question me.”
“i don’t..” a pause. his voice catches, dies in his throat. afraid.
i’m still waiting.
…
the gentle clank of honor folding, his jaw clenched so tight it may as well snap as keziah kneels. murmurs a quiet apology for his impudence, something about duty. my throat is tight, satisfaction and horror coiled too tight. choking, soothing, swelling.
“..good.” it comes out strange, rough around the edges and crueler than i’d like.
keziah bows his head, silenced.
i swallow my guilt, smile because this is my birthright. dominance. men unable to look me in the eye, moonlit hair flowing down their back like a blood trail.
there’s quiet resignation in every bitter line of him as i reach forward, tilt his face towards mine. press a finger against keziah’s bottom lip, and
summary: tri-POV medieval court love triangle of a knight, his prince, and his prince's bride. communication doesn't exist.
excerpts:
___
i return the smile faintly. ignore the way the sun cradles her, a crown bright and blinding. dressing her hair in dizzying fractals of light. the stars favor ellie just as the rest of the universe does– i’m forced to look away, lest the beat of my heart betray me.
___
his hand is on my face.
i jerk away, the touch too hot. burning my cheek and leaving it electric, sharp and prickling in the most beautiful way. only after a second do i remember to tack on a frown. as if his insolence annoys me.
___
stifling, suffocating, too-warm and strangely moist against my palms. i imagine my cushions breathing–flaring open, loosened pores stuffed with piss-yellow pus and writhing maggots–closing with me slumbering peacefully inside it.
content to be digested by epidermis and hair follicles.
___
keziah
___
I offer a hand to the princess, she accepts it with a gracious smile.
Her hand rests on my gauntleted palm. i wish i could feel how her silken fingers brush over my skin, but armor is hard and unyielding. a good vessel, holding my shape as i melt.
"princess elianna. i’m glad you’ve rejoined us in this court." it comes out perfectly, detached, empty.
she does not respond in kind, words jarring in their awful warmth. the kind that hurts to hear.
“thank you, knight. it's a pleasure to see you.”
i return the smile faintly. ignore the way the sun cradles her, a crown bright and blinding. dressing her hair in dizzying fractals of light. the stars favor ellie just as the rest of the universe does– i’m forced to look away, lest the beat of my heart betray me. “mostly mine, princess.”
we linger at the top of the stairs. she isn’t budging.
“keziah, was it..? we’ve met before.” her voice is much too casual, unguarded. “call me ellie.” The princess tilts her head, like a darling little cat. she looks at me like a game. it should bother me. it doesn’t.
“‘princess’ makes you feel distant. we know each other.”
know her?
i used to
there’s something strange now, something sharp and cutting that i can barely unearth, buried as it is beneath memories and scattered light. i want to cut myself open on the edge of her teeth, let her taste me
perceive me
elianna’s smile is widening into something heartstopping. breathtaking. her eyes have always squinted narrow enough to slip between the cracks of my armor, infiltrate my nervous system and give it the tiniest, breathless shock.
“..ellie.”
i repeat, fighting back a wistful sigh at how good the name feels against my lips. pure, short, soft . i whisper it to myself again and again, fill my head with it and drown .
“i won’t forget.”
"i hope you'll keep true– i wouldn't want my sweet knight getting my name wrong, would i?"
the affection in her tone almost dazes me, a startled laugh managing to escape layers of padding and metal, then words tumble unbidden.
"..of course not.”
too familiar. i can’t stop.
“the next time i call you princess, you must assume i've forgotten your true name. scold me thoroughly, beat me as you wish–" i pause. fumble with my brain for a second, wrestling it to the floor and punching it dead. if dared think, i might process the slight flush on her cheeks and then it’ll all be over.
