#clpdwings ( nikolai lantsov )

[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?” 

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings said: five times nikolai was not a gentleman and one time he was! ( five times | accepting )

one. 

The sound of metal on metal rings through the air, and so does the sound of his laughter. It’s distracting enough that Astoria almost wishes she hadn’t risen to the challenge.

  In her defense, Sturmhond had been looking at her directly, lips quirked in that crooked grin that always drives her haf-mad, and he’d twirled the saber in his hand and actually bowed to her, arms held out at his sides and eyes on hers. He’s made a proper sailor out of her, though not so much a proper fighter; she’s slender, shorter than him by near a foot, and her greatest asset is her speed, not her strength. The rest of the crew is watching, too, and it’s not her fault that he knows how to issue a challenge she can’t resist.

  And so she’d shrugged off her coat — the sabers they use to spar are dull enough that she doesn’t worry about being cut without it — and she twists her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck before accepting the offered weapon.

  He winks at her as she walks past him, and there’s mischief in his eyes. She would like very much to kiss him.

  And then they’re moving, moving, moving; she’s able to avoid being struck but that’s about it, and even that is a far cry from how she’d started. Sturmhond looks pleased with that, eyeing her movements with obvious pride, and when he lands a hit on her arm, he tempers the blow the best he can. It’ll leave a little bruise, nothing more.

  “You’re getting better,” he says warmly as Privyet calls out the hit and the crew cheers amiably. Astoria grins, scrunching her nose at him.

  “I still doubt I could win a fair fight.”

  “Then why not fight dirty? We both can. For instance, I can tell you that the sight of you wearing my shirt is almost too distracting to bear.”

  So he had noticed. Astoria laughs, taking a step back from him to get back into a starting position. “I’m curious as to how you fight dirty.”

  Sturmhond only laughs, and he lunges at her again. And again, they are locked in a dance with one another, her feet moving as quickly as she can make them, her saber flying in an attempt to block him, and he easily takes the lead.

  “Another thing I could do,” he says quietly, conversationally, and he sounds only a little out of breath, “is tell you that I have been thinking about how striking you looked on your knees for me last night. The top of your head is one of my favorite views.”

  “Oh?” Where he sounds perfectly natural, speaking as they fight, she sounds as though she’s been running for the past hour. “And — your favorite?”

  “It changes, week by week. Today, I think my favorite is your bowed back with my hand fisted in your hair.”

  Astoria stumbles at that, and he lands a hit, slightly sharper this time, on the outside of her thigh.

  “I look forward to taking care of that later,” he teases, and he takes a step back before she gives in to the near-overwhelming urge to grab him by the front of his shirt and kiss him breathless. The crew roars with cheers, and Privyet calls the hit, winking at Astoria as she steps back into position. Sturmhond turns to his adoring audience and bows theatrically before turning back to his opponent. “Has that satisfied your curiosity?”

  “Not even close,” Astoria calls back, and this time, she lunges first.

  And even with Astoria on the offensive, he takes control of the match as easily as if he had set the rules himself. When he lands his final hit, it comes without any ceremony, even without any teasing, though he does wind an arm around her shoulders after his contested victory, laughing as much as she does.

  “That’s my girl,” he says under his breath, almost as if he doesn’t mean her to hear.

  Astoria hands the saber over, graciously accepting her defeat, and Privyet links his arm through hers once she’s stepped out of the circle. “You’ve gotten better,” he says, and the cheer that rises behind them suggests that someone’s stepped in quickly to take her place. Astoria flushes at the compliment, looking almost shy for a moment, and then Privyet leans closer. “You and the captain?”

  That, she wasn’t expecting. Astoria whirls around to look at him, but Privyet waves away any excuses she might make, barreling forward, and she vows to herself not to react to anything he might say next. She’s not sure if Sturmhond intends to keep this a secret; she’s wondered on occasion if it would embarrass him for anyone else to know that he’s taken a crew member to bed, more than once, that she’s grown attached almost to the point of absurdity. Would it embarrass her, for people to know?

  She glances over her shoulder just as Sturmhond lands a hit on his opponent. No; it wouldn’t embarrass her in the slightest. It’s why she rises to his challenges, why she nicks his shirt on occasion: she wants to be claimed, and wants him to be the one to have claimed her.

  “It’s good for you. Him, too.”

  For all her intent to remain unmoved, that gets her attention. “Really?”

  “Mm.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s sharper. More focused. Doesn’t spend all his time mooning over you and rehearsing things to say like he’s a lovestruck teenager at a village dance. I thought he’d slack, but he works better. Faster. Like he wants to impress you.” Privyet nudges her with his elbow and snickers. “It works. You’re the same with him.”

  “It’s obvious, then?”

  “Only if you’re aware of anything. You should tell him.”

  “Tell him?”

  “That you’re in love with him.” He releases Astoria and takes a step back, doffing an imaginary cap at her. “I’ll marry you two when I’m captain.”

  Of all the people she’d have guessed would leave her speechless, Privyet wouldn’t have made the top ten, but she stares after him for a long moment, turning his words over in her mind. It’s not that he’s wrong — far from it. She’s been in love with Sturmhond for more than two years, now, and she’s long since accepted it. It’s that it suddenly occurs to her that there’s something to be done about it, now. Now that he’s said it, put the thought of telling him into her mind, she can feel it consuming her, and all she can do is sink back against the rail of the ship and press her fingers to her mouth as if to keep the words from spilling out, here and now, for the whole of the crew to hear.

  When the sparring ends and the crew disperses, he catches her eye and winks as she lets her hair down, and he gathers her coat to deliver back to her. “You fought well,” he says quietly as he gathers her hair for her so she can settle the coat on her shoulders.

  “And you fought unspeakably dirty.”

  “I thought you’d like that.”

  “I did. Very much.”

  His laugh is loud, and contagious, and she nearly says it then — I love you, I am in love with you, I would like to spend the foreseeable future with you — but she refrains, if only barely.

  Instead, she clears her throat, then says, “Privyet knows.”

  “Hm.” He doesn’t look particularly bothered by this, and instead he leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing and looking out over the sea. “He said something?”

  “He said you’re good for me.”

  “That’s true. You smile more, now. Did you know that?” It fills her with an absurd, overwhelming giddiness, to imagine that he’s counting her smiles, that he’s realized that his presence in her life has only made it richer. “Anything else?”

  “That I’m good for you.”

  “Even truer. Anything else?”

  She hesitates, then shakes her head. He looks as though he doesn’t quite believe her, but he doesn’t argue it; she allows him his secrets, and he grants her the same courtesy, certain that if there’s anything he needs to know, she’ll tell him when he needs to know it. “Does it bother you,” she asks after a moment, “if the others know?”

  He shrugs, seeming unconcerned. “They’ll never let me live it down,” he chuckles. “And I like having you to myself, but — there’s something appealing to not worrying whether or not we’ll get caught. Everyone already suspects you’re my favorite, so what does the confirmation matter? And you could stop pretending you sleep on the foredeck. And,” he adds, eyes bright with mirth, “you’d be able to steal my clothes more often. I could get used to that. Does it bother you?”

  She doesn’t have to hesitate this time. “No. Not at all.” In fact, the more she considers it, the more it feels... a little thrilling, to be able to lay a claim on their captain. Not that she thinks it’s necessary; with the way he’s looking at her now, the way she looks at him, she doubts anyone could miss it. Some part of her balks at this — she doesn’t know his true name, doesn’t know his surname, doesn’t know his people. He has told her nothing of his past, except that he’s Ravkan, and that he looked up at the stars when he was a boy. She’s dreamed up a thousand potential histories for him; she’d guess that he’s from a wealthy family, quite likely a noble family, given the breadth of his education, and likely a younger son, given his ambition and his willingness to work. Elder noble sons are soft, untested. He has fought for everything he’s gained. Perhaps the son of a sailor, given his ease with the ship and his youth. But all she has is speculation, an there is some part of her that rebels at giving her heart over to someone who remains such a mystery.

  The rest of her is intoxicated by him, utterly enchanted by the way he looks towards the future. Her own past is riddled with tragedy and suffering; he has had the good grace not to pry, and she is happy to offer him the same courtesy in return.

  There’s a strange, almost longing expression on his face. Wheen he realizes that she’s watching him, the look vanishes — he grins, taking her jaw in his hand to guide her close enough to kiss. She hears a whoop from a nearby member of the crew, but they ignore it, Sturmhond’s hand keeping hold of her jaw. “There we have it,” he says simply when he pulls back, punctuating the words with another, swifter, kiss. “Now everyone knows. Or, if they don’t, they will.”

