Summary: Beyond arm's length with her husband, Samantha attempts to explore Little Palace in hopes of finding a place for herself in this new life. Hopefully, there will be friends and a means of satisfying her endeavor to fulfill her purpose.
Words: 5.3k
Warnings: Passive-Aggressiveness, Implied Sexual Content, Anxiety,
Mentions of: Murder, Assassination,
A/N: Vine divider by @cursed-carmine I'm not entirely sure why I've become re-obsessed with this series, but I've been totally invested in continuing it, especially with all the ideas I have. I only hope anyone would read it and enjoy.
While the morning had started off far from great, they always say that the rest of the day is left up to whatever you'll make of it. Though discouraged, Samantha still feels a faint bubble of excitement lingering in her bosom to explore the new confines of her life. Having angrily eaten her lunch, now she's set upon mapping out the rest of the Little Palace.
It's as she's staring out the window from its seat, finishing her tea that there's a knock on the door, followed by the creak of it opening. In the doorway stands the same red-coated Grisha she'd briefly met earlier.
"Hello again," he greets with a slight bow, the boyish smile on his face not quite meeting his eyes. "I've been sent to accompany you."
"Accompany me?" Sam asks, her brows scrunching up a little. "Where?"
A quiet chuckle leaves the man's lips as he shakes his head before answering. "Throughout your day." Looking around the room, his hands remain clasped at his waist. "May I enter?"
The Princess nods, taking a big swig of the last of her tea before standing from the window seat to meet him halfway. "So... he sent you here to spy on me? Make sure that I'm not trying to steal any state secrets, perhaps?" She questions, walking her cup and saucer back over to the desk where she'd left the empty lunch tray.
An amused breath leaves the Grisha and he smiles, offering only the shake of his head. "No, I assure you," his hands unclasp from his waist finally, palms facing upward as he explains, "The General only saw it fit that you be protected while tension is still high from the ceremony. After all, you are a Fjerdan Princess in Ravka. It only makes sense that someone might try to threaten this treaty."
There's a moment of quiet tension as Sam narrows her eyes at him, just slightly, before offering a smile. "Well, I guess that makes sense," she says, moving toward the chaise at the end of the bed. Sinking into the cushy seat across from where he leans against the back of an armchair near the fireplace. "It's smart, really, I hadn't even thought about it," she admits, her voice quieter now as her eyes drift across the furniture. For a breath, her mind flashes with images of possible fatal attempts on her life; food poisoning, sharp blades, an arrow to the heart, a rogue Grisha's powers aimed at her.
Then she finally inhales, steadying herself as she meets the Grisha's hazel eyes again. "And... you'd protect me?"
Fedyor straightens, stepping away from the chair. "Yes," he says firmly, though there's the flicker of something softer that crosses his features. "You're a part of him now, and as willing as I would protect him, I would protect you, too."
"I see." Her hazel eyes search his, and something in her seems to settle. A quiet breath leaves her. Glancing back out the window, her mind wanders once again. "So... you'll be with me- what? All day?"
"Yes," Fedyor replies, "Every step of the way."
There's a moment of silence, and while she isn't looking, she can feel the Grisha's eyes on her. "Forgive me if I'm overstepping, but, it seems that something's on your mind?" It's an offer, she know that much.
A quiet sigh leaves her lips as she meets his gaze. There's something there she can't quite make out, but overall his entire demeanor gives off a trustworthy aura. "I guess I'm just thinking about this morning still," she admits, "there was no... morgengave." Spotting the quirk of his brow, she expands. "It's a tradition in Fjerda. A token, often symbolic, gifted to the wife the morning after their marriage." She shakes her head. "It's not that I wanted the gift, but... I just worry if it's not a bad sign, you know? Especially after this afternoon."
While her voice is quiet, he watches and listens with intent. It's obvious she values this tradition, and while he'd never admit that he does know the meaning of it, for it's quite intimate, he understands. She's doubting this arrangement. "Well," he voices, unclasping his hands at his waist, "think of it this way. You're only getting the fighting out of the way now."
"Small blessings then, I guess," she remarks dryly, though there's a hint of amusement beneath it. "Well then." She slaps her hands gently against her knees as she rises, an excited spark within her voice. "I suppose I might as well put you to good use then."
Crossing the room, she pauses by the door and looks over her shoulder. "I'm assuming you know Little Palace well, considering--if I'm not mistaken--you're one of his closest men?"
"I'd certainly hope so with how long I've lived here," he remarks with an amused tone, meeting her at the door.
"Then, you'd be able to give me a tour?" The Princess asks, finding his momentary silence uncertain as he opens the door. "Please?" If his intention is to keep her locked in the room under guard and key, she might riot. She doesn't think she'd be able to bear it. Having a bodyguard already sends worries and signals of being a possible prisoner in her new home.
"Hmm," Fedyor hums, turning back toward her with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips trying and failing to contain the amused smile tempting to spread across his face. "Well, maybe only since you asked so nicely!" Holding the door open for her, he motions for her to go through first before stepping out into the hallway behind her. It's only once there's an awkward moment of silence between them that he corrects himself. "Only joking, of course. I am at your command, Princess."