"..princess."
elianna shakes her head, laughing. it comes naturally to her. "i will. and i won't be gentle about it. got it, my sweet?"
something ignites in my ribcage and scorches it empty of air.
we reach the bottom of the stairs, my brain still comatose. i barely notice when her hand lifts from mine, leaving only an imagined sensation that tingles through my palm.
i let go, noticing the small, subtle smile lingering in my own expression. pressing it flat. "safe travels then, princess. perhaps the next time you visit, your prince may show you the gardens." i fear how my voice lilts up, too soft. "..be careful to not get lost. you will blend in too easily among the flowers. princess."
she laughs again– a sweet noise, surrounding me, swallowing me. "..ah, you flatter me. i fear i'm not nearly as beautiful as the royal gardens." as she looks towards her carriage. steps away. "after all, Elarkian botanists are extraordinary. this kingdom truly is magical."
the princess offers one last grin before leaving. one more memory to hold close to my chest, in the sacred privacy of night.
i want to spill my heart into her gentle hand, but all i can offer is unspoken truths to her departing back.
you say the gardens outrank you
oh how you're wrong
even the rhododendrons cannot hide your glory.
my elianna.
i stifle the very thought before it takes root and destroys me, settling for murmuring her name like a prayer
begging her to look over her shoulder
and see me.
________
axel
________
my knight is removing his armor. i’m trying not to let it distract from the injustice that’s just occurred right before my eyes. my rightful, sensible fury .
i take a deep breath as his breastplate comes off. fortify my tone to something hopefully regal, sharp, commanding.
"..what was that? back at the throne room?"
skysinger above. the very thought pisses me off all over again.
the knight reaches up, loosening the careful way his long hair was pinned to his head. it falls in layers to his chest, lucent and pale, the soft reflection of moonlight off a yarrow’s bloom. he's taking his time responding. "..there's no reason for the lady’s visit to be entirely miserable. she isn't as.. 'boring' as you claim, my beautiful prince. not many people are." his tone holds fond amusement, humor slinking around the words- slow and languid, like a cat in the sun.
i blink, swallow back a familiar smile. i’m stern. stern and intimidating. but--
‘my beautiful prince.’ it makes my heart tighten, purr in contentment. no matter how many times i hear the phrase, how desperately i remember that he doesn’t mean it. keziah doesn’t mean anything he says. i clear my throat. "she's very boring, keziah. you can't deny it." i grumble, only slightly petulant. “..and.. and-”
"she is intelligent and used to being dismissed." he counters gently. "so she has developed a shell. similar to yourself. princess elianna dislikes you for much the same reason you dislike her- your circumstances and how you treat her."
keziah sounds like he sees her. truly, deeply.
he leans forward and i can’t step away, still looking up at me with those down-turned, thoughtful quartz stone eyes, foggy and faceted all at once. i can’t read them. i never could.
his hand is on my face.
i jerk away, the touch too hot. burning my cheek and leaving it electric, sharp and prickling in the most beautiful way. only after a second do i remember to tack on a frown. as if his insolence annoys me.
"what.. do you mean? keziah?" i hate how my voice betrays me for a second. hesitates, like my unspoken questions catch it and weigh it down. “..surely she can't be that.. amazing. or like. whatever. just a princess, anyways.” there’s nothing i can say, no justified complaint or deep-seated discomfort. i haven’t noticed much of that girl. not when he’s right there, beside her.
the knight’s eyes are turned to the ceiling, reminiscent. like she’s a distant memory already. "princesses are nothing to dismiss. she is.. special."
i can't help but notice the way that a soft smile starts tugging at my knight's lips, the same way it did back in the throne room. the sunset throwing a festival in his crystalline hair as the princess placed her hand in his.
"..beautiful. kind, but not spineless. her presence itself.." his sentence trickles off, praises falling too easily from his lips, overripe fruit wasted in the dirt. he turns his attention back to me. instead of the imaginary leech inside his head, sucking him dry of love, leaving none for me.
for his duty, i remind myself. not to mention the princess is engaged to me. really, i should be more cross.
. "..princess elianna keeps up with matters of the kingdom easily. she will be a good partner for you, my prince. just who the kingdom needs." there's tension in the melodic calm of his voice, an intangible, aching longing that resonates through the floor, stabbing itself into my ribcage. it hurts.
“aren’t you praising her too much?” it comes out too questioning, insecure. i try again. "..she's my fiancé, keziah. not yours." i say in a low voice, staring at him with steel in my eyes that i’m certain he sees as pathetic. “and you’re.. you’re mi– you’re my.. knight. keziah.”
mine.