  He releases her jaw, and she responds only by grabbing the front of his coat and pulling him back to kiss him again. She’s weak at the knees when she breaks the kiss, grinning like an absolute fool, almost deliriously pleased. Tell him, she screams at herself, but not yet. Not now. Not until she does have him to herself, and she can tell him in every language she knows, and she can learn new languages simply for the thrill of telling him, over and over, I am yours, I am wholly, entirely yours.

  Sturmhond grins, reluctant to leave her, but he does after a moment, and she turns back to the sea, cheeks flushed a deep red, that absurd smile still on her lips.

  “Tell him,” Privyet mutters when he walks by.

two.

There are only a handful of people with regular access to her rooms, most of them the servants who move throughout the palace. They keep her well-stocked with the tea she prefers and soap that smells of plums and raspberries, and her uniform is always clean and her boots are always shined. It makes her a little uneasy — mostly that anyone has such regular access to the only space where she has any real privacy — but the convenience of it is more than enough to help her over the hurdle.

  The only other person who lets himself in with any regularity is Nikolai. It seems to be more and more frequent that she comes back to her room after training, sore and exhausted, to find him there, curled up on her bed with a book in his hands or waiting for her with a meal she’d missed. It feels almost domestic, and not entirely unlike the time they spent on the Volkvolny: his eyes are bright and his smile is contagious and she could listen to his laugh for hours. There is some stress, now, some strain, but he takes it in stride and he bears it with admirable grace.

  She wonders how much of this attention is his attempt to make amends, though she’s not entirely sure what he has to make amends for, really. Adjusting to him as Nikolai took time, as anything would, but she’s mostly got it now; she’s grown terribly fond of his true face, and fonder still of the man behind it. ( She had told him to expect as much — he was all apologies and explanations, their first day at the Grand Palace, and she had waited until he finished speaking and simply shrugged. Give me a bit of time to get used to the changes, but everything important is the same. I chose Sturmhond and that means I chose you. The rest is just... details. )

  ( He had looked shocked, then amazed, and then terribly in love, and Astoria felt her heart leap into her throat and thought to herself that there was, perhaps, nothing she wouldn’t do to see that look on his face again. )

  And so there is no great surprise when the door of her room opens and someone slips inside — the only surprise is the timing. She has been lounging in her bath for forty minutes now, unmoving except to keep the water at the right temperature, and the room smells sweetly of plums and raspberries. She is so comfortable that she doesn’t hear him come in, doesn’t realize anyone is with her, until she feels familiar hands gathering her hair back.

  She smiles, eyes still closed, when he leans forward enough to murmur hello, beautiful in her ear, tipping her head back further, and when she does open her eyes he’s smiling indulgently down at her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything too strenuous,” he says, and Astoria laughs.

  “You are, actually. I am trying to remember what it feels like to have a part of my body that doesn’t hurt, and I’ve been trying to quiz myself on how to take apart and clean my rifle since I got in here.”

  “So target practice went well?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “You know, I did serve. I could help you.”

  “Mm. I remember. I remember you holding out on me for years with that uniform, too.”

  “I didn’t think that would do it for you,” Nikolai laughs, and Astoria grins and lifts one hand to flick a bit of water in his face.

  “You’ll have to make it up to me,” Astoria sighs contentedly, closing her eyes again. “I expect you to wear it often, particularly when you’re giving me orders. You’ll have to remind me what your rank was, so I can address you properly.”

  “Major.” He sounds amused, and she thinks she hears him moving. “You mean you haven’t memorized all of my titles yet?”

  “No, but I always remember my favorite.”

  When he speaks again, his voice comes from right beside her. She opens one eye to see him kneeling beside the tub, a hand trailing idly across the water. “You’ve done well,” he says quietly. “Adjusting to everything, I mean. I have to imagine it hasn’t been particularly easy.”

  Astoria lifts a hand from the tub and reaches up to muss his hair; he accepts good-naturedly, grinning at her. “I think it’s been easier than you imagine,” she muses. “It’s easier than it was when I ran years ago. Then, I was alone while the world changed. Now, I have you.”

  To emphasize this she wipes her hand across his cheek, leaving a streak of water there, and he laughs, looking relieved by her answer. He sits back, still facing her, one arm leaning against the edge of the tub, and he shakes his head.

  “I should have told you sooner,” he says, and Astoria waves her hand.

  “You told me when you were ready. And I’m still here, aren’t I? No harm done.” But she sits upright, leaning forward until they’re barely a foot apart, and she thinks for a moment before she speaks. “My full name is Asta Viktoria. I just pushed the two together for Astoria, but I think it fits. I was deathly afraid of rabbits when I was a little girl. I hate the texture of mushrooms, but I love the taste. It took me nearly a year on the Volkvolny before I could read Ravkan as well as I could speak it, and I didn’t want to ask anyone for help in case they thought I was a fool for not knowing. When I was very young, I thought my father left because he didn’t want me, and that was the only reason my mother told me he didn’t know about me at all. My favorite time of year, wherever we are, is the night when you can smell winter on the horizon. And I fell madly in love with you the night you danced with me in the Wandering Isle, and I spent two years trying to think of a way to tell you that I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  His lips are curling up in a slow, sweet smile, and he leans forward as well, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I didn’t know those things.”

  “That was the point; you didn’t before, and you do now. You shared your secrets, and now I’ve given you some of mine.”

  His expression softens, and he pushes his sleeve up before he lowers his hand to the water again, and he frowns suddenly. “Rabbits?”

  “I was a strange child. I wish I knew why.” She moves just enough to kiss his cheek before she settles back in the tub, eyes falling closed again.

  He laughs, a warm rumble in his chest, and he dips his hand beneath the water, where he curls it against her knee. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. “For taking this all in stride.”

  “That’s how it works, I think. Granted, I’ve never really done this before, but — does it count as loving someone if you leave the moment things become difficult? You need me, so I’m here.”

  “And when I stop needing you? When I simply want you here?”

  “Then I’ll be here.” It feels like the simplest choice in the world. Where her captain goes, she follows. They’re silent for a long moment, Nikolai rubbing absentminded circles against her knee with his thumb, before she speaks again. “Oh, I almost forgot — Vasily cornered me yesterday.”

  “He did, now?”

  “Nothing untoward — he wanted information. Tried to flirt it out of me, actually. I was impressed. He reminded me that so far, he’s the one most likely to take the throne, and that if I want comfort at court, he’s the one best positioned to give it to me. He wanted to know if you had any plan. to take the throne for yourself.”

  “And did you tell him my schemes?”

  “Oh, every detail. Grisha sleeper agents, a deal made in the dark of night during a storm in Kenst Hjerte.”

  He has such a wonderful laugh. His hand slips farther up her thigh, fingers stroking gently against her skin. “Look at you,” he teases, “already a political mastermind. I have nothing left to teach you.”

  “You could teach me how to clean my rifle.”

  “Not here I couldn’t. I could quiz you. How’s your history coming?”

  “Dreadfully.”

  “Let’s practice, then. For every question you answer correctly, my hand moves.”

  That gets her to open her eyes. “Which direction?” she asks warily, and he grins.

  “The direction you’re hoping. Come, now. First Lantsov king?”

  “Yaromir the Determined.”

  His hand inches up. “What else was he known for, besides founding the Lantsov dynasty?”

  “He was the first king of a united Ravka.”

  “Very good. How did he take his meals? Heavily salted?”

  “You know,” Astoria hums, “if I kill you myself, Vasily won’t have to worry about doing it when the time comes,” and he laughs again, and he leans forward to reach her so that he can kiss her.

  “I’ll play fair,” he promises with mock seriousness, settling back to where he was. “Where were we? Tell me about the Ravkan crest.”

  “Two-headed eagle, holding a scepter in one talon and three arrows in the other.”

  “What color are the arrows?”

  “Black, bound with three ribbons. Blue, red, and purple, before you ask, representing the three Grisha orders.”

  “I think,” he says slowly, still grinning at her, “you’ve done well enough for today. Made plenty of progress.” And he slides his hand up farther, leaning forward eagerly when she lets her head fall back and lets out a quiet whine.

  She is, as ever, an instrument in his hands, and she sings sweeter than she thought she knew how at the attention of his fingers and the rhythm of his laugh.

three.

