remembrance clouds genya’s unusually bright eyes, that which her scars did not brush: ephemerally touched by days that seem better now than they were in truth, glossed over with time like a window’s four corners inside a house walled off against the bitterest cold of winter’s pale succession. it was difficult to see from the outside that warmth had not always been warmth and youth had not always meant innocence ( when grisha kept to themselves, fearful of plots within and armies conspiring throughout ravka to undermine their grasp on power. ) as girls, there are always idle pleasures to distract from sinister undertones, as though they were created for fear of retribution as contrivances, and those secrets once pervaded every hall from the belly of the little palace to the grounds beyond, harkening of downfall and loyalty stretched too far in the whispers of the royal court. the king’s ear had once been claimed by the shadows that spoke to it, and even in darkness there was sanctuary, which was not the same as happiness, and never meant to ensure their safety even as it kept them all stagnant and complacent for a time.
sometimes genya sees the vignette of a mirror, herself as she once had been and stared and labored over in the glass, beautiful and pristine and untouched by her own. by contrast she remembers zoya in shades of thunderous skies, a force of reckoning like simmering light that would burst and fade as electricity coalesced, shows of strength and potential leashed like a beast by the clutches of the man they all once obeyed, but a noble creature’s fury struck hardest when it had already been wounded. a teeth-gnashing tiger of a woman that is warrior in her own right.
the triumvirate has usurped the second army as it once existed: a legion of grisha severed to halves and scattered by the madness of a broken and banished visionary. now they hold to and rely upon each other over their individual abilities, a mantle of responsibility more shared than a united front against persecution and ignorance of witchcraft ( its definition seemingly inextricable from the matter of women made vengeful by the shapes of their lives and the cruelty that interrupts girlhood, making a gift a brutal weapon. ) and genya has always understood the power of voice; the careful choosing of words uttered into cloistered eves and open spaces alike. zoya has never needed caution when all she is felt like a roar to any who beheld her. standing behind the witch of storms, genya mistakes herself for the girl she’d been when zoya had scorned her, and the girl zoya had been, beautiful beyond words and never touched by a tailor’s craft. she does not need one now, and allows another at her side even so.
⭒ ✰ @dvaurga ( zoya ) ‘ will you help me put the rest of my armor on ?
her fingers curl at her kefta before releasing it, the color of blood that has fallen and sweet persimmons, slippers treading against the floorboards of zoya’s chamber softer than snow. ❛❛ i am not sure you need my help, ❜❜ she ventures the comment with bemusement, though it is touched with admiration that once would have taken the shape of jealousy like a viper’s hiss. practiced hands gently lift lustrous tresses from zoya’s back, securing stiff fabric, the scent of cloying saffron and flame filling the room with the alternating pattern of the flickers from the hearth. the images they conjure are not all terrors. ❛❛ though as you make a point of asking, know that i will always help you. ❜❜ what are we but ruined girls that have retaken ourselves, flames of red and blistering white, flagrant against the corruption that once embedded its claws into us and told us to behave ? we chose to burn. ❛❛ i know it is not your style, and you wear your boldness well. even without a crown, you are unmistakably a queen. but having taken the confidence of one for years, i would much prefer your trust. ❜❜