Sam smiles with her lips curled inward, feeling suddenly unsure. The clarification is helpful. "Thank you," she replies, the awkwardness easily fading as she takes charge again. "I'll let you lead the way then?" Motioning toward the long corridor before them, he begins to walk. She follows closely.
Hands clasped behind his back as they walk down the hall, it's only once they're nearing the stairway she remembers coming up last night that she questions him. A noise of confusion leaves her lips as she turns her head back down the hall they'd come. While she knows that the War Room sits at the very end, her shared bedroom with the General adjoined with the door closest, there had been a row of rooms they'd passed nearing the stairs which Fedyor hadn't explained.
The Grisha turns, having heard her footfall come to a halt. With raised brows, he notices her finger pointing over her shoulder at the few doors between the War Room, small parlor, and personal library they'd passed. "What about those doors? Where do they lead?" The Princess questions.
"Well, the door closest to the War Room leads to a small parlor, it also contains a small library. Then, there's Zoya's room, Ivan's, and then mine." He continues the few steps toward the banister at the top of the stairs. "I can promise you that they look almost identical to yours," he expands, before realizing. "Though perhaps a little less spacious, and differently decorated."
"What about down there?" Samantha points forward now, down the hallway that spans the entirety of the Palace length. While there's two pairs of stairs on either end of the wings, the East Wing is the one she points at, them having come from the West Wing.
"We can come back that way, don't worry." With a sweep of his hand, he gestures down the stairs. It'd make most sense to come back up that way upon their return considering what's down that hall.
The Princess nods, accepting his offer as she follows his outstretched hand down the stairs. It's much easier to see all the detail in the foyer now that it's daytime. Last night it was dark, and her mind was elsewhere as she'd followed The General and his Oprichniki back to their quarters. The ceiling extends farther up than she'd realized, the red carpets more vibrant than she remembers.
"Where is everyone?" The Princess asks, having seen many Grisha at the reception last night, yet even now as they stand in the main entry point of the Little Palace, there's no one to be seen, no sound to be heard.
"In class," Fedyor explains, walking past her to stand and bask within the beautiful sunlight streaming in rays through the glass window-paned doors. "Or training, most likely."
"Class?" While her eyes find him, his gaze still outside, her focus shifts onto all the little details of the palace.
"Of course! You didn't think we just twirl around in our keftas doing little tricks all day, did you?" A grin overtakes his features, hands folded behind his back as he turns his focus on her. "The younger Grisha study theory, history, Ravkan law... that sort of thing. Older ones train, spar, refine their skills. Generally all day, most days."
Samantha hums in acknowledgment. Standing before a grand piano, her fingers ghost over the keys. It's stunning, and the candelabra atop the ornately embroidered runner only adds another layer of eloquence to the entire grandeur the Little Palace seems to encompass.
"Do you play?" Fedyor asks, now sidling up beside her, eyes on her every move, even when she doesn't notice.
"Yes. It's a skill most women, well, in nobility, have in Fjerda since we're not meant to fight. Hobbies and skills are of the utmost importance, they make you more appealing in order to find a husband," she explains, eyes wandering up the wall along the staircase on the opposing side of the room leading up to the East Wing. There are paintings of Grisha taming beasts, Saints with halos above their heads with upturned palms and downcast eyes. She recognizes some of them, while others she has no clue.
Fedyor debates pointing out the way she is married, either just to tease her, or remind, but he bites his tongue, uncertain how much teasing she can handle after he'd noticed the way she reacted in her quarters.
It's not like they have the most stories about Ravka, Grisha, or their Saints in Fjerda. In fact, most of those books would either be forbidden or illegal to possess. Though being a Princess certainly has its perks; she'd left most of her belongings when packing for the trip, the few unsanctioned books remaining on her shelves there, gathering dust.
There are two paintings that stick out to her. In one, a Saint cradles a glowing stag, its antlers vast and otherworldly, though the creature itself fits gently in the man's arms. And despite the seemingly sad look on the man's face, the stag looks comfortable, at home somehow, even in the grasp of humans. From what she can recall, it's the one referred to 'in chains'... "Sainkt Ilya in Chains?"
Fedyor quirks a brow as he finds her face, an awed expression not the reaction he would've expected from her. Following her gaze up to the oil painting on the wall, he nods silently. It's funny, really, the way you can pass something almost daily, and never really stop to look at it. Though, he might have once, it's been so long since he even remembered the painting was there. "Morozova, yes. You know of him? I wasn't aware they'd started teaching Ravkan Saints in Fjerda."
Lips parting as Sam finds Fedyor's inquisitive expression, she turns her head away slightly, smiling with a touch of embarrassment. "Oh, no... I just- might have read a few books about it. Fairytales, really," she explains. It might not matter here that the books were technically illegal, but she isn't sure if she should go around telling anyone. Her eyes briefly search his before returning to the second painting that'd caught her interest.
It's a depiction of a battle scene: darkened woods in the background, some trees even alight in fire, while in the foreground, there are bodies lying strewn across snowy terrain, crimson staining the white. Atop the mound stands a small group of Grisha, victorious.