He is not himself here. Not Nikolai, the prince; not Sturmhond, the privateer; not the hybrid who frequented her rooms at the palace or drew her maps in the stars when the rest of the crew slept. She recognizes what’s been done to him — grief, she thinks, it’s simply grief, and grief hollows you out no matter how full of life you are before it happens. He is not himself, but she finds that she still has some of Asta in her.

  The Elbjen feel as familiar to her as anything in Fjerda could, these days. When they reached the Spinning Wheel she took Nikolai’s face in her hands and she smoothed his hair back and she said be with your family. Delegate, and before he could argue she began ushering out the refugees. She found some part of her is skilled in this — gathering the lost and frightened and directing them toward a purpose. She climbed up on the rail of the Kingfisher, Nikolai’s careful hand holding onto hers to keep her upright while she balanced, and she shouted sharply to get everyone’s attention.

  “Stay together, for now,” she called. “Once we’ve left the ship, everyone settle together at the center, under the dome. I want Summoners in teams of three — one from each discipline — with two Fabrikators as well, to take notes.” Not many teams, but it’s something. She takes a breath. “I need an Inferni, a Squaller, a Durast, and an Alkemi volunteer to accompany me as the first exploratory squad.”

  One of the Squallers opened her mouth to protest, and Astoria simply opened her free hand and, with a tired wiggle of her fingers, froze the water vapor around it until her fingers were dripping with ice. A shake of her hand and the ice was gone. So much for keeping it a secret.

  “Healers, tend to the wounded. I want Heartrenders and soldiers standing guard around civilians and personal guards for the royal family.”

  ( Tolya and Tamar are gone. Alina and Mal are gone. Zoya and David and Genya are gone. Fedyor is dead. All the most logical next steps for leadership roles are vanished or buried in rubble. )

  “You heard her,” Nikolai said simply, helping her down from the railing, and he squeezed her hand before releasing her, offering a quiet word of thanks, before slipping away to find his parents as the crowd began to move.

  And by some miracle they begin to settle, the abandoned observatory fit for habitation and use once more, her teams functioning together well enough after the initial hiccups. She has no title, no office, but she does what she can to shepherd the remaining Grisha, the battered remnants of their Second Army. ( Funny. Back on Fjerdan soil, and she keeps thinking of herself as Ravkan. ) Baghra refuses to teach her anything, no doubt deep in her own grief, but one of the Tidemakers sets aside an hour or two a day to help her hone her skills before turning her over to a Heartrender.

  In the first few evenings she reports to the King and Queen, Nikolai standing behind his mother with a hand on her shoulder, and she tries not to think about how weak the King looks, or how empty the Queen’s eyes are. At one point she commands Astoria to come closer; Nikolai looks bewildered and only shrugs, and Astoria considers, for a moment, telling her that she has no respect for her own King and Queen, let alone another nation’s — but she does so obediently, kneeling in front of the Queen while she reaches forward a thin hand to hold her chin up in a vise-like grip.

  “You said your name was Grim, girl?”

  “Yes, moya tsaritsa.”

  To her surprise the Queen shifts to perfect Fjerdan. “Any relation to Aleksi?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. My mother never spoke of her family.”

  “I can’t imagine there were many drüsje by the name,” she says, more to herself than to Astoria. She hesitates, turning to look at her son over her shoulder briefly, before she says, “Look after him.”

  “Yes, moya tsaritsa,” Astoria answers in Ravkan, and the Queen looks at her red hair and releases her with a little shudder of disgust, as if Astoria reminds her of someone.

  In time the Spinning Wheel thrums with life and the remains of the Second Army are moving again, at least, and she takes some pleasure in knowing that she helped achieve it.

  The urgent secrecy that gripped them at the Grand Palace seems less necessary here. Astoria doesn’t bother finding a room of her own; no one questions it. She is still Nikolai’s guard but the Queen’s keen eyes aren’t the only ones that notice the tenderness that passes between them: the way Nikolai brushes the snow from her shoulders when she comes back in and that she presses her lips to his fingertips in return, or the way that she accompanies him on every run across the border for supplies, or the way that wherever one is, the other is sure to be found close at hand. Without Alina, with the Darkling sitting on a throne in the ruins of the Grand Palace, it hardly matters how the prince spends his nights, and for a moment she even convinces herself that this can work.

  They are coming to see Astoria Grim as an integral cog in the machine, loyal to her nation of choice before her nation of birth, the prince’s left hand. The others greet her with some warmth, and when she speaks she is heard, and if they survive this, she thinks, there are worse ways for a potential queen to be seen by the people. It’s a foolish thought, but one that plagues her: she has grown too used to waking up with Nikolai beside her, and there are moments when she sees the Queen fiddling with the Lantsov emerald on her finger and looking at Astoria as though she’s thinking the same thing. And there is, beneath all this, a romantic in Astoria that wants to daydream about a marriage to a man who looks at her as though she is a star in the night sky.

  It’s this romantic that rouses Nikolai from sleep early one morning, before the sun has had a chance to peek over the mountains. He groans something unintelligible, reaching for Astoria to pull her back against his chest and fall asleep wrapped around her warmth, but she’s sitting upright already and looking at him with an excitement too bright and eager to be ignored.

  “Are we being attacked?” he asks around a yawn, and Astoria laughs.

  “No, not being attacked. Come outside with me. It’s snowing.”

  “Astoria.” He maneuvers himself with impressive dexterity, considering that he’s still half asleep, and he shifts until he can reach to lay his head in her lap. “It snows three times a week.”

  “Not like this. It’s not a storm. Please? I want to show you my Fjerda.” Her hands sneak into his hair, and he almost purrs at the touch. “I promise to let you sleep in every other day this week if you come with me right now.”

  He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs, turning his face toward her thigh. “Can I get dressed?” he asks finally, voice muffled against her bare skin, and when she promises that he can he pulls himself upright and presses a tired kiss to her forehead. “Only for you,” he says through another yawn, “and only because this is a lovely sight to wake up to.”

  A few minutes of clumsy dressing later — Astoria even kneels to help him with his boots, and he’s too tired to crack the joke she knows he’ll think of in an hour’s time — and they make their way quietly through the Spinning Wheel, careful not to wake anyone. When they’re outside, the snow is indeed falling in lazy whirls, the wind still too calm to do much more than move the flakes around. It’s the sort of snow that would send her outside at any hour of the night when she was a child, packing snowballs to throw at her unsuspecting mother, a far cry from the wet and heavy snow that freezes over the moment it reaches the ground.

  It takes a moment but Nikolai looks up in absolute wonder at the colors changing in the sky, at the patterns of wind visible through the falling snow, at Astoria’s laughing face, and for a second the dark circles under his eyes are invisible and the weight on his shoulders is lifted and he is Nikolai again, every version of Nikolai she’s known and loved.

  “Have you ever watched the sun rise from a mountain?” she asks, holding a hand out for him to take, and Nikolai’s eyes are soft and his lips curl up in a small smile.

  “Many times.”

  “Would you like to do it again?”

  He takes her hand in his and falls into step beside her as she leads him; the walk takes about fifteen minutes, the crisp morning air waking them, and when they reach the little plateau where Astoria likes to sit and watch the sky she releases him only long enough to thaw and dry a space for them to sit together on the ground. As soon as they’re sitting, he winds an arm around her waist, and she nestles as close to him as she can, her head on his shoulder, one hand resting on his thigh.

  For several long minutes they’re silent as they watch the sky change. She chances a look at him when the pink splits into a brilliant orange and her breath catches in his throat; he’s illuminated like a saint, and not for the first time Astoria thinks that even the sun itself is as in love with him as she is, to light him so intimately, so beautifully. He catches her looking and his smile grows, and he pulls her closer to press a kiss to her forehead.

  “This is your Fjerda?” he asks, and she gestures with her unoccupied hand, arm sweeping over the land around them.

  “This,” she confirms, “is my Fjerda. Harsh, but beautiful. Capable of greatness. Capable of change. There’s nothing that’s impossible when the sky looks like this.”

  There are little snowflakes freezing in her hair, and she can see her breath in front of her, and she sighs happily.

  A few minutes later she lets out a shriek of laughter when she feels his hand slip from around her waist, only for him to jam a snowball down the back of her cloak. He’s laughing, too, wiping his wet hand on her cloak; she can wick the moisture from the fabric, she can warm the water on her skin, but it’s about the intent of it.

  “This is beautiful,” he says, “and so are you, but you still woke me up far too early. Some payback was necessary.”

  “You cheated,” she answers, but she’s grinning too widely to be taken seriously. “So much for the chivalrous prince.”

