#rarclosed

[iskraraevsky-blog]

welcome to your gilded cage 

@gemmapavlova

   Of course, it had been tasked to her to drag the Sun Summoner to the winter fete, like an unwilling pup that still had yet to learn the meaning of a leash. Sun Summoner. It was an adjustment she was not entirely sure how to make, calling the flaxen-haired neo-Sankta that. There was a schism between the pale blonde that she knew as a child and the one that was presented to her now – trapped inside her room like a prized bird whose wings were clipped so that she might not fly away. The thought of trapping someone she had once known, in a life she likely did not want and did not care for – Iskra, herself having a hand in it – was distasteful to make her lip curl. It was one of the rare moments were she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and kept her damn mouth shut as the king and his courtiers quipped back and forth about the worth of this flesh and blood prize. They seemed to have conveniently forgotten that she had a heart, a soul, and a will of her own. No, to them she was another Grisha. Another expendable soldier that would likely be lost in the war against the living, breathing darkness that dug its claws into the soil of the land.

       Had she really muttered that all under her breath? She paused with her fist raised to knock against the door, eyebrows furrowing together as she tried to recall her actions.

    She was almost sure that she had – her fist lowered as she rubbed her chin because this was really becoming a problem. If she spoke without thinking as often as everyone said she did then some very private information could likely spill out of her like wine out of a drunk man’s cup; haphazardly and everywhere. No, this was an issue that needed to be rectified before it became a problem. Straightening up she mentally went over what she would do once Gemma opened the door. First, she needed to determine whether or not she would act like Gemma’s abandonment of their friendship never happened. Then she would –

      Her mouth parted as the door opened and a hand porcelain face peeked out of the door.

     “Oh – Gem – moi soiv – Gemma.” Off to a fantastic start, Iskra, really. One word stumbled over the other as if Ravkan were suddenly a novelty to the inferni. Stupid? Yes. Tongue tied? Often.

    “I am going to escort you to the ballroom. You’re welcome.”

[stasyabelov-blog]

date: december 21 location: the balcony availability: closed to @ritajakov​

Despite wanting to leave, Stasya knew they could never allow themself to--at least, not yet. If they left this early, guilt would find them in the silent hours of night. Or, perhaps, curiosity would eat at them for the rest of the week. They hated to think they might miss something, and though there was rarely anything to miss at fetes, the fear was enough to keep them circulating the ball room despite their escalating sickness. They could feel the cold sweat building up on the back of their neck, the aching of their feet, the knots in their stomach begging for relief.

Instead of leaving, though, they retreated to the balcony. A bit of cool air always went a long way, and the snowflakes that melted on their warm cheeks were enough to momentarily put them at ease. It was a pleasant break, too, from the endless chatter of the night--the words that meant so little to everyone who spoke them. On the balcony, the prattling was so muffled that it was almost comforting. Stasya loved people and all their foolish ways, but sometimes they were much more tolerable--much less exhausting--from afar.

When the door opened behind them, Stasya immediately tensed. It wasn’t so much that they were trying to ward off conversation--such a task would be foolish to undertake on a night when conversation was so abundant--but rather, they weren’t in a mood to be taken off-guard. Their stomach was still churning, and they would much rather be in full control of who they were talking to and when. Upon glancing over their shoulder, however, Stasya’s posture relaxed. Rita, their mind sighed. Rita had always been a sight for sore eyes--even as they grew apart, and even when Rita developed into someone they didn’t quite recognize.

Stasya allowed an easy smile to settle on their lips. “Come to stargaze?”

[iskraraevsky-blog]

don’t take that sinner from me

@valerianpetrov

    How long had she been looking for him now? The seconds had bled into minutes, the minutes wasting away into hours, the hours withering away -- taking with it any hope she might have had of seeing him. She was in great need of the services he provided her with; an unerring knack for unshackling her fetters of responsibility and setting her free. Although, free was perhaps too gentle a word for what she felt. Not wholly encompassing in the way that she felt, somewhat lackluster in the value that it held. When she was with him she became unhinged, uninhibited, and almost unlike herself. However, she was still held on to enough of her whims to know that she should be ashamed of what she does, what she says, and the way she acts when she’s with him. But shame is not meant for creatures like her. 