At first, her eyes light up at the idea of Grisha not just surviving, but thriving. Not villified, or crippled for once. Only then does she catch a detail she'd missed upon first glance: the slain wear thick furs, their weaponry and features all unmistakably Fjerdan. Her people.
A shaky breath fills her lungs. Her gaze shifts, but she doesn't dare turn toward the Grisha beside her. She doesn't know what to say. It isn't her place to question the artwork, and anyway, it could very well be a depiction of some real battle she's simply unaware of. And sure, it stings to see such brutality aired in a victorious and triumphant light. But what can she do? Demand they take it down? That would only incite further chaos and division, she'd predict.
So she remains quiet.
He notices.
She might think he doesn't, and he won't let on unless she brings it up. Based on her sharp tongue in the War Room earlier this morning, he half expects her to do just that. Yet, as she quietly turns toward the palace doors, he finds himself surprised again. "Was there something else you wanted to show me?" She asks.
Fedyor doesn't respond right away. Lingering on the painting a moment longer, he's not admiring it, but trying to see it through her eyes. It's only after this that he strides over to where she's waiting by the grand doors, her hazel eyes peering out the windows lining either side as if she's trying to sneak a peek of what's to come. "The greenhouse and kitchen are this way," he mentions. "I figured they might appeal to your talents. You might even win Ivan over faster with pies than diplomacy." He chuckles at the thought, peering down at her as they walk down the hallway.
The cream-colored paint is a little less pristine in this section, the walls chipping and worn in places. Candles light the long hall, their lights flickering as the pair of them walk a long way before any doors reside. The only clue as to where they're going, besides Fedyor's words, are the faint aroma of bread wafting through the air alongside the musty smell of old books.
"Do you think they'd let me?" Samantha lights up at the thought, a smile slowly inching its way across her lips when she looks up at the Grisha. "And I suppose I'll have to take that into consideration," she quips.
"I don't see why not? Though perhaps not right before a meal, I'm sure it'd be too busy." Nearing the doors, he stops along the wall. "This is the kitchen, so if you ever want a midnight snack, or to bribe a Materialki with sweets, this would be the place." A faint smirk sits on his lips.
The Princess releases a soft chuckle. "I know, I found it earlier when I was getting the lunches," she reminds him. "The cooks were... surprised."
"I'm sure," Fedyor mentions with a subtle shake of his head, the amused smirk slowly fading. "Most nobles wouldn't dare." He pauses before turning back down the hallway. "You could have requested one of us do it."
"I know," she admits quietly, "I just wanted to do it myself." While it's true, her voice betrays the confident words. It's only partially true, the other aspect being that she had no idea how to summon someone to do so, and still isn't familiar with anyone enough to feel comfortable making such a request.
It's terribly odd- being a princess in another castle, yet still uncertain in her own authority.
He nods in acknowledgment. She certainly is... unique, he'll give her that. It was a sweet gesture, that much he'd seen this morning. Though, is it under the guise of something else? He's still not quite sure. "Did you cook much in Fjerda?" Fedyor wonders aloud.
"Yeah! I mean, maybe not all the time," she corrects herself, "but... when my sister and I wanted to make something, or my little brothers begged for something in particular, birthdays, celebrations." Samantha releases a fond sigh at the memories. A soft smile envelopes her features, a sparkle in her eye as she remembers them.
"That... sounds nice," Fedyor replies after a beat, having tried to imagine what that might be like. He'd heard she had a few siblings, but assumed they were older.
"It is," The Princess answers, "was," she corrects. Both the light in her eye and the smile that'd graced her presence begin to dim slightly.
"I vaguely remember what it was like," he recalls, "leaving my family young to come train at Little Palace." That tidbit sits in the air for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say to the other.
"Did it take a long time to stop missing them?" She questions, eventually braving a look toward his face as they arrive at their next stop, she assumes.
"A while, but, the key is to find something that grounds you here, wherever you go." Pushing the door open, this time on the opposite side of the hall, he lets her go in first. "The Archives. Lots of old documents, records, nothing interesting." Door still held in his hand, he gestures out back into the hall.
"Do you cook?" Sam asks, returning to their original conversation.
"I dabble," he admits, "though Ivan says I only cook when bored or trying to impress someone." Casting a sly glance her way, he quips, "So you'll have to let me know which one it is." As he leads further down the hall to their last stop on the Western Wing, he clasps his hands behind his back. "So... the key to your heart is food, then? I'll have to let him know." Winking in her direction, he doesn't miss the way she seems to fluster at the suggestion.
"Don't! He doesn't need to know that," she protests, an embarrassed smile sat upon her lips. While she pretends to look at the bleakly plain wall, she's determined not to let him see her like this.
"But he's your husband," Fedyor reminds her, voice lilted with amusement. "I assumed he already had the key." There's no containing the smile that sits on his lips anymore.
"What? No!" Samantha blurts out, eyebrows furrowing as she whips her head in the Grisha's direction. "Absolutely not! We just met yesterday!"
He stops walking. A gasp falls from his lips as he mocks offense, a hand coming up to his chest. "Wait, wait- so you're telling me that you don't love our very own General Kirigan?"