  “I think you’d be bored if I was always chivalrous,” he teases, and he looks so alive in the snow with her that she can think of nothing except how badly she wants to kiss him. And so she does; she kisses him until she remembers the cold water on her back, and she pulls away from him with a reluctant scowl as she reaches behind her to dry herself off.

  He’s watching her with a sort of idle curiosity, and he’s silent for another long moment before he clears his throat.

  “Not that I’m not happy to spend the morning with you,” he says softly, “but what’s the real reason you brought me out here?”

  And Astoria nearly sighs at that, because he knows her far too well for her to keep anything hidden from him. She reaches up with one hand to trace her fingers along the outline of his mouth, resting against his chin. “Because you’ve been hurt,” she says finally, quietly, considerably sobered despite the rueful smile on her face, “and this isn’t something I can heal. And I wanted to tell you that even if I don’t have the right words for this, or the answers to how to make it hurt less, I am here all the same.”

  Nikolai takes in a long, shuddering breath, and he turns his face back toward the sky; she doesn’t push. “My mother misses him,” she says finally. “My father is disgusted with him. And I don’t know what to think anymore. He would have killed me in that moment, and he loathed me, but — he was still my brother.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s hard not to despise him for it. And it’s hard not to feel guilty for that. And somewhere under all of this it’s harder still to love him in spite of it. And if I stop to mourn, I’m afraid that I will not have it in me to start living again.”

  Astoria sneaks her hand into his and he squeezes gratefully, looking down at her once more.

  “But what do I have to fear?” he murmurs, tucking his nose against her hair. “I have an anchor, don’t I? Something to pull me back if I go too far.”

  “It won’t stop hurting if you never let the wound heal. And you always have me.”

  He releases her hand to wind his arms around her and pull her close, and when he buries his face against her neck she feels the moisture clinging to his eyelashes, and the shuddering of his breath against her skin, and she doesn’t speak, doesn’t push, only wraps her arms around him in return.

  They sit like this for a long moment, Nikolai’s hands gripping her cloak with a desperate sort of urgency, and when he sits upright again she only wipes her thumb across his cheeks before settling back against him. She says nothing about the redness of his nose or the shine of his eyes, and he says nothing about the way she pulls him closer, closer, closer, as though she’s afraid to let go.

four.

She misses him.

  There’s no other way to put it, nothing else that fully encompasses the hollow ache in her chest when whatever precious time they have is spent locked in an argument that neither can win. The crown he wears now is a wall between them, and Astoria shouldn’t be surprised by this distance, she knows. Power changes people — and it changed him, exhausted him to his core.

  Power limits people as well, and it’s a concept she seems to understand better than he does. And all they do most days is fight, Astoria armed with cynicism and Nikolai with stubbornness, neither one willing to give even an inch. She thinks sometimes that staying when her presence only makes things more difficult for him is a sign not of her love or dedication, but rather of her selfishness, and she has never felt so conscious of that selfishness in her life.

  It would be easier, Astoria imagines, if they had some time together to simply be. There’s something impossibly appealing about the thought of just being with him — no arguments, no debates that get out of hand, no one talking over the other to make a point that must be heard.

  I am allowed some selfishness, he insists, and that ache only worsens when it settles; yes, loving her is selfishness, and if she had any sense she’d remove the temptation.

  We need to consider public opinion, she retorts, and she can see the hurt in his expression when it becomes clear that she perpetually has one eye on the world around them, instead of on him.

  She misses falling asleep with him. The emptiness in the bed beside her always leaves her cold; she wakes sometimes with ash on her tongue, half-convinced that she’s on the road with the saint again and that Nikolai is far from her, too far for her to ever reach again. ( She had asked why he never showed himself to her and he had told her that he still held enough of himself to not want her to see him like that, but what good is loving someone if you cannot trust them to see the most monstrous pieces of you? )

  And he is exhausted, so exhausted, his eyes permanently rimmed with dark circles; he looks paler, thinner, at times even fragile. Whenever she asks if he’s sleeping he always tries to change the subject.

  ( When she asks to spend the night he always has an excuse ready. She wonders if the constant bickering is taking a toll on them, if he’s losing his taste for her, if she won’t need to try to convince him to take a bride with strategic value, if she’s pushed him away. She had imagined that a victory in this regard would be difficult for her, but she hadn’t imagined that it would hurt so badly to consider. )

  But on rare occasions, when the sun is high in the sky and he has an hour or two to himself, he finds her, and if she doesn’t bring it up and he’s careful not to push, they can know a moment’s peace. She opens the door of her room for him and he greats her with an exhausted smile and a lingering kiss pressed to her lips.

  “Long day?” she asks sympathetically, and he lets out a long, low breath.

  “Exceedingly. And it’s not even noon. Do you have anywhere to be, or — ?” He looks so hopeful that even if she’d had plans she would have ignored them.

  “Just here,” she says instead, “with you,” and he kisses her again at that, and then once more.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Theory. This-ness and that-ness. Zoya is adamant that I need to understand it to use my power practically, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’s just enjoying watching me squirm.”

  Nikolai laughs, a rasping sound with so little joy in it that it leaves her pained. She takes his hands in hers and she tugs him lightly after her.

  “Come sit with me. I’ll read it to you and if you can make any sense of it, you can try to explain it to me.”

  She thinks it’s a sign of how little energy he has that he doesn’t even put up a token fight at that. Instead, he sits beside her on the little sofa near her bed, his head lolling dangerously close to her shoulder, his eyes starting to fall closed.

  ( She wants so badly to take care of him. She cannot begin to imagine why he won’t let her. )

  It takes so little time for him to nod off against her shoulder, and once she’s sure he’s fast asleep she guides him, carefully, to lay with his head in her lap, his legs hanging off the side of the sofa and his hand grasping her kefta near the knees. He seems at peace while he sleeps, and she wonders, not for the first time, when he last slept untroubled.

  She returns her attention to the book, her hand carding gently through his hair whenever she doesn’t need to turn the page. She expects an hour, perhaps two, but he falls into so deep a slumber she’s almost amazed that he was functional at all before this. He sleeps there, unmoving, until it’s too dark to read without a light, and so Astoria sets the book aside entirely and turns her attention to her fingers in his hair and the rhythm of his breathing.

  It’s nearly six hours before he wakes; she’s stiff and sore when he finally moves, but she hardly minds. What she does mind is that he practically leaps away from her as though he’s been caught doing something terribly offensive.

  “How long — ?” he asks, eyes wild, and Astoria stands slowly, stretching as she does.

  “I think we’ve just missed dinner.” Her voice is carefully neutral, though there’s no disguising the hurt in her expression. ( Are things so much worse than she’d imagined? Has she done this to them? )

  “Saints,” he swears, scrubbing a hand across his face, and he moves as if to close the distance between them before stopping himself, hands hanging uselessly in the air. “I’m — I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to be so careless — ”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve fallen asleep with me a thousand times.”

  “This is — ”

  “Different? How?” And then, some of the hurt creeping into her voice against her will, she asks, “Am I really so unappealing to you now?”

  He looks stricken by that, and he moves toward her before turning abruptly on his heel. “It’s not that,” he insists, “never that, but — ”

  “But?” she prompts, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her chest and slink away from him before anything else can be said.

  “It’s — you’ve been arguing for weeks that we need to abide by the rules. Play it safe. All this will do is stir suspicion, if I come out of your room looking like this, it’ll raise suspicion. It’ll make it seem like we’re...” His voice trails off miserably.

  Astoria raises her eyebrows coldly. “Then brush your hair.”

  “You don’t understand, Astoria.”

  She takes in a long, slow breath before exhaling all at once, throwing her hands in the air. “No,” she says, “I don’t understand. You don’t tell me anything, and then I don’t understand it. I can’t imagine how that happens.”

  “You’re not being fair,” he insists quietly, and she’s horrified to realize that her eyes are stinging.

  “I thought you were the one who wanted the world to know, and now you’re saying it makes you seem ungentlemanly if someone realizes you slept here? Why are you fighting so hard for something that makes you so unhappy, Nikolai?”

  “You don’t make me unhappy,” he protests. “This doesn’t make me unhappy.”

  She clears her throat and turns around, determined not to let him see her react any more than he has. “You should go,” she says, voice thick. “Before anyone realizes that you’ve been here.” When he doesn’t move, she crosses the room to open the door and hold it for him.

  She doesn’t listen when he tries to appeal to her as he leaves. She’s still angry two days later when she sees Genya slipping out of his room as she’s going there to pick a fight, Genya’s good eye widening at the sight of Astoria.

