ice boy

sergei valke drüskelle turned martyr wanden olstrum end kendesorum. isen ne bejstrum. the water hears and understands. the ice does not forgive.

[sergeivalke-blog]

stasyabelov:

A weight was lifted off of Stasya’s heart the moment Sergei offered his arm. Perhaps it was foolish to get so worked up over so little, but it wouldn’t be the first time they read too far into a lull in conversation. Still, they recognized the piteousness in relying so much on a stranger’s validation. Regardless, they felt less anxious than they had only moments ago, and they were desperate to escape their thoughts for a bit. The man next to them was a welcome distraction, and maybe exactly the kind of person they needed to be around in their current state. When they linked their arm with his, the worry faded almost completely. They were content with his haphazard smile, momentarily convinced that one off day wouldn’t be the end of the world.

The question that escaped his lips wasn’t foreign to Stasya’s ears. They’d heard time and time again that they apologized too often, and usually the observation came with a hint of criticism. Apologies were second nature to them, always lingering at the tip of their tongue. They didn’t want to blame their beginnings, but their time at the Keramzin orphanage taught them to always walk on eggshells. When they were a child, “sorry” was their shield–and they were a creature of habit, even now. But none of that was what Sergei wanted to hear.

“Sorry if that’s bothersome,” Stasya hadn’t thought before speaking, and it showed. They allowed a brief laugh as they started the walk toward the palace, shaking their head in lighthearted disappointment at their own utterance. “Some people bite their nails, I apologize profusely.” 

It was fascinating, the way this dove seemed capable of ruffling his feathers.

What was it about this witch that made Sergei feel they were so utterly, fragiley, incandescently human? It was bordering on the edge of his reason, teetering on the precipice of everything that Sergei had ever been taught about the Grisha, this burning flash of humanity that he saw in the Grisha whose name he had still yet to learn. What was wrong with his hatred? Why did it seem to have abandoned him? One would think he’d be glad to get rid of so much anger, even if he knew it was temporary, even if he knew the darkness would settle back into his lungs in no time, there was no gladness in Sergei. The softness he was showing this witch felt almost unbearable.

He smiles a little smile, bile suspiciously absent from the back of his throat. I apologize profusely, they say. Your existence begs apology, should have been his knee jerk reaction; he should have then carried the conversation into a cruel tête-à-tête between executioner and the soon to be dead, but the words were lost on his lips before he even had the chance to think them. 

“Well, if it’s forgiveness you seek then I am happy to offer it like the saint that I am,” comes out instead, a clever little wink accompanying it. He felt strangely infected, and though he was loathe to admit it -- he was enjoying it.  

[sweetz]

Everyone: you need to have empathy for people >:|

Me:

[sergeivalke-blog]

gemmapavlova:

She is dizzy, chandelier-warmed and champagne-tipsy, and it’s a feeling altogether unfamiliar, not unlike the company she now keeps; she can hardly recall the name of the woman she last spoke to, let alone the names of all the others that came before her, and even if she hadn’t had a flute or two to ease her barely-dwindling nerves after the performance, she’s certain it would make no real difference at all (and that’s the only thing she can be certain of).

She can’t imagine how they do it, the royals and those privileged enough to reside at court—memorizing every name, every title, every profession and barely distinguishable coat or arms—but she thinks it must be something they’re bred for, introduced to at a young age. She’s not fit for it.

The next in a growing line of utterances of sun summoner draws her gaze to her right, and when her eyes settle on a rather striking nobleman—with eyes that had refused to settle on one shade, and had instead each claimed their own—she dips her head. “You are not, my lord.” It’s surprisingly easy, exchanging false pleasantries—and it only gets easier with time, a well-oiled machine of poise and platinum etiquette. Delicately tugging the chair beside him from beneath the table, she sinks into it, hands smoothing out the silk of her kefta. “Where do you hail from?”

My lord, she calls him. He nearly gags. 

Instead, he smiles. 

Instead, he lies.

“North, near Chernast actually,” he lies, but Sergei had always been taught that the best lies had held a hint of the truth. “Well, I suppose not exactly near. Nothing is near Chernast, but that’s the closest landmark to the village I grew up in.” 

Sergei is surprised by how easy is it to lie, by how easy it is for him to weave together stories and talk about them as though they are fact and not fable. She’s different than he would have expected, slimmer maybe, more fragile looking. This was the girl meant to conquer the humans? Meant to bring an end to everything that his people held near and dear -- this doe-eyed, honey-wheat haired bird-thin girl was supposed to ruin it all? She looked about as threatening as the dolls his Maya had once sewn together. This was going to be easy. 