A disgruntled noise leaves her lips as she knows there's no getting out of this one. "Stop, stop!" She attempts to hush him up, batting at his arms playfully as her head swivels in search of any possible eavesdroppers. "I know what the officiant said, but I don't even know him!"
"Ah..." he whispers almost as if it's a revelation. "So you're saying it's not love yet."
Her lips curl inward at this, eyes narrowing as her brows furrow. "I hate you," she finally says, deciding that's the case from now on as she turns and heads in the direction they'd been going.
"No, you don't," he calls her bluff with a grin. "But if you did, I'd just bake something until you forgave me."
"Agh!" She groans in response, knowing he's not wrong, that would work.
Finally reaching the end of the hall, there's no door, but instead an archway that leads into an expansive greenhouse. It's a giant dome made of frosted glass. There are multiple beds, trellises, and even framed archways that she can already envision vines wrapping around.
However, the space is entirely in untamed. The definition of decrepit and defunct, there's no one here, not an ounce of life in the space. "What happened?" She questions, even if she's not looking at the Grisha, but around the space, images and flashes of ideas of what it could look like filling her mind.
"I suppose it fell into disuse after our last horticulturalist left years ago," he explains. "The Healers have their own small garden for tinctures herbs, so I guess there was no need."
"I didn't expect visitors." A voice calls out from one of the far corners. A gruff and older man stands from the spot where he'd been hunched over plucking up weeds. He wipes dirt from his gloves, slowly rounding one of the big main beds in the center of the space. There's a friendly smile on his lips, and a kind energy coming from him.
"Princess," Fedyor nods in polite greeting, "this is Bernard, our groundskeeper."
Sam steps forward instinctively, smiling brightly as she takes in the space in its entirety. "It's beautiful," she revels, her fingers skating along the worn wood lining one of the beds.
"Perhaps once," Bernard comments under his breath with an air of disappointment. That only motivates her ideas more.
"You said no one's using this place?" The Princess thinks aloud.
"No," Bernard answers with a shake of his head, "not anymore. Why?"
"Would it be alright if I used it, then?" Finally meeting the old man's eyes, there's a moment of silence where his expression shifts from one of confusion to understanding and hope. However, when he doesn't speak, she nervously explains. "It's just that- if no one's using it, and I've always been good with plants- I'd love to try and restore it! If... you wouldn't mind."
The old man hums contemplatively. "If you're serious, I have some materials in the back," Bernard offers.
Samantha looks down at her clothes, ready to roll up her sleeves, except, she's wearing a short sleeve dress. So, there's no need.
Fedyor watches on carefully, not only surprised by her kind treatment toward someone who's beneath her--a servant--but another otkazat'sya. She's not demanding, but asking respectfully. It's clear she's still not sure what her power means here, or perhaps not sure if she has any.
"Would it be possible for me to request a few supplies, to get started?" She questions, an uplifted spirit creating a spark in her eyes.
"You don't need permission," Fedyor speaks gently before the groundskeeper can. "You're the Princess. This is your home now too."
"Let me grab a piece of paper," Bernard mutters before walking off.
"Do you think this is sufficient? Or too much?" The Princess asks, scanning over the list of garden supplies scribbled on the parchment Bernard had lent her. Showing it to Fedyor, who sits in the armchair across the rug from where she sits in a matching chair, both before the fireplace.
The Grisha's eyes read over the listed supplies she's requesting. "If it's what you need, then it's not too much." There's a knock at the door as he hands the parchment back to her. It's refreshing to see this lighter side of her, a stark contrast to the woman he'd first walked in on earlier this afternoon. She certainly holds herself in a more carefree light now, having laughed, and smiled. If nothing else, Fedyor would think perhaps she feels a little more at ease in this new life now.
As the door opens, both occupants of the room turn to find the source. There stands another Grisha in a matching uniform to Fedyor, his hands clasped behind his back. It's the same one from this afternoon in the War Room. No words need be spoken as Fedyor rises from his chair, and Samantha blurts out quietly. "You're leaving?" Disappointment weighs heavy in her tone.
"Afraid so," he responds. While she hadn't consciously thought about the fact, she might consider Fedyor her first friend here at the Little Palace. And she doesn't want him to leave.
Before he can exit her vicinity, she instinctively reaches out, catching the edge of his sleeve tightly. "Do you have to?" It comes out as a whisper, her anxiety unhidden in tone as she looks up at him with worry, her eyes eventually darting toward Ivan and back.
This unexpected reaction elicits a falter in Fedyor's step. His hazel eyes find her own and a soft smile displays itself upon his lips. "Don't worry, Princess. I'll be back before you know it!" He throws a look over his shoulder, exchanging a knowing glance with Ivan before turning back to her with a grin. Bending down to whisper in her ear, he teases. "I don't think Ivan bites... well, not unless he's provoked."
Behind their backs, Ivan rolls his eyes. Fedyor always somehow seems to collect strays no matter where he goes. It's one of his redeeming qualities, something to be admired, but the notion never seems to fail at surprising Ivan time and time again. There's a faint smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, tempted to spread across his face, but he holds it back, eyes settling anywhere but the couple before him speaking of him not quietly enough that their words go unheard. Worst of all? He's not entirely sure it isn't purposeful, either.