  “I can ask him,” Astoria says slowly, “or I can ask you,” and Genya takes a step to the side to grant her a wide berth.

  “Ask him,” Genya insists, pressing a key into Astoria’s hand before walking as quickly from her as she can.

  She’s prepared for a lot but not for this: Nikolai, still clothed, chained to his bedframe, in the early stages of sedation. The blackened fingertips and veins in his hands seem especially bold tonight, and he looks up at her and beams.

  “Storya,” he says warmly, “c’mere,” but his consciousness is fading fast.

  She does the only thing she can think to do: she drags a chair to his bedside and loosens the chains on the headboard enough for her to gather one hand in hers.

  She sits watch for a demon that never comes, falling asleep in the early hours of the morning.

  She wakes only when he withdraws his hands from hers, looking mortified, and as soon as she lifts her eyes to his he’s apologizing again, like he had a few days before, looking her over nervously as if he expects to find her covered in wounds.

  Instead Astoria stands and moves to sit on the bed beside him, to undo the shackles around his ankles before freeing his wrists, and she flings her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “I hadn’t known, I hadn’t realized — ”

  Gingerly, he returns her embrace, and for the first time since returning to Os Alta, something feels right.

five.

The arrival of the Kerch delegation requires some degree of ceremony. Money is tight and resources are limited, but if they do nothing, it will be seen as an insult; if they do too much, it will be seen as a mockery. You ask us for help and then provide nothing as thanks? You wish us to bankroll a country that wastes money on such frivolity? Finding the balance between the two has been utterly nightmarish; even the parade of bridal dossiers has come screeching to a halt in order to plan this instead.

  And so they have managed it. It’s a marriage of Ketterdam and Os Alta, from music to food to fashion, something at once intimate and spectacular; dancers from the capitol’s ballet academy dressed in the costumes of the Komedie Brut, musicians plucked from pubs and taverns rather than churches and among them the enthusiastic fiddler from the Volkvolny, Grisha officers moving among the guests in their finest silken keftas. The Triumverate flanks Nikolai, and there are no more than fifty noble guests, all of them hand-chosen in a process that screamed exclusivity rather than limited funds, and all of them providing something to the fete as a display of their personal wealth and taste.

  One brought several crates of a wine made from blackberries, and Astoria is on her second glass of the evening. She attends not as one of the Grisha, but instead as Nikolai’s own chosen guest — it is a concession to their constant arguments now, his desire to have her at his side in conflict with her worry for public opinion. ( He has enough to deal with; no need to add more. ) It means that instead of a kefta she is dressed entirely in Kerch styles — the fiddler from the Volkvolny had brought it with him with a wink. From the kapitan. She can fault Privyet for plenty — his betting and his ego among them — but not his taste, or his memory of her tastes, or Nikolai’s. High-necked, laced up the back, form-fitting to the point where she almost feels exposed, with a looser skirt in layers. The grey and black of the dress is offset only by the red of her hair, curls shaped but hanging loose down her back, and the red painted across her lips, at Genya’s insistence.

  It had seemed like too much but Nikolai’s eyes haven’t left her for more than the length of a conversation with any of the bankers and delegates, and so she really cannot complain.

  The blackberry wine is almost tart, as though the blackberries weren’t completely ripe. She thinks she likes it better like this than if it were too sweet. One of the Kerch delegates approaches her, apparently on Nikolai’s suggestion — another Fjerdan, and her delight at being able to speak in her mother tongue is visible on her face. She watches from the corner of her eye as Nikolai’s own face breaks into a smile, boyish and even bashful, to see her so pleased, and she makes a mental note to thank him later.

  “It is a far cry from the celebrations in Djerholm,” the man says, and Astoria laughs.

  “Certainly very different. It’s been difficult to adjust to, at times — the weather is, truly, what does me in. The summers are sweltering here.”

  “Why do you remain here, then?” he asks, more out of curiosity than nosiness, and Astoria’s eyes flicker toward Nikolai again.

  “Loyalty,” she says. “King Nikolai is dearly loved, and with good reason.”

  For all Nikolai’s constant exhaustion, he puts on a good show. He laughs when he must, and when one of the bankers’ daughters, a girl of no more than sixteen, is left without a dance partner he gallantly sweeps in, leaving stars in her eyes when the song has ended.

  When the evening wears on and Nikolai and the Triumverate retire, along with a handful of bankers, to discuss an arrangement, Zoya hooks her arm through Astoria’s to lead her after them. “He wants you there,” she says, and not for the first time, Astoria wonders what Zoya must think of this — they are hardly subtle, no matter her rules, and Astoria’s continued presence has only made things more difficult in the matter of finding a queen — but Zoya is, as always, eminently practical, infinitely professional. If the evening called for someone to be flipped over and left with broken bones, Zoya would no doubt have done it with grace, but for now, she simply leads Astoria back with them.

  Her entrance is hardly noted, except by the Fjerdan in the group, who smiles warmly at her presence. At Nikolai’s gesture, she comes forward to read the agreement offered — figures and interest rates and loan requirements, all of them blending together until she can take a moment to focus. She has knowledge enough of striking a bargain and encouraging negotiation, but she feels as though this is less a testament to her skill than a chance for her to learn. Nikolai intends me to be his queen, she reminds herself, scraping her teeth across a red lip as she reads. That only works if I know what I’m doing.

  “It is a fair deal,” she says finally, slowly, “but this interest rate — ”

  “To protect our bankers from any suffering. It is not as though we can simply force the issue, should your King default on payment,” says one of the Kerch bankers, and Astoria nods sympathetically, setting the agreement down on the table. She leans forward just a bit, eyes wide, lips curled in a small, sweet smile. This is where she shines: convincing people that what she wants is what they want. It’s the only reason she’s been able to bully Nikolai into considering adopting the stray cats that frequent the gardens.

  “Certainly,” she says, tone soothing. “I can’t imagine a more necessary gesture — but perhaps we can do better.”

  She feels Zoya stiffen beside her, just as she feels Nikolai rest a hand on the small of her back, in part as a show of support, mostly so he can gesture for Zoya to wait without the Kerch seeing.

  “If we can marry the loan to a trade agreement, we have the foundation for a long-lasting friendship between our nations. Now that the Unsea is no longer a threat, we can truly commit to real partnerships.” She looks to the Fjerdan, her smile bright. “You’ve seen the wealth of the Ravkan nobility; and in the aftermath of war, we have little to spare in the way of luxury. If our nobles cannot turn to us for fine leathers and fabrics, surely we can send them to you.”

  The Fjerdan has been in Ketterdam too long, Astoria thinks, pleased. The thought of profit makes him grin like a fool, and Astoria slides the agreement across the table, back toward the nodding bankers.

  “Perhaps we can find common ground. A gentler interest rate, and agreements that send our nobles and their disposable wealth to you.”

  “And what will that do for Ketterdam as a whole, besides helping a handful of merchants?”

  “Six of the dukes in that room have teenage sons daughters. One countess present tonight has fourteen, just by herself. All of them will need education, and all of them will choose Ketterdam’s University, if encouraged by the Crown. After all, our own King was educated in those halls — where better for our nobility to learn than in the same place? Where they will spend years, with frequent visits from their parents and purses heavy from their allowances?”

  The delegates look between one another for a moment, then one says, “We will consider it, and report back to you in the morning.”

  Nikolai raises the hand from Astoria’s back and waves it magnanimously. “Enjoy the evening’s festivities,” he insists, voice warm. “We can meet in the afternoon. Please, gentlemen, my home is yours.”

  Zoya kicks her lightly under the table, offering her a quick smile, and Genya reaches around Zoya to squeeze Astoria’s hand. Even David looks surprised and pleased. The Fjerdan hangs back, waiting until the Triumverate has left and Nikolai has busied himself with gathering papers from the meeting, before he speaks.

  “We will be in Os Alta for at least another week,” he says in Fjerdan, “and I would like to see you again. Perhaps we could speak of you coming to Ketterdam someday, to visit.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she sees Nikolai look up. “I am flattered,” she says warmly, “but I should tell you — ”

  “I wish, of course, to court you appropriately,” the Fjerdan says hurriedly, afraid that he’s insulted her, and Astoria smiles and shakes her head.

  “Her attentions are occupied, friend,” Nikolai says lightly from the other end of the table, his Fjerdan accented but certainly clear, and the delegate’s eyes widen in realization. Well, she thinks, if we were aiming for subtle, we’ve failed.