“And please, I’m no lord. You can call me Sergei, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

[sergeivalke-blog]

stasyabelov:

Stasya has spent years perfecting a facade that is all the best parts of them. It’s patient, it’s kind, and it’s steady. Sometimes, Stasya’s convinced that’s the only reason people gravitate toward them. Who wants a version of them that isn’t neatly packaged and tied together with a bow? Surely this stranger doesn’t. They’d made the mistake of falling apart in front of a witness, of admitting to falling apart–and they’d allowed their positive outlook to slip. No one wants that. Sergei was playful only a moment ago, and now he’s calling them bleak. Stasya knows immediately that they’ve made a mistake.

Though they’ve always been observant, Stasya rarely observes the right things. They’ll catch on to subtle changes, but they won’t correctly identify the catalyst. It’s a pattern they have no idea how to break. So, now, sensing that the brief conversation has taken a steep decline, they blame themself. In an attempt to save it, they stand a bit taller and straighten out their kefta. “Sorry,” they say out of habit. They’re not sure exactly what they’re apologizing for, but they know something calls for an apology. Perhaps it’s the wind they’ve created, or the fact that they made someone they hardly know sit on ice for too long–or perhaps they’ve just allowed their pristine packaging to tear too many times. “I’m not bleak–or, not usually. I mean, my outlook isn’t… bleak.”

Stasya clears their throat, acutely aware that they’ve fixed nothing. They’re sure that, by now, the best move is to get off the ice and have a better conversation another day. For a moment they wonder why they’re so intent on being liked by someone they don’t know at all, but the truth of the matter is they’re always like this. The worse their mood, the more validation they need–and validation is hard to come by lately. They huff, refusing to walk away. “I could walk you back to the palace, if you want?”

Do you want to?

The words almost pass by his lips, and he cannot for the life of himself figure out why. Why does he care if this witch, this abomination, wants to or not? At what point did he recognize the desires of these creatures? Where had this softness come from? He was surprised by it, and not in the pleasant kin of manner. He was thrown by it, felt his teaching giving way to such a loathsome feeling as sentimentality for a witch. It almost makes him tremble, almost makes his jaw shake, but he plucks his heartstrings and plucks and plucks until finally they snap.

There were very few ways to cure the plague of fondness for softness, and Sergei found that this worked best -- closing himself off from them, reminding himself that he was staring into the eyes of a snake-hearted problem. 

“I would be foolish to deny myself the company,” he says, extending an olive branch int he form of the crook of his arm. He forces his lips to curl into something of a smile, though it hesitates for a minute on the lines of his face before looking genuine. Perhaps he’s made a mistake, found an error, a flaw in his plan. Gain their trust, he’d thought. Gain their trust and the whole court will love you. But perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps the better plan would have been to come in invisible and stay invisible. “Do you often make a habit of apologizing for things that don’t beg an apology?”

Well, he was exposed now. He at least ought to make the best of it. 

[sergeivalke-blog]

stasyabelov:

Stasya feels better, a bit more clear-headed, after catching sight of a genuine smile. They’d felt so out of control just moments ago, but now they’re sat next to someone who doesn’t know their mistakes–someone they can speak lightly with. The bit of laughter from his direction is enough to make them feel more balanced, more restrained. They’re thankful for it. In fact, his smile is making them smile, too. 

But then it’s gone in an instant.

They don’t know what’s responsible for the mood shift, and they don’t know where to start. Perhaps they’d gotten ahead of themself. Perhaps they aren’t in control at all. They suppress their smile in return, listening to his words but not truly understanding them. They nod after a moment. “I guess you’re right,” they reply, “I guess everything gets unpleasant after too long.”

Another moment passes before they’re standing, careful not to slip in the process. They brush the snow off their kefta out of habit. “Thanks for pretending like you didn’t notice I’m…uh, falling apart,” Stasya sends a meek smile in his direction, offering a hand without much hesitation. “Need help up, or are you waiting for the cold to seep into your bones?”

He sees it in them, the recognition, the understanding. 

He finds himself infected by the begrudgingly persistent feeling of respect at the realization or their perceptiveness. There are a great many people out there that would have missed it, the way he controlled himself, the way he pulled himself back from the precipice and back into the land of safety. His smile was warm, a lazy and lovely thing that he had spent years crafting and cultivating. He chuckles again at their next words, a cool, low rumble in the bottom of his chest. A shake of his head, a glance down at his knees, down at the ice below him. 

He lets the moment pass, crafts a response that won’t give away how desperately he loathes this situation. A response that won’t give away how desperately he does not loathe sitting here, with them, with the witch -- the abomination. If only he hadn’t spent so long thinking, hadn’t wasted precious moment contemplating the best way to interact with them. Maybe then he would have been able to avoid touching them, would have been able to avoid brushing the pads of his fingers against the palm of their hand, would have been able to avoid wrapping his hand around theirs so deftly it felt like a lovers embrace. At least, to him it did. To him it felt like the kiss of death.

The first Grisha he had touched without an intent to kill, with no intent to destroy of hurt or maim. This Grisha would live on, even as he releases their hand, they would go on to live another day. 

His ambitions were singing, were screaming. 

“That’s quite a bleak outlook to have,” he says instead, pulling away from them even without taking a step back, putting a distance between them and himself with the flourish of a single sentence. Such is the way of the lone soldier.  

[sergeivalke-blog]

ritajakov:

“Of course, please,” she gestures to the table with a warm smile upon her face. He’s so handsome, and yes, of course that is the first thing she takes note of, leaning in as he sits across from her, dropping the piece of bread in her hand in favor of knitting her fingers together atop the table. But his eyes, despite the fascinating dual colors, there’s something lurking behind his gaze; she’s had enough practice and experience to know: pretty faces always harbor dark secrets. But it elicits excitement from her rather than fear.

“Rita,“ she says, extending her hand across the table, "Jakov.” She finishes with a tilt to her head and a sweep of her golden locks across her shoulders. And a small blush appears upon her cheeks, subtle but noticeable, at the introduction. “You’re new, aren’t you? I’ve not seen you before…?” She trails off, ever-so-lightly ending her statement with an upturn to her voice so as to inquire his name. But her face says otherwise, nose lightly scrunched and eyes narrowed. What’s your secret? She thinks, but instead tears her eyes away and pops a piece of bread into her mouth.

What do you do with the weight of history on your shoulders? How had all of the great kings of history past spend their waking hours? How did the Gods pass the time when they were not slaying each other? When a war was to be fought in the shadows? Answer: love. Answer: lust. This is how Sergei approaches most situation in Ravka. 

This is why he says “Sergei Valke” with a tilt to his mouth that could only be described as hungry. 

This is why when the witch sitting across from his bats her lashes like some kind of siren, when the witch sitting across from his attempts to cast spells and lure him in as prey -- he lets her. It was nice, in a vague, dastardly kind of way, getting to play pretend and look deeply into the eyes of a foreign beauty. Life was a series of opposites attracting, after all, of at least all of the memorable, interesting parts were, and this moment was exactly that. The doe and the stag. The wolf and the lamb. The angel and the devil -- though, to be fair, the role of who was which could be argued for days on that last count. 

This is why he takes her hand in his and does the only thing she might not expect him do, why he lifts her slender fingers to his lips and pressed his mouth to the hard knuckles there. 

“Yes, I’m new, so we wouldn’t have met before,” he says, offering nothing else. If she wanted from him, he would give, he would feed her his lies until she choked on them. 

[sergeivalke-blog]

stasyabelov:

The voice Stasya hears is unfamiliar, and they direct their blush toward the ground in an attempt to keep their last shred of dignity. They keep their head bowed as the person finds a seat next to them. It’s an unconventional gesture–less humiliating than being helped up, to be sure–but it makes them realize how ridiculous they must have looked, fallen over and making no good effort to stand. To any onlooker, though, they might look like two friends purposefully conversating on the ice. 

After their own curiosity gets the best of them, they finally lift their gaze from the ground to the man next to them. His face is more familiar than his voice; they’ve seen him wandering halls and making appearances at events. His name, however, does not come to them. They’re sure they’ve heard it before, hanging from somebody’s lips, but they can’t remember. Despite the unfamiliarity between them, he manages to make them smile–something meek but genuine.  

“I’m okay, I just like the cold,” they answer after a moment of silence. It’s the closest thing to a joke that they’ve managed in a long time. The wind around them settles, finally falling completely silent. “Besides, you’re sitting here of your own volition, so it can’t be too uncomfortable.”

He sits, his ass colder than he would prefer but it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before, nothing he hasn’t experienced ten-fold in his past. It was frightening, really, the ways in which his body had adapted to the cold, the very marrow of his bones turning to ice, the blood flowing through his veins closer to the snow he had made a home of for so many years. The ice was familiar; the ice was safe. 

“This is true,” he says, a tongue in cheek kind of response, an untamable smile making its way across his features. The ice was familiar, the ice was safe, an the almost-but-not-quite warmth he feels around this witch makes him uncomfortable. What makes him more uncomfortable is that the smile isn’t fake at all, that he is genuinely amused by their comeback. What makes him most uncomfortable is that his mind hadn’t made a single solid attempt to stifle the smile, that the laughter on his tongue comes unheeded and unhindered -- “fortunately enough for you.”

He pauses, and controls the smile he’d given with reckless abandon. One moment passes. Two. Three. Barely a single second beats by before he’s continuing, remembering how much he loathes the creature before him.

“No one really likes to sit out in the cold.” Maybe this is a lie. Maybe he remembers his months spent in wilderness with a particular fondness. Maybe his months in the wilderness are the exact reason he can’t imagine genuinely enjoying the cold, only able to appreciate it completely in small flashes --  a whip of wind against his cheeks as he darts from building to building, the sound of snow underfoot. “They like it for a few minutes, maybe little bit longer, but eventually the cold seeps into your bones and you can’t help but crave some warmth.” 

[sergeivalke-blog]

DON’T LET THEM KNOW WHAT YOU’RE AGAINST DATE: Dec 21st, 9:30pm LOCATION: The Winter Fete AVAILABILITY: @gemmapavlova​

It would have been easy enough to just let her walk by, to keep his eyes trained on the blinding white hair and black kefta from afar, but she was there, and she was making it so easy -- she flits from person to person, from conversation to dance with a particular kind of unease he knew well. She was as much an outsider here as he was, and that was an interesting evaluation indeed. 

Suddenly he’s rising from the seat as she flits by, and he actually acknowledges her presence as though she’s human, not beast. “Sun Summoner,” he says, the curve of his mouth warm, his words welcoming, not expectant. “Would you sit with me, a moment, perhaps?” Light dances in his eyes the same way he had seen it dancing along her fingertips earlier, and he bows his head slightly, not ashamed -- but bashful. (He was better at this than he thought.) “Two outsiders surrounded by people who’ve known each other for years. Tell me, am I wrong in thinking we could be friends?” 

[sergeivalke-blog]

stasyabelov:

date: december 31st location: the lake availability: open to all

Stasya never used to spend much time at the lake. This was mostly due to how many Grisha practiced their powers there, and how little interest they had in the recreational use of powers. If anyone asked, though, it was because the garden was so close by–and they much preferred the garden. Lately, however, the lake had offered a lot more in terms of distraction. They spent a concerning amount of time sitting in the cold with their wind rustling their curls, and today was no different. Out here–alone and undisturbed–it was finally easy to clear their mind.

They stood now in the middle of the frozen lake, a heavy breeze dancing around them. It was remarkable how sturdy they were, unaffected by the torturous storm they were brewing. Admittedly, their power was getting away from them. They hadn’t meant to brew cyclones and ominous clouds–but doing so kept them away from the problems they couldn’t bear to solve. They were so intensely focused, so in their own world, that it took them a few moments to notice the person at the other side of the lake. 

The wind they’d created was getting out of hand, especially for such a public display. They realized this as they watched how it affected the other person, and finally they lowered their hands and attempted to stop the mess they were making. As the wind slowed, it slipped from their control, entwining itself in-between Stasya’s legs. Unable to stop it and unable to catch their balance, they fell to their knees. The ice was unwelcoming, sending a chill through their spine and bruising the parts of their legs it’d made contact with. Their breathing was as heavy as the wind they’d harbored, but even as the cyclones halted and the wind quieted, they couldn’t slow their breath. They weren’t sure they could even stand.

So, instead of standing, they pressed their palms to the slick ice beneath them and tried not to mind the cold. They briefly glanced at the person on the other side of the lake, praying to the saints that the person hadn’t noticed them. Just stand, they ordered themself–but their body didn’t listen. Their stomach tossed and turned, their arms shook, and they were reminded of why ignoring their ailments was nothing but a bad thing.

He watches the entire scene from the background, hiding in the shadows as he did so well.

Sergei has seen them around the little palace in their few exploratory excursions, to be sure; they were difficult to miss. To be fair to the others, Sergei had to give credit to the fact that Sergei’s gaze was often drawn to any and all of the witches who came into his line of sight; they was always something other-worldly about that lot, something in the curve of their brows, in the glow that emanated from beneath their skin, and not just from the Sun Summoner but from all of them. Sergei had never spent so much time around so many witches all at once, and the ones he had spent time with had been subject to the sharp end of his blade. 

But this one, with a swollen belly and the kind of curls that Sergei wanted to just get lost in, they intrigued him. Disgusted and terrified him, still, as they all did, but intrigued him nonetheless -- which is why he had stared with eyes completely fixated as they let themselves get so clearly lost in their abilities. 

It almost made Sergei’s stomach roll, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t quite believe he was carrying himself step by step, one foot in front of the other, until finally he was close enough that he was sure they might hear him if he spoke. 

“I don’t think they noticed anything, though I can’t say the same thing for myself.” He pauses, begins to reach out a stray hand to help them come to their feet, before he thinks better of touching them and moves to sit on the cold ice beside them instead. “Are you alright? I can’t say it’s a very comfortable seat, so I can’t understand why you’d be down here of their own volition.”  

[sergeivalke-blog]

ritajakov:

A GIRL SHOULDN’T HAVE TO EAT ALONE

DATE: January 2nd LOCATION: The Mess Hall STATUS: Open to all

She sits alone, which is not unusual for someone like her: not particularly liked by many of her own people yet appreciated more by those she differs drastically from. Sure, she has her friends, her allies, her lovers, but even that list is short and is not limited to Grisha. And despite lunch being a rather social affair for those around her, her table remains quiet and she continues to eat alone, or as she would say: solace. But Rita is nothing if not talented at making herself appear more interesting, more appealing than she actually may be, not to say she isn’t both things quite naturally, but when lost in a sea of people, one needs to stand out, and Rita Jakov must.

Each bite of food is taken slowly, lips curved upwards into a smirk as if she has a secret so juicy it begs to be told; and each sip of her drink is taken with a raise to her brow as if she knows gossip so salacious, it must be shared. It seems to be working because someone approaches and she greets them with a warm smile, placing her drink back atop the table and leaning in.

“Leaving? Or staying?”

Sergei hadn’t been at court nearly long enough to recognize the nameless Grisha girl for who she was -- the tailor, the witch who could morphe features and change a man into someone else entirely. If he hadn’t known that he was in witch territory, hadn’t known that the so-called Little Palace was overrun and invested by the creatures, he might have even wanted to turn on the charms he so very rarely got to make use of. She was beautiful, in the conventional, earth-shattering kind of way -- yes, if he hadn’t known better he’d have been attracted to her. 

As it was, he knew better.  

She speaks and her words come out, tangled together with coyness and confidence. Two could play at that game, and so taking his cues from her he begins. “Staying, if you’ll have me,” he says, slipping down into the seat across the table, and he keeps his eyes trained on her own as though they are two magnets working in tandem. “I’m afraid I don’t know many people here.”

Talk less, he thinks to himself. He didn’t need words to woo her into trust.   

[quantumchild-deactivated2016120]

Yes, this is a war zone. Yes, blood has been spilled here. A warning: It has never been mine.

Salma Deera, Medea Dares You (via softalina)

[yenvengerberg]

Is it really a competition if I always win?

[tristamateer]

so the boy is not a wolf– but he bites like one. when you tell everyone he has teeth, he just smiles and smiles.

ON NOT SAYING WHAT YOU REALLY MEAN IN THE FACE OF TRAUMA, Trista Mateer  (via tristamateer)

[sinicalprincess-deactivated2019]

I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody, and in all its moods, I see myself.

Martin Buxbaum (via boggymun)

[sweatywisdom]

“Remember why you started.”

[quoted-books]

I planted a seed of hatred in my heart. I swore it would grow to be a massive tree whose roots would strangle them all.

Ruta Sepetys, from Between Shades of Gray (via aegeane)

[history-in-pictures]

He tried to be Russian down to the smallest details of his personal life. He claimed…that a true Russian should not be too highly polished in his manners, that he should have a touch of something like brutality

General A.A. Mossolov on Tsar Alexander III (via history-in-pictures)