"Are we done? Or shall I wait in the hall while you two write goodbye letters?" He questions, aiming to poke at Fedyor while also hoping his joke eases some of the girl's obvious discomfort.
Fedyor chuckles at this, and Samantha releases his sleeve with a small smile tinged with embarrassment. It was rather childish, though she's still wary of this other Grisha. "I will deliver this to the proper channels, and see you tomorrow, I'm sure. Goodnight," Fedyor announces, grabbing the finished list, offering a small wave and smile back at the princess over his shoulder. Brushing past Ivan into the hall, the door swings closed with a soft thunk, leaving only silence in its wake.
The Princess stares ahead, watching the small fire crackle within the hearth. Forced into her thoughts by the silence, she eventually turns her head toward the soldier still standing at attention by the door. "Ivan, right?" She asks.
All he offers in response is an affirmative nod. That eats away at her, the unnerving feeling of him simply watching her even when she faces the fire once more. She does her best to ignore it, to focus on a book that'd been sitting on the side table beside her chair and read, distract herself. Yet, she can't.
"Are you really just going to stand there the whole time?" She finally bursts, exasperation evident in her tone as her head rolls so she can meet his eyes.
"Is that a command, Princess?" Ivan asks with a lifted brow. His voice is smooth, flat, almost monotonous. He's not mocking her, exactly, just observing, cold.
At this, she release a sigh, eyes falling onto the opened book in her lap. She wouldn't even be able to describe what's going on considering she'd been so distracted. "No?" She questions, unsure why the silence is so unnerving. Usually, she has no problems with it. Most of the time she's someone who'd rather enjoy a bit of silence, however, she chalks it up to simply being in a new territory surrounded by unfamiliar faces. "I just... don't like... being watched like that," she admits, her lips softly pursed, discomfort plain on her face. "I'm more used to holding company, I suppose... not being watched like some prisoner."
Another bout of silence settles in the air.
"I also don't want you to get tired standing like that for too long." A chuckle leaves her lips as she'd considered the thought somewhat jokingly, having imagined in the silence how he might shift or grow exhausted from holding himself so poised for too long. "So... if you want, you can take a seat. I really don't mind," she gestures to the armchair Fedyor had previously been sat in.
There's no immediate movement, just the silent nod he gives. A quiet hum follows shortly, and she knows he's considering her words. She needn't even look up to know he's gauging the area. Instead, she goes back to the book in her lap, attempting to start over and truly digest the words this time around.
It's only as the sound of footsteps echoes throughout the small space that she lifts her head, offering him a small smile. It feels almost akin to gaining a wild's animal trust; something rare, but grounding. As the Grisha approaches the back of the empty chair, there's a knock at the door.
She stands, intent on getting it, however Ivan's already turned and easily crossed the room in just a few short strides. While she might otherwise curse being short, her nerves get the best of her. Who is it? Is it The General? She's not sure if she's quite ready to confront him again after their argument.
It's impossible to see around Ivan, or even through him, but as the door quietly shuts again the man turns, only to open a piece of folded parchment. Reading it, he glances up at her. "You've been summoned. Dinner," he informs.
"With who?" She asks, eyebrows furrowing just slightly.
He doesn't answer, simply raising a brow in response. Which, inherently is an answer in itself, she supposes.
Her lips part in surprise, not having expected to be summoned for dinner with him. Especially not after the explosive disagreement. "Should... I change?" She asks Ivan, head drooping as she looks over her outfit. When Sam finds his face again, she motions over her ensemble, almost ready to do a slow twirl for him if it'd help him make up his mind. Her eyebrow raises when he doesn't respond, The Princess obviously growing impatient.
"How should I know?" He asks.
A disappointed sigh leaves her chest. "I don't know!" She tosses her hands up, letting them fall back to her sides. Striding toward the vanity, she looks at herself. It's not that her outfit isn't presentable, it is, she always enjoys wearing her pretty and comfortable dresses. Yet, she isn't sure if it's enough.... if it's what The General would expect.
Her hair is still up in the ponytail she'd tossed it into after their argument, a sort of silent protest in light of the disagreement. Hair down for married women, hair up or braided if not. Knowing that The General is Ravkan only solidified the choice considering he most likely wouldn't know of the small meanings within the customs of her home country.
"Well... how do I look?" Samantha asks, finally turning to Ivan again. "I mean, do I look okay?" She prods.
"You look fine, Princess." Ivan offers a slight nod of his head in her direction, and while Sam doesn't immediately respond, her lips purse as she returns the gesture. It wasn't a thorough response, but it was enough.
Knowing that The General most likely sent the summons awhile ago considering the time it can take to hand deliver notes, she decides it's better not to waste time changing. If he'd given her more notice, then sure, perhaps she might try to dress up a little for him or even put on makeup. However, she doesn't have time tonight. Because who knows how far they'll have to walk to meet him? Reaching for the small whiteish-pink bottle of perfume she'd unpacked today, she spritzes a little of it on herself before walking toward the door.