  “I see,” says the Fjerdan, “my apologies,” and when Astoria assures him that no offense was taken, he leaves, Nikolai following behind him only to lock the door in his wake.

  She turns towards Nikolai and is preparing to say something, anything — to ask if she’d done well, to tell him that the experience had been exhilarating, to tell him that she thinks perhaps he was right and that she wouldn’t be terrible at this — but he closes the distance between them in a few long strides and he silences whatever she’d been meaning to say with a bruising kiss.

  When he pulls back from her, his eyes are fierce, and he sneaks a hand into her hair to pull it lightly. “Finally,” he rasps, sounding as though the wind’s been knocked out of him. “I’ve watched that fool flirt with you all night and I haven’t been able to take a minute to tell you that all I can think about is tearing this dress to shreds.”

  “You’re the one who sent him my way,” Astoria points out a little breathlessly. She loves seeing him like this — all that energy, all that power aimed at something. “You like the dress, then? Privyet sent it to me. A late birthday gift.”

  “He’s Fjerdan. I didn’t think he’d be so bold.” Nikolai pulls back enough to let his eyes sweep across her frame, lips twitching up into a pleased smile. “Privyet is a menace,” he says, “but he has good taste. And he knows me too well.”

  Nikolai looks over her shoulder at the table, before shaking his head — too low, she imagines — and after a beat he rests his free hand on her hip to guide her back to a credenza against the wall. The hand at her hip moves to knock the trinkets decorating it away, a bowl clattering to the floor loudly and a few decorative books falling with a thud.

  “If I hadn’t spoken, what would you have told him?” Nikolai asks, his hand fisting in her skirt to pull it up, and Astoria grins.

  “That I was flattered by the offer, but we could never be.”

  “And why is that?” He manages to find the hem of the skirt, and he slips his hand beneath the fabric, fingers stroking along her thigh, at the top of her stocking.

  “Because the king is dearly loved,” Astoria says with a quiet gasp, “and because I intend to spend every possible moment showing him exactly that.”

  His hand moves higher, and he grins wolfishly when he realizes that she isn’t wearing anything under the skirt besides her stockings. “Is this for my benefit?”

  “Entirely. I know you as well as Privyet does. Though, truth be told, I was expecting you to cave in before dinner, and sneak me into a pantry.”

  “Wicked girl,” he laughs, and she lets out a strangled whine when he touches her. “Say please.”

  “Please.”

  He kisses her again, and again, fingers moving slowly against her, her own hands making quick work of his belt and his trousers. When he withdraws his hands to lift her onto the credenza, she winds her legs around him, offers up a strangled please again, and he groans when he sinks into her, face buried against her neck, a hand pressed against the wall behind her.

  “Tell me what you want,” he commands, voice muffled against her dress, and Astoria lets out a breathless, tinkling laugh.

  “You,” she swears, “just you, always just you.”

...and one. 

How strange, she thinks, to be walking beside Sturmhond once again. It’s been long enough that it takes her some time to expect his face when she turns to look at him. How strange, how wonderful. She’s grown so fond of Nikolai’s face that she’d forgotten how much she loved Sturmhond’s, with all his strange angles and his just-barely-wrong colors. 

   And she appreciates the privacy — they can walk down the streets of Ketterdam together, arm in arm, Sturmhond pausing occasionally to tug her into a shallow alleyway to kiss her half-senseless, or pressing his lips to her temple almost without paying attention to what he’s doing, as if the intimacy and affection is second nature by now. Genya had pulled Zoya aside at one of the merchant carts with a grin at Astoria, as if to say escape now, while I distract Zoya, and Astoria has taken full advantage of the silence and the space granted to them. 

   “If you’re intending to ravish me behind a building,” Sturmhond says conversationally, “you should know I like to be romanced first.” 

   “I know what you like.”

   “Of course. Forgive me; I would never dream to presume otherwise — ”

   His eyes are sparkling, and this is what Astoria missed. This is why her breath caught in her throat when she saw Sturmhond’s face again: he looks lighter, freer than he has since taking the throne. He looks like himself, even with the wrong face and in the wrong country. 

   “I ravish you plenty,” she laughs. “And I will ravish you later. Twice, if you like. But right now, I’m hungry, and we haven’t had a chance to be somewhere public together in...” Saints, it’s been years, hasn’t it? Since they were on the Volkvolny. “We should enjoy it.” 

   He stops to kiss her again, this time right in the middle of the street, and it’s only Astoria’s hands in his pockets that prevent any of the countless thieves around them from nicking the handful of kruge he’s carrying with him. 

   But it’s too good to last, and Astoria should know this. They make it to a cafe that seats them looking out over the harbor, a cup of coffee apiece and a plate of pastries between them — she’s tearing apart a little cake made from layers of pastry and even more layers of butter, fat little sugar crystals across the top — and they’re halfway into their coffees when Sturmhond lets out a sigh that sounds less like Sturmhond and an awful lot more like Nikolai. 

   And she can hear it coming in that sigh alone, the thousandth conversation on the same theme. “This doesn’t have to be rare,” he says airily, reaching to tear off a bit of pastry to try. “We could do this all the time, if we wanted.”

   “Are you suggesting relocating to Kerch?” she asks dispassionately, full well knowing that isn’t what he means, desperate for playing dumb to work just this once. 

   “How many different avenues do we need to explore and find lacking before we do this?”

   Always one more, Astoria thinks, until you see sense and you realize that this would be a disaster for you, and that we would never recover from it. She doesn’t answer, simply takes another bite of the pastry. 

   “Do you even want to be with me?”

   She looks up at him sharply, swallowing hard. The little sugar crystals scrape at her throat going down, but she barely notices, any more than she notices the slosh of coffee over the edge when she wraps a hand around her cup. It’s not a conversation she wants to have, but that he’d even ask...

   “You seem more at ease with me now than you have in months. Now that no one is watching, now that no one knows who we are — but this has a time limit. And when we’re back home, will it be back to the same rules? We can only touch on the third Tuesday of the month? I can’t look at you for more than two minutes consecutively, five minutes cumulatively, over the course of a single day? You can only come to my rooms if you’re shrouded head to toe in mourning clothes?”

   “What gave it away?” she asks, and there’s more bite to her voice than she cares to admit. “The hours I’ve spent learning ancient Ravkan to comb through centuries-old books? How about the way I’ve shot down every single candidate?”

   “Then what will it take, Astoria? I know what I want. I have known what I wanted since we got back to Ravka. It hasn’t changed.” 

   I know that, she wants to scream, and what you want is not compatible with what you need, and if we do this there will come a day when you rightfully lay the blame at my feet for letting you, and you will never forgive me. Instead, she reaches for another pastry. 

   “If you don’t want this anymore, then at least have the courage to say as much.”

   “You idiot,” she says then, voice rising in anger, “you absolute fool, there hasn’t been a single second since we met that I haven’t wanted to be with you.” 

   The couple from a few tables over turns to look at them, and Astoria clears her throat and looks back down at her pastry. She hears the shuffle of steps approaching, and the elderly Kerch woman who’d served them their coffee crosses the shop to replace their near-empty cups with fresh ones. When she’s gathered them, she points a knotted finger at Sturmhond, who looks taken aback by this. It’s rare that someone scolds him now that he’s king. 

   “You shouldn’t rile up your wife like that,” the woman says sternly, and Astoria coughs to cover up a laugh, lifting the coffee to her lips.

   “She isn’t my wife,” Sturmhond says after a beat, looking surprised and even a little chagrined, and then he looks at Astoria with mischief in his eyes before looking back at the woman. “But I want her to be. I ask and I ask and every time, she tells me no.” 

   “I don’t say no,” Astoria hisses, leaning over the table, and she looks up at the woman with a flush creeping up her neck. Soon enough she’ll be as red as her hair. “I don’t say no,” she repeats emphatically. “I say not yet.” 

   The woman scoffs and she sets the empty cups back down on their table, stepping away only long enough to bring a chair over to sit between them. “Why do you say not yet?” the woman asks, with all the authority and nosiness of a woman long past the concern for social niceties. “You love him, don’t you?” Sturmhond sits back in his chair, looking triumphant. 

   How to begin to explain this? Astoria clears her throat, opens her mouth, clears her throat again. 

   “That’s what I tell her,” Sturmhond says, exasperation audible in his tone, and the woman shoots him an impressive glare to silence him. 

   “Let her talk, boy,” the woman snaps, and Astoria chokes on another suppressed laugh before the woman whirls around on her. “And you, don’t stall.”