“..y-you seem to forget sometimes. you’re under me, beneath me, so don’t lecture me on–”
"i know, darling." i hate how easily he cuts me off. how i let him.
"my sword is yours, my mind, my body. it is my role as a knight to.. to serve you. i know my place." keziah speaks, quiet and baritone- still brimming with such lingering want- a need so deep i can feel it hollowing out in my bones.
he’s so controlled, and he was so free with her. “i just want you to treat the future queen with dignity, prince. it’s of.. vital diplomatic importance.”
..i want to cry. to throw myself into him, bury my face in his yarrow hair like a snotty little kid kid and sob. “..right. no, you’re right.” i echo, though i can barely hear myself.
keziah smiles, and i feel my heartbeat desert me until his expression fades back into neutrality. "..i’m glad you understand. i didn’t mean to give the wrong impression about my.. idea of her.”
‘her’ . the knight is barely audible, throat catching on the word in a way i’ve had never heard. i hate how reverential he sounds, almost worshipful. like she’s a god, not just a woman. just a woman.
the candlelight is a mocking parody of how he'd been so radiant with her. beautiful, encased in a captive glow even as the sun departed. i’d read keziah’s heart through the steel around it– his arteries run with euphoria.
how long would it take me to forget that sight? how long before i see it again? how long before i see him with her again?
my knight looks up, the dim light staining his quartz eyes a sickly yellow. one-toned and flat. he has no more words for me, leaving me with a flood for him. keziah’s gone somewhere distant, somewhere i can’t ever reach in the recesses of his heart.
his stupid , metallic heart.
i turn to leave, already scrubbing at pathetic tears.
i know better than to hope for him to look back down
and see me.
__
elianna
___
stifling, suffocating, too-warm and strangely moist against my palms. i imagine my cushions breathing–flaring open, loosened pores stuffed with piss-yellow pus and writhing maggots–closing with me slumbering peacefully inside it.
content to be digested by epidermis and hair follicles.
spat back out nothing more than blissful, braindead shit.
i wish.
velvet’s an awful choice even for the palace’s filthiest chamber pot–let alone for the lining of an entire carriage. gold, too. how gauche. it reflects onto me dreadfully, washes out my complexion in even more yellow. not piss-yellow. maybe a bit more orange, even less flattering.
i touch my face.
what, truly, was achieved by this? (a reminder of wealth, of how below i am here in Elark. Gold is mined in Vaskan, commonly by slaves and the desperate–immigrants, refugees. this is a show of status. domination– or perhaps simply a show of awful taste.)
what were they thinking? (perhaps to cast me as a spoiled princess, carted around in a dreadfully expensive carriage–with symbols of my own kingdom’s oppression flashing and blinding and screaming. i would be in the papers before a good night’s rest, smeared and utterly destroyed.)
what was he thinking? (touching my hand like that, so horribly out of turn? did he want me to feel the tremor underneath his armor, the twitches in his stoicity? does he not see our audience? does he not care? does he do it, simply to feel me again? love me?)
and i was forced to play along, wasn’t i? because here, even a knight can demand respect from me. forced. i was coerced, clearly– to take his flirtation, to smile.
my thoughts rattle along with the carriage, adapting to local customs. they’re churning– unstable– like everything else in this god-forsaken kingdom.
‘skysinger.’ a joke of mythology, a butchering of gods.
they’ve sold honor for enchanted gardens. magicked artillery. arcane arrows and charm-spoken propaganda. controlled masses. glamoured nobility, beauty on sale, charisma on auction to the most well-spoken bidder.enchanting language, charming words, controlled me–
i steady myself with a slow blink.
Vaskan is on my shoulders, sogenocide is my crown, andi must not slouch.
i reach to draw the curtains closed– gods, velvet again, i shudder through my silken gloves–
throw the carriage into darkness as it rattles through a gilded gate
lest the eyes growing on every tree ('extraordinary' botany indeed) peek inside
and see me.
______
if u made it ILYSM for reading THANK U
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