#been waiting for nikolai lantsov and he DELIVERED from the first scene

[nightvyre]

nikolai lantsov opened his mouth and the feminism in my body left just like ✨that✨

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings said: “ i’m not in a very rational mood. ” for nikolai!

There’s no hero’s welcome when she returns to Os Alta, though that’s by design; Astoria returns in the early morning, sky streaked with brilliant reds like little rivulets of blood. Her kefta is a mess, filthy and stained with gore and grime, and so she’s traded it for a long wool coat that, at the very least, can keep her warm. She thinks being in Ravka so long has made her soft; she’d been miserable in the Fjerdan cold, though she suspects that much of that misery was due to the company, or lack thereof. 

     She’s allowed into the Grand Palace without fuss and she makes her way through the halls as easily as if she’d been born here; Nikolai will be in his war room now, not his chambers, not his study. One of the guards standing at the door starts nervously at the sight of her, moves to open the door, and she waves a hand dismissively. She knows what she looks like today, what she’s looked like since reaching Fjerda. ( The first time she’d caught sight of her reflection on the way home, distorted though it was in the warped glass of the windows of Ulensk, she’d stopped and stared — she looked healthy, cheeks flush from the winter air, hair shining, the amber of her eyes seeming a shade closer to gold than brown now that she had some color to her, some life. She hadn’t looked so much like herself since she was on the Volkvolny. )

     “No need to announce me,” she says, and the guard clears his throat.

     “The King — ”

     “ — will be glad to see me.” The guard is still protesting when she opens the door, and she ignores him in favor of pushing it closed behind her. The scene is exactly as she’d imagined it: Zoya’s long fingers tapping in agitation against the table,;Genya with her head propped up in her hand, slumping tiredly due to the hour and, likely, her boredom; David’s eyes a little glazed as he doodles something in the corner of what looks like a terribly important missive. And Nikolai, head bowed, voice a low and hoarse rumble as he speaks, gloved hands shuffling through the papers in front of him. Her chest aches at the sight of him; he hasn’t been sleeping much, if the tired set of his shoulders and the rasp of his voice are any indications. Quietly, Astoria shucks off her coat and drapes it across the back of a chair before standing at attention and clearing her throat. Genya sees her first, eye brightening and a wide smile fast overtaking her exhaustion, and even David looks pleased to see her. Zoya’s expression almost suggests satisfaction as she takes her in, and Astoria wonders, for a heart-stopping second, if she’s made her proud. 

     But her eyes are trained on Nikolai, who looks up at her slowly, eyes widening as he takes her in, and she can see his muscles tense as he stops himself from moving around the table to her at once — to throttle her, to kiss her, she couldn’t begin to guess. Zoya looks between them, Nikolai’s inscrutable silence and Astoria’s small, rueful smile, and she clears her throat. “Lieutenant Grim, report.”

     It takes her a moment to realize that this is her; she’d forgotten that she’d been, officially, promoted. “General Nazyalensky. A formal report’s been delivered to your office in the Little Palace, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like a moment with the King?”

     Genya’s already standing, gathering David to usher him out of the room, but Zoya still hesitates. “Were we — ”

     “Unfortunately, yes. We were correct. We were successful, however. There’s a gift for you along with the report, General.” The long cloak, bloodstained and hard-won, once belonging to Jarl Brum’s second in command. Astoria had taken it herself, had very nearly worn it into the Palace herself. She hesitates, then — “Please, Zoya.”

     Zoya glances at Nikolai before she relents, moved more by his near-imperceptible nod than by Genya’s loud huff of breath. She casts Astoria a look, then, and it becomes clear — they still haven’t told Nikolai the whole story. She nearly flinches at that; she’d hoped she could avoid having this conversation with him, but it’s necessary. She waits until she hears the door slam closed behind them, and Genya’s loud command that the King and his companion are not to be disturbed for anything short of an invasion, a fire in the palace, or a Volcra in a hat claiming to be the last of the Lantsovs. Nikolai still hasn’t moved, and there’s a heartbreaking marriage of fury and almost desperate relief on his face, and Astoria clears her throat. 

     “I owe you an explanation. And an apology. And you’ll get both, I promise — I’m just begging you, my love, please, listen before you get any angrier, and try to be rational about this, like I was anyone else and not — ” Not what? His lover, his partner, his future wife, his? 

     Nikolai’s jaw is set and when he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth. “I’m not in a very rational mood,” he warns, and she can hardly blame him. Tentatively, Astoria moves around the table, the low heel of her boots clicking across the floor, the drab olive trousers and white shirt a stark contrast to the grandeur of the room. When she’s close enough to touch him she stops, unwilling to push beyond whatever boundaries he wants to, rightfully, set. 

     “You have every reason to be angry,” she says, voice soft. “Let me explain myself?” And then, a corner of her mouth quirking upward in a small, crooked smile — “Saints, it’s good to see you. I missed you. Can you suspend your anger just long enough for me to give you a proper greeting?”