   “I do love him,” Astoria says finally, “of course I love him, more than anything, but — ”

   “But?”

   “But?” Sturmhond echoes.

   “He inherited his father’s business.” A lie close enough to the truth. “And he could lose everything — everything — if he doesn’t make a good match.”

   “What will it take for you to be a good match?”

   “Different parents. Different heritage. More money, a title...”

   “But you say not yet instead of no.” 

   He should employ her with his interrogators. Astoria’s face is bright pink now, and her cheeks hurt from the intensity of the blush. “I say not yet because I hope I’ll stumble across a miracle.”

   “Ach, stupid girl. Miracles don’t come like that.”

   “I know.”

   The woman scoffs. “So, you love him enough to not want him to lose this. And you, boy? Why do you keep asking?”

   “Because I love her enough to walk away from it.” Sturmhond’s answer comes immediately. 

   “Foolish. Men who give up their dreams for their women just end up resenting them.”

   “Sometimes dreams change, don’t they?”

   “Only if you’re fickle and foolish.”

   “I can live with that.” 

   The old woman looks between them and she laughs, suddenly, shaking her head. “Young lovers,” she says, and she lets out a derisive snort. “All you do is bicker and waste time. Either leave him or marry him, girl, and you, either stay with your father’s business or walk away. You make things too hard.” The woman pushes her chair back and stands, gathering the empty cups again. “Married fifty-three years, I was, until he died. He was rarely right. Husbands rarely are. And he never listened to me and he always thought he knew better than anyone else in the world and if I could marry him again tomorrow I would do it. I would never have gotten the chance if we sat around and argued in cafes all day.” 

   She leaves them behind her, Sturmhond’s eyes wide and his lips curled up in an astonished grin, and Astoria presses her fingers to her lips to try and stave off another rumbling laugh that’s building in her chest. Carefully, he reaches across the table to curl his fingers around her wrist, and he brings her hand to his mouth, pressing a careful kiss to the backs of her fingers. 

   “A month,” he says finally. “If you have yet to find a solution in a month, marry me anyway. I want fifty-three years with you and at this rate we’ll never get started.”

   “A year. Give me a year.”

   “A week.”

   “Six months?”

   “Four days.”

   “My love,” she laughs, “I know you know that a negotiation doesn’t work like this.” 

   “Fine. Three months. If, in three months, you don’t have the answer, then marry me anyway. And if I have to step down, so be it. I would rather have you, anyway, and besides.” His eyes light up with mirth. “You’ve found all of my cousins. Any one of them could take the throne.” 

   Three months. Three months to find the answer. It isn’t nearly enough time. “I’m — ” But she wants fifty-three years, too. And Grisha outlive otkazats’ya; does she want to spend those final years, alone, wishing she hadn’t wasted so much time? 

   And he’s hated so much of this. Maybe it will be less exhausting without this hanging over his head. Or maybe he’s better off back on the Volkvolny, leaving this mess to someone else. 

   She hesitates, then she nods, and Nikolai’s face lights up and he moves around the table to kneel in front of her, his hands cradling her face with all the tenderness in the world before he leans in to kiss her. He tastes of coffee and sugar and when he pulls away from her he stands, offering a hand for her to take. Astoria leaves a small stack of kruge on the table for the old woman, who only lets out a huff when they move towards the door, and she waits until they’re out of the building before she tugs him by the lapels of his jacket and stands on her toes to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

   He looks like himself again, with that smile. She’s half-drunk on the sight of it.

   “Plenty of alleyways,” she says quietly, “and we can find a tavern, rent a room for a few hours.” 

   He laughs, and he presses a kiss to her mouth, her cheek, her forehead. “Absolutely not,” he says with feigned sternness. “I am taking you back to the Volkvolny and I’m carrying you over that threshold before you can change your mind and try to argue for six months again, and then I’m going to have my way with you, in my own bed, where there’s no chance anyone will disturb us.” 

   Astoria grins in spite of herself, and she wonders if she looks more like herself here, too. 

   “Lead the way, kapitan.”

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​ said: five times kissed for nikolai! ( my favorite meme of all time | accepting )

one.

The Kaelish harbor is buzzing with activity, the overlapping sounds of music and laughter and fights floating towards them. Below deck, several of the crew have remained, half of them drunk, all of them eager to take advantage of an opportunity to spend the time with their captain.

     She’s been assured that this isn’t normal, that plenty of captains make a point of separating themselves from their crew. But not Sturmhond, never Sturmhond, who, for all his legends, seems happiest like this — not in battle, not staring out over an intercepted shipment and thinking of the money it’ll bring in, but cheeks flushed with laughter, red hair falling in his eyes, looking over his crew with immeasurable fondness.

     It’s why she’s remained. Privyet insisted that she should see him like this, that it would set any nervousness at ease if she could see their captain drunk on laughter. And he was right; the more she watches him, the more she sees why every last one of them has stayed here, why they would stay, despite any bad luck or unfortunate weather or the regular risk to life and limb. She thinks this is what Fjerda is missing — the uncompromising joy, presented openly and without expectation; a sense of love for one’s fellow man not to fulfill any sort of sacred obligation, but because one’s fellow man deserves it.

     One of the sailors has a fiddle in his lap; he’s been trying to tune it all night, and he lets out a shout of excitement when he succeeds before launching immediately into song.

     There’s a hand on her shoulder and a mouth near her ear. What a change, since she’s arrived; in Fjerda she would have leapt out of her skin to be approached from behind, constantly afraid that she’d been found out, somehow. Here, Astoria only leans back when Sturmhond begins to speak to hear him over the strings and the singing and the slap of hands against thighs as the others beat in time to the song.

     “Come,” he insists, and those of the crew who see them laugh, one letting up a cheer. “It’s tradition, in my crew — newest member owes the captain a dance. Or, at least, an embarrassing attempt at one.” She’s halfway through her second ale and laughing already, and she offers no resistance when Sturmhond tugs her up and towards him. She doesn’t know the steps and he hardly seems to mind; he slings an arm around her waist and holds her hand in his and he guides her with minimal stumbling and crashing into the crates and barrels the others sit atop.

     “You’re getting the hang of it,” he tells her, voice just loud enough to be heard over the music, when she manages to dodge a fallen tankard without incident. His eyes are the most distracting shade — not quite green, not quite brown, the sort of color that’s so unremarkable it draws attention. “I hope you don’t mind being put on the spot too much,” he continues, “but the longer you spend hovering at the edges, the harder it is to connect with the rest of them. And we only work if we can all connect. A good crew is a single body; the hand needs to trust that the shoulder is doing, the foot needs to trust the knee, so on, so forth.”

     She starts to apologize but he shakes his head and squeezes her hand.

     “Nothing to be sorry for. These things take time. But this will speed it up a little. It won’t hurt for you to loosen up a bit.”

     “Privyet told me that last week,” she says, laughing, “and I thought he meant — ”

     Sturmhond laughs, the sound rich and echoing. “No, that’s exactly what he meant,” he concedes, “but I mean in general.”

     “So it’s not tradition?” Astoria teases, eyes bright from the drinking and her laughter and the way the room spins around them.

     He leans forward just a bit, until they’re nearly nose to nose. “Only for the pretty ones,” he answers smoothly, and then he releases her waist with a little push into a spin, before he tugs her right back.

     She’s dizzy when the song ends, and Sturmhond bows theatrically and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, like they’re in a ballroom rather than the belly of a ship. “My thanks for the dance,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Get some fresh air and some water before you try and sleep, if you want to head off the hangover.”

     And then he’s turned his attention elsewhere, and Astoria does as he suggests, and it’s only when she’s leaning over the rail, her elbows propped up against it and her chin in her hands, that she lets herself think about how warm his hand felt around hers, and how much she likes the strange color of his eyes, and that the sound of his laugh will repeat in her ear when she tries to sleep.

two.

She’s tipsy the first night she notices the color of his eyes but not the night she first notices that there seems to be a ring of gold around his pupil, and at the edge of the iris. Though, in the interest of fairness, she almost feels drunk on him, one of his hands slipped beneath her shirt and curled against her bare side, the other tangling in her hair and guiding her head to give him unimpeded access to her throat.

     The wood of his door is soft behind her, almost silken with age and wear, and cool against the small of her back where her shirt’s ridden up. He’s paying almost obscene attention to her neck now, taking care to be thorough enough that her knees are starting to shake, and she wouldn’t be able to hide the marks he’s going to leave even if she wanted to — but she does like the thought of him looking at her tomorrow when she pulls her hair to the side and seeing the evidence of how he spent his night.