     Shame is not meant for the moments she shares with him.

     Disappointment, however, she can very much indulge in when she is alone. With one last glance at Anton ( and end to the fete, at this point, would be a mercy to the both of them -- no doubt ) she grabbed a flute of champagne from a bustling servant and made her way to the balcony that was littered with statues, lush with the greenery of long-lived vines. Their company was much more preferable to the Grisha who thought her a lover of the ambitious humans and the humans who thought her a subservient abominable Grisha. The pain of her luckless relationships was only sharpened by the reminder that the Sun Summoner was among one of the first to shove the knife of abandonment into her back. A wound which was neither clean nor fully healed -- had neither scabbed nor scarred. 

    “Fris als de lucht buiten en het bloed in mijn aderen.” Fresh as the air outside and the blood in my veins.

    The Kerch on her tongue was comforting, but not as comforting as the alcohol that coated it as she downed her drink. Sighing, she went to place the empty glass into the awaiting hand of the statue beside her -- only to realize that the statue’s hand was not awaiting. Her glass shattered as a smile painted across her features, completely oblivious to the wreckage that lay at her feet.

    She quickly dimmed the smile, opting instead for a purse of her lips that made it look as if she were reprimanding her companion for his tardiness. “Valerian. Took you long enough to find me.”

[iskraraevsky-blog]

crows make better company than you.

@altanyulsuhe​

    She crossed her arms as she leaned back against the column, eyes tracking Anton listlessly. Her eyes always dragged back to him no matter which way she looked, watchful and wary -- aching a bit at seeing the ever-present smile on his face. It was not fake, not really, but there was not the warmth in it that she adored. Warmth. She wanted to feel it right now, as the frost seemed to settle so deeply into the castle that not even the warmth of the many flames that crowded the room seemed to be enough to dispel it. 

   No, wrong, the frostiness was actually the result of an unwelcome presence encroaching on her much-needed solitude. 

    There were two ways to go about this: pretend as if she was unaware of this abomination that slunk ever-nearer to her -- or turn around and make apparent the look of disgust on her face by, well, making a look of disgust on her face. She opted for the former, hoping that ignoring him might be enough to dissuade him from opening his rose-bud mouth. 

     “I’d sure like to stuff a stocking in that pretty mouth of yours if it kept you from breathing so loudly.”

      So much for sticking to the former. It’s just that he breathed so damn loud.

      Dogs caught in the heat of a midsummer day panted less loudly than he.

[iskraraevsky-blog]

when fires die, coals remain

@arseniist

    She had been eyeing him from across the room in hopes that she might spot his ever-present companion, Valerian. They usually came attached at the hip, save for the few moments ( nights ) that she managed to catch the other alone. When she was with Valerian, she did not feel the same irritation that she often assumed Arsen had for her after being transferred into the king’s personal service. Now, when she confronted another Inferni there seemed to be nothing but frost in eyes that had once carried kindred flames. Had once curled their lips in a smile of greeting.

      “...There seems to be nothing but hate coming from you when we used to train together.”

   Iskra paused, her mouth slightly ajar in the realization that she had truly spat those words out like cold porridge. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back, seeming as if she truly meant those words. Crossing her arms, she cocked her head to the side with a small smile. Just pretend you meant to say it, pretend you meant to say it, pretend you meant to say it...

    “Too good to talk to little Iskra?”

[iskraraevsky-blog]

saints and martyrs are one in the same – tragedy and love is too. 

@stasyabelov

    Even though it was made by her fellow Grisha, she blamed the kefta for the incurable itchiness she was feeling. At first she assumed it was her anxiousness and discomfort over this damned event – for the singular fact that the Sun Summoner, the Darkling, and the Crown Prince were within the same room was enough to make anyway faint from the thrill of it all. Or, in Iskra’s case, it was enough to make anyway itchy with utter stress. But no, she shouldn’t be this distressed. It was not as if suddenly the two men she served were suddenly going to try and capture her former childhood best friend like an exotic bird and stuff her in a cage, teasing her with the occasional treat so as to keep her singing. 

    “Of course that’s not going to happen,” she muttered to herself as she ran her nails up and down her arm, somewhat violently. Surely, it was the kefta that was to blame for this. People like Iskra simply did not get distressed, no. 

    “Anton wouldn’t –” for the sake of his country, he would. “The Darkling is better –” no, she could not even be bothered to grant him the benefit of the doubt. 

    So, she did the natural thing, and tried to spark a flame – a source of comfort, a slight reprieve from the itchiness that was her anxiety manifest. But just as the spark leapt from her fingers, catching onto someone’s sleeve. Before they could notice, Iskra grabbed them, snuffing out the flame that started to lick at their clothing. 

    She looked up with a bright smile on her face, feeling it falter somewhat as she realized who she had unintentionally stumbled into. “Oh. Stasya. I didn’t think that you would be coming.” That was a really stupid thing to say, of course they’d be coming. 

      “….of course you’d be coming.” It seems like all her energy on watching what she said had been expended on the Darkling.

[iskraraevsky-blog]

sometimes the most courageous thing to do is say goodbye.

@daryavoronov​

    Her fingers brushed the crumbs off the sleeve of her uniform jacket, lips pursing in contemplation. She should be courteous, shouldn’t she? Perhaps another honey cake would help her decide. Honey cakes were good at that -- very decisive tools that could enable a person to be in an elated enough mood to want to be the better person. Either that, or they made one want to indulge in the sweetness of their meanness once more. Her eyes cast about, searching for the treat that would decide the fate of Darya Voronov’s future encounter with Iskra. Now, mind you, Iskra was not a naturally mean person. No, she had the natural disposition for kindness -- but when it came to protecting Anton’s heart, so that it might always be true to the best interests of Ravka, well...

   The way her fists clenched should be telling enough. The way her finger nails bit into her hand as she remembered the pain of his heart ache...

   All for what? Ravka was his heart. The voices of the people were the only song his heart knew -- whether it be Grisha or human. She knew that. It was what he fought for, bled for, took every breath for. Just as she did. She would fight fire and brimstone, hurricanes and sieges if it meant he would prevail, in the end. Suddenly, the taste of the honey that remained on her tongue had taken on a sour taste. Of course her heart ached, just as his did, for the things that could have been -- but how foolish could one be, to think that the stars could foretell anything other than tragedy for a love that never should have been? 

    “Never should have been.” She muttered to herself as she reached towards the sweet cake, stopping midway as she realized who was standing just across from her, their eyes meeting atop the cake that had once seemed so sweet. 

                       She never seemed to be able to catch a break. 

         “...that cake never should have been served. I mean -- look at it, it’s not puffy enough to be served to the courtiers! Here, I’ll take it and save them the burden of having to eat it or having it waste away.”

    “Oh, hello Darya.” Iskra had been holding eye contact with her for precisely 23 seconds. “Didn’t see you standing there. Did you want this cake?” The cake was half-stuffed into her mouth.

   She did not know why she was acting this horrendous. Darya was Anton’s former lover, not hers.

[iskraraevsky-blog]

like does not call to like, because i am nothing like you

@dqrkling

     “Moi soverennyi,” she says in way of greeting, neither a hint of a smile nor a ghost of a frown on her face. She has trained herself to maintain this expression of neutrality in his presence, has coached herself to smother the sneer that longs to make known her contempt for the man that commanded her want like a puppeteer with strings of steel. Strings made of yarn were easy to cut, but the strings that the Darkling used to keep her dancing for her? Impossible to sever. She was tied to him like a criminal to a noose. 

    She paused for a moment, waiting to see if she had said this out loud.

                     Since a light was not welcoming her into Sainthood, she assumed not.

    “Moi soverennyi,” she began again, chin lifting upward as she clasped her hands behind her back. Ever the perfect soldier. Not so much the perfect Grisha soldier. “Apologies for not having contacted you earlier.” I didn’t want to have to speak to you sooner than was needed. “I was sadly withheld by preparations for the fete.” I would rather have watched the queen wail on about the cakes and champagne than be near you. A partial truth -- for her very bones ached to step closer, to gently brush the pad of her finger against his pale skin. And she hated herself for it.

           Did she say that out loud? A pause. Again, she was somehow still alive.

  “I was told to escort the Sun Summoner to the entrance of the ballroom before the procession. King’s orders. He wishes for her to be accompanied by me rather than another Grisha. Is that acceptable?”