"Do you know where we're going?" The Princess asks, curious, and somewhat excited to see the Dining Hall filled with all the people who'll likely be there. When Ivan doesn't respond, only side-stepping her once they exit her chambers, he gestures toward the door directly next to the one they'd come through. "Oh."
With a deep breath she steps toward the War Room's door, offering Ivan one last look over her shoulder before pushing the it open. She only opens it enough to slide in, the door closing behind her. "You summoned me?"
Summary: The second Prince of Ravka shows an interest in you, which causes division between you and your dæmon. Aleksander offers you some comfort and advice.
Warnings: mentions of anxiety
My Masterlist • Series Masterlist
There’s a touch of worry in your stomach, as your eyes wander through the crowd of people surrounding you. Fabian is out of sight - an uncomfortable and unfamiliar experience for you. There isn’t any pain, so he isn’t currently in danger or under any threat, but you don’t like not being able to see him.
Then, there’s the somewhat familiar sensation of Fabian being touched by another dæmon. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders. He must have spotted Aleksander and wandered off to greet Andromeda while you were talking to some of the older scholars.
But when you manage to find your dæmon, he isn’t coiled around the familiar form of Andromeda. Instead you find another fox dæmon, larger than Fabian, rubbing against him. Embarrassed by the behaviour of your soul, you hurry over and scold him in a low tone.
“Fabian, come here.”
A man places his hand on your forearm placatingly.
“No, leave him be. I don’t mind.”
Turning to look at the man, your eyes widen and your body burns in mortification.
“Moi tsarevich.”
He makes a dismissive gesture.
“Please, call me Nikolai.” His mouth quirks into a charming smile before you can offer any sort of protest. “I insist.”
The second son of the king, Prince Nikolai, is a known patron of education and knowledge, as well as travel and exploration. He has returned from his recent visit to Novyi Zem with golden hair and sun-kissed cheeks.
After giving him a small curtsey, you tell him your name and he inclines his head in a formal greeting before he looks down at your dæmon, still pinned between the paws of his own.
“Fabian. A handsome name for a handsome dæmon. Did your parents name him?”
Hoping he can’t see the heat spreading painfully over your face and down your neck, you shake your head.
“My father’s dæmon named him.”
“How lovely.”
Curiosity has your gaze flickering down to the prince’s dæmon. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the smirk that spreads over Nikolai’s features which makes you far too bashful to grasp the courage to ask for his dæmon’s name. He leans closer, dipping his head down to inform you.
“His name is Reynard.” When you turn and frown at him, he adds, “My dæmon.”
“Oh,” you stammer, flustered by his sudden proximity. At this distance, your eyes are level with his lips. “It’s a very nice name.”
His smile softens, as if your fumbling response is akin to an eloquent compliment.
“Thank you.”
Reynard’s fur is longer than Fabian’s, glossy and sleek as he spins dizzyingly around your dæmon before he pounces on him. They both roll around, tussling, and embarrassment prickles over your skin.
Nikolai asks you about your work and you stumble over your words as you attempt to hold a conversation with him. It’s hard to focus on anything when his dæmon is paying such attention to your Fabian. It makes you squirm, heat burning painfully through your body and you begin to fear that he can see how your heart is pounding.
Suddenly, the haze clouding your mind dissipates, replaced by an anxiety that weighs on your lungs. Fabian scampers away from Reynard, though he doesn’t retreat between your legs like he usually would. Instead, he seeks the safety of someone else.
“Lord Morozova,” Nikolai says with a dashing smile. The sight of Aleksander feels like being doused in cold water. He gives the prince a curt nod in response, his eyes moving slowly between the two of you.
“Your highness.”
The tension between them is palpable and you struggle to breathe clearly, hindered by your sudden anxiety caused by Fabian’s uncharacteristic rejection. Staring at your dæmon’s amber eyes, you feel a stab of hurt as he remains hidden behind Aleksander’s legs, finding refuge with him and Andromeda.
“I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I need some air.”
Aleksander murmurs your name softly, his voice filled with concern as he reaches for you, but you wave away his hand distractedly. There’s a tug on your heart, a sickening lurch in your stomach, as you walk away from your dæmon and when the distance becomes painful Fabian is forced to follow you out of the ballroom.
The two of you retreat into an empty room, away from the sounds of the party.
“What were you thinking - messing around with his dæmon like that in front of everyone?” you hiss in frustration as you close the door behind you.
“In front of Aleksander you mean,” he remarks bitterly, not even looking at you as he stalks further into the room. He turns back, directing his next words accusingly. “Did you even notice how Reynard was holding onto me?”
In all honesty, you hadn’t been able to focus on anything except holding onto Nikolai’s attention, even if it made you sick with nerves.
“You play like that with Andromeda,” you reason.
“I know Andromeda. I don’t know him.”
“I thought you had gone to him.”
“He grabbed me.”
That makes you pause, guilt settling in your stomach.
“I didn’t realise.”
“Because you like Nikolai,” he accuses.
“No I don’t,” you snap defensively.
The silence rings between you both. Fabian knows you’re lying, but you don’t want to admit it out loud. Nikolai is charming and you had been too distracted by his attention to notice your poor dæmon’s distress.
Sighing, you slump back against the wall, sliding down slowly to settle on the floor. It takes some nudging, but you finally manage to encourage your stubborn dæmon into sitting in your lap. He doesn’t look at you, even when you drape your arms around him.
“I’m sorry, Faby.” He huffs, turning his head further away from you. “I’m sorry for ignoring you.”
“And?”
“And for lying to you.”
He turns to face you.
“I don’t like him.”
“The prince?”
He nods.
“Then I won’t leave you alone with them again.”
There’s a knock at the door and Aleksander’s voice is low as he murmurs your name questioningly. For a moment, you stay quiet, but the sound of Andromeda scratching against the door has you reaching for the handle.
As you open the door, Aleksander steps forwards, his eyes flickering over your features as he examines your expression.
“Are you alright?”
He looks down at Fabian, who moves quickly towards Andromeda. She nuzzles her nose against his carefully, to ensure she doesn’t overwhelm the two of you.
“We’re going home,” Fabian says, which makes you look down at him sharply. It might not have crossed your mind to leave the party, but deep down you long for your bed. He turns his head, looking up at you pointedly and you nod in agreement.
“We’re going home.”
“Can I walk with you?” Aleksander asks.
“Aren’t you staying at the party?” He shakes his head and you frown in concern. “The Little Palace is on the opposite side of the city to the university.”
“I know.”
“Aleksander-”
“I want to see you home safely.” He glances down at Fabian again, before he adds, “Both of you.”
Fabian lifts his head up, licking at Aleksander’s fingers affectionately. He turns his hand slightly, allowing his fingers to smooth over the top of Fabian’s head before he responds with a fond scratch between his ears.
Warmth fills your chest, easing into your body at the sight of Aleksander with your dæmon. It’s a stark contrast to the anxiety you felt around Nikolai.
“Shall we?”
You nod.
The moment the door is opened, the sounds from the ballroom return to you and the world comes crashing down on you again.
Aleksander keeps his hand on the small of your back, his palm warm even through your clothing as he guides you towards the door. The night air is cool against your skin and a shudder rolls through your body. Subconsciously, you find yourself being drawn closer towards Aleksander, seeking his warmth.
The two of you stay in silence as you walk through the streets, but you can see him glancing at you occasionally, his lips parted as if he is about to speak. He doesn’t, and the lingering nerves from the party continue to run beneath your skin as the silence goes on. Until you can’t stand it any longer.
“What is it?” you ask him.
He regards you for a moment, as he seems to contemplate something.
“I want you to be careful around Prince Nikolai.”
“Why?”
“Have you heard of Braiker’s theory of dæmon manipulation?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, as it always does when you’re reminded of Aleksander’s genuine interest in your chosen field of study. Then you give his question some thought. Braiker’s theory suggests that a person could purposefully used their dæmon to influence someone else’s perception of them - that contact between dæmons can even cause an attachment between the humans.
“Yes, of course,” you say, looking at him with a small frown. Aleksander raises a brow pointedly at you, with brings your thoughts to a halt. “I- He wasn’t. Was he?”
“There’s no way of knowing for certain. But I would keep an eye on his dæmon if I were you.”
Immediately, you glance at Fabian with worry as he weaves his way along the pavement beside Andromeda. Guilt has you gnawing at your lower lip, you had abandoned him in that ballroom. Aleksander draws his arm around you, tucking you into his side. The momentum causes your temple to bounce against his chest and you leave it there, soaking in his comfort.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Aleksander assures you.
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
Sensing your distress, Fabian turns his head back to look at you.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says.
Fabian’s love for you is unconditional. But there are moments when you fear that your own soul might one day grow to hate you.
He turns back, weaving his way between your legs, coiling himself around you. Instantly, you bend down and take him into your arms. He nuzzles into your chest, nosing his way up your neck before licking affectionately at your cheek and you bury your face into his fur.
Aleksander rubs your back comfortingly and he seems to be itching to touch Fabian. But he doesn’t. Despite the darkened streets, you’re still in public after all.
When you reach the university, Aleksander remains by your side, even as you walk through the quiet corridors and up to your rooms. He only hesitates when you enter, turning back to look at him. Self-conscious, you lower your gaze and struggle to find the right words to coax him inside. Andromeda sits on the threshold, looking up at her human counterpart.
With Fabian still in your arms, you fidget with his ear, smoothing the fur between your thumb and forefinger in a self soothing motion. Swallowing hard, you draw up enough courage to ask,
“Would you like to come in?”
Aleksander nods, stepping forwards into your quarters. They aren’t as grand as his. The first room is a small study which you have filled to the brim with books. Through the next door is your bedroom, which has a tiny bathroom adjoined. Despite its size, it is the only home you’ve ever had for yourself and you take pride in it.
As you make your preparations for bed, Aleksander lights the fire, stoking the flames to warm the room for you. Once he’s done, he sits down on the armchair in the corner of your room and Fabian makes himself comfortable in Aleksander’s lap. Meanwhile, Andromeda stretches herself out on your bed.
Every time you walk by Andromeda, you offer her some sort of comforting touch - a scratch behind her ears or a pat to the head. Aleksander strokes his palm down the length of Fabian’s body and soon your dæmon is rolling over, offering his soft underbelly for affection.
When you settle at the head of your bed, Andromeda sits beside you, nuzzling affectionately at your face which makes you laugh softly, squeezing your eyes shut as you press your face further into her fur. Aleksander smiles softly as he stands, scooping Fabian up into his arms. He lowers your dæmon into your lap, placing a gentle kiss against your forehead.
“Good night,” he murmurs.
“Will you stay?” you ask in a whisper. He hesitates visibly and you can already hear his response. If he stays the night, someone will see him leave in the morning, and the rumours about you will never cease. “Just until I fall asleep.”
Aleksander stares at you for a long moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes before he nods. He sits down at the end of your bed, shuffling closer when you move towards the headboard. When you begin to wriggle under the covers, he holds your quilt for you, before tucking you in himself.
Fabian buries himself against your chest and you subconsciously begin to thread your fingers through his fur. Andromeda settles down by your side as your dæmon closes his eyes.
“Tell us something,” you murmur quietly. She tilts her head at you.
“About?”
A shy smile tugs at your lips and your eyes flutter sleepily as you murmur,
“Aleksander.”
She gives you a fond look, crossing her paws in front of herself as she settles comfortably to consider your request.
“What do you know about his grandfather?”
“Not much.”
“His dæmon was a stag. When he settled, they had to alter all the doorways in the manor because his antlers meant he was too wide to move from room to room.”
A soft laugh escapes you at the thought of a stag wandering through a lavish mansion, butting his antlers into every doorway.
“What form did his grandmother’s dæmon take?”
“A hare.”
“A very woodland themed family.”
She hums in agreement.
“Aleksander loved his grandparents dearly. They were better parents to him than his mother ever was.”
“His mother’s still alive,” you state cautiously. Aleksander doesn’t talk about his family very often, but you know his relationship with his mother is difficult. Andromeda nods slowly.
“She is.”
“What’s her dæmon like?”
“He’s a vulture.”
“Oh,” you say softly. Vultures are scavengers, they sit solitary at the edge of society and feed on whatever scraps they can wrangle for themselves. Someone with a vulture dæmon is typically self serving and preys on weakness. A stark contrast to Aleksander’s soft spoken yet fiercely loyal dæmon. “Does he speak?”
“Not to humans. If he talks to a dæmon it’s usually only to share a cutting remark or an insult, in my experience. I don’t even know his name.”
“Cassian,” Aleksander says quietly. Both you and Andromeda turn to look at him. “Baghra’s dæmon,” he clarifies at the sight of your confusion. “His name is Cassian.”
“He sounds horrible,” you remark.
Aleksander’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, as he stares into the space between you. He rubs at the back of his hand in a repetitive manner, his thumb circling over a particular patch of skin.
“After Andromeda settled, Baghra increased her efforts to drive us apart. Whenever I reached out to touch her, Cassian would bite my hand.”
“I don’t remember that,” Andromeda says in a low tone. He strokes her head firmly, a sombre expression on his face.
“It was either me or you. I couldn’t let her hurt you.”
She turns her head, licking his fingers in a rare show of outright emotion towards her human. Aleksander continues to stroke his hand down her body, his eyes fixed on the way her fur moves. Firelight flickers over them both and your eyes grow heavier with each passing moment.
Aleksander turns his head, his gaze falling onto you and he smiles softly at the sight of you fighting sleep.
“After my grandparents died, I inherited the manor.” He leans forwards, reaching for Fabian. He strokes your dæmon slowly. “We could go there together, away from prying eyes. It’s at its most beautiful in the springtime.”
His hand traces over Fabian’s spine, his fingertips dipping into every notch of bone. It fills your body with pleasurable tingles that makes your thighs shake and a haze creeps over your thoughts.
“I’d like that.”
Aleksander smiles indulgently, his voice lowering to a low whisper.
“You would?”
You hum in affirmation. Then a frown creases at your brows.
“S’not fair.”
His smile widens as he tilts his head at you.
“What’s that, darling?”
“You can’t stroke Fabian like that and expect me to stay awake.”
He chuckles fondly, his other hand brushing delicately over your cheek.
“My soft, sleepy girl. You need your rest.”
Defeated, you bury your face into your pillow with a pout puckering at your lips in protest. Fabian’s breathing is already becoming even as he begins to fall asleep and soon you will too. Aleksander brushes his hand over your hair gently, while his other hand strokes between Fabian’s ears. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
Writing for one story, when a song comes on from your playlist that reminds you of another husband from another universe, meanwhile that husband is technically played by the same person as a side character in the story you're writing. oh, the irony.
So how do we think it felt for Kylo to realize that he had not in fact killed his abuser but that his abuser was not even a real person and there were dozens of copies of him floating in tanks
I have to say that I will never forgive Activision for essentially dropping MW3 and forgetting it once BO6 came out.
I finally played a little again tonight, and I just know if they still had BattlePass for it and such, I'd still be on there everyday. Now I log on, only to see that less than a year after BO6, there's BO7?! Make it make sense.
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