     And then he wrenches away from her, the hand in her hair falling to brush across the spit-slicked skin of her neck where he’d just been tracing patterns with his tongue, before pressing his hand on the door behind her. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, and it’s then that she notices the gold. Has it always been there? Is this simply the first time she’s been close enough to notice?

     No; she was certainly close enough the night he danced with her, but she had been drinking, apparently enough to miss the sight of something so lovely. He’s almost handsome — his nose has been broken a few too many times, and the colors in him seem off at times, but perhaps it’s his confidence that makes it so difficult to take her eyes off him.

     He still hasn’t moved beyond the gentle stroke of his thumb along her ribs, and Astoria clears her throat. She wonders, briefly, if calling him captain will kill the mood, or if he’ll like that.

     “Everything alright?” she asks after a beat, and her voice is a little hoarse, a little lower than usual, and Sturmhond ducks his head to rest his forehead against her shoulder and he groans.

     “Yes,” he says, “it’s fine, you’re perfectly fine, you’re perfect — ” And he lifts his head to look her in the eye, lips curling up in a rueful smile. “Which is a problem, you see. This isn’t the best idea.”

     But he doesn’t move, doesn’t elaborate, and Astoria clears her throat again. “Do you plan on telling me why or should I make up a reason for you?”

     “I’m not — I don’t want to deceive you, that’s it. There are things you don’t know about me.”

     “I know.”

     “Beyond the standard for the crew, I mean.”

     “I know. I’m not under the impression that pirates — ”

     “Privateers.”

     “ — are particularly upfront about the intimate details of their lives or identities. Are you married?”

     “No.”

     “Secretly decades older than me? Or several years younger than me?”

     “Older,” he says, lips twitching up again, “but not by much.”

     “Have you committed unforgivable crimes I don’t know about? I don’t count lying as unforgivable.”

     “No. But — ”

     “Are you ready to tell me all of this?”

     He considers for a moment, then shakes his head, and Astoria shrugs.

     “Then tell me when you’re ready. I don’t care about the details. Whoever else you are, you’re Sturmhond right now, and I can promise you that I want Sturmhond.”

     He looks at her for a moment, and Astoria leans forward to kiss him. Immediately, he presses her back against his door, and he groans again, this time against her mouth. She shivers, delighted.

     “And if you don’t want me when you know more?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look at her and speak.

     “Unlikely, but even if that’s the case, I still want Sturmhond. You’re not misleading me. What I want in this moment isn’t going to change.”

     He moves the hand against the door to guide one of her legs around him and he lifts her — she lets out a small noise of surprise that turns into a half-desperate whine when he returns his attention to her neck. Once he’s deposited her on the bed he climbs over her, looking down at her with equal parts affection and amusement.

     “You’re sure?” he asks one more time, and Astoria lets out a frustrated sigh.

     “Saints, either do something about this or give me enough room to take care of myself,” she tells him, and he laughs and slips both hands under her shirt to sweep the fabric over her head and toss it aside.

     When she wakes the next morning — still in his bed, still beside him, the morning sun lighting him with a gentle glow that makes Astoria suspect that the whole world is as absurdly smitten with him as she is — she thinks she catches sight of a bit of blond peeking out from beneath the red.

three.

"I don’t know how I feel about you on a suicide mission,” he says one night, his tone light but his expression troubled even as he looks out over the sea instead of at her.

     Astoria looks up in surprise. Sturmhond — Nikolai, she corrects herself silently, though she knows better than to fall into the habit of using his true name around anyone else — had accepted her volunteering without any fuss, though she should have expected that it wouldn’t be the end of it. She treasures these moments, almost as much as whatever time they can spare to sneak off together, the two of them standing in amiable silence and watching the water as it rocks around them.

     And she’s not sure that she wants to sacrifice one of these moments — considering that they are, at least for now, limited — to become too serious. She shrugs one shoulder, turns her face back to the sea. “I don’t know how I feel about you on a suicide mission,” she retorts, “but alas, I am doomed to live with the inevitability of it.”

     “Your Ravkan is getting better,” he says a little sourly, and she lets out a snort of laughter.

     “That’s what you get for reading to me.”

     “My mistake. I’m serious.”

     “So am I. Of every idea you’ve had since I met you, this is my least favorite, and I’m including the time you promised me I’d like whatever that sheep’s stomach thing was in the Wandering Isle.”

     “It’s a delicacy!”

     “I respect the variation in world cuisine, but even so — ” She thinks for a moment she’s succeeded in distracting him, and is about to congratulate herself for it when he lets out a heavy sigh.

     “This could get ugly.”

     “What’s the worst that could happen?”

     “On a suicide mission? You die.”

     Astoria yawns. “Are you forbidding me from coming, captain?”

     “If I did, would it work?”

     “No.”

     “Then I’ll save my breath. At least I tried.”

     “Clever boy,” she teases, and she offers him a smile, but he doesn’t return it. Astoria lets out a sigh, and after a beat she reaches to gather his hand into both of hers. It’s a departure; she’s not often so affectionate in open view of the rest of the crew, though she has no doubt that they’re all aware of where she spends her nights, if they care at all. Tenderly, she turns his hand over in hers, and she traces her fingers along the lines of his palm. “Us aside — this crew saved me when I had nothing. My captain saved me when I had nothing. I was no good to anyone, and you kept me anyway, and you gave me everything. I’d say that’s worth loyalty in the face of possible death.”

     “Is it true they’ve started a pool on whether or not we survive?”

     “Yes. I put a fair amount on us living through it. When I win, I’m buying for everyone when we reach port.”

     He lets out a humorless laugh. “At least I can’t complain about the company,” he says, and she grins, bumps her hip against his.

     “That’s the spirit, love.”

     “Storya.” His voice is serious, even a little urgent. “If you’re going to do this, be sure you’re careful, alright? Don’t do anything foolish, don’t try to be heroic, don’t try to get me out of trouble. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

     “I promise.”

     He sighs, defeated, and he withdraws his hand from her grasp; he moves behind her and winds his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as she looks back out over the water. It’s a rare display of affection in such a public space, but Sturmhond ( Nikolai, she thinks, warmed to her core ) either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

     “The crew will accuse you of having favorites,” Astoria points out, and he presses a kiss to her cheek with a quiet laugh.

     “They’d be right.”

four.

She’s been singing under her breath all morning, one of the Kaelish folk songs she’d learned on the Volkvolny from a Squaller whose hair, a red so bright it put Astoria’s to shame, always seemed to stand a little bit on end. She’d remained on the Volkvolny under Privyet, like most of the crew, and Astoria is almost envious. 

     Not to be with the crew, but to be on the ship, to be back out to sea. She’s traded in her clothes — loose enough to stay cool under the sun, worn-in, comfortable — for a borrowed First Army uniform. The olive of her coat is underwhelming and dull, and the cut is hopelessly shapeless, but it’s clean, and doesn’t smell of sweat and salt, and it’ll do. Nikolai walks with the soldiers here, carries himself with an ease that makes her smile in spite of herself. Prince of the people. He looks up at the sound of a laugh behind him and catches her eye, winking theatrically. 

     ( “It makes sense,” she said the night before. “She’s a living saint. She’s a folk hero. If she can destroy the Fold, and defeat the Darkling, she’d pose the greatest threat to you as king if she ever decided she wanted the throne to herself. It’s a good move.” 

     “You’re not — ”

     “No, I’m not bothered by it. I think it’s genius.” Her fingers slowed over his arm, where they’d been tracing nonsensical patterns as they spoke, and she blew a stray curl out of her face. It fell back where it had been listlessly, and she gave up, unwilling to move. “Did you think I would be upset?”

     “It’s not exactly ideal for you,” Nikolai pointed out, rather sensibly, and he reached over to tuck the curl behind her ear.

     “No, but — I don’t have any illusions about this, Nikolai. You know that, right?”

     “Enlighten me.”

     “I’m an illegitimate Fjerdan grisha fugitive. The only title I’ve ever held is sailor. I have no land, no wealth, and no political connections besides you. You’re aiming for the throne. Your marriage will have to be right for an entire country, not just for you, and even assuming we survive everything that’s to come and you decide you want me around after that, that isn’t me. It’s not something I take personally. And she is, objectively, the best choice. Besides.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Royal mistresses are put under much less pressure.” )

     She wrinkles her nose in return, and his smile widens before he returns his attention to the men walking beside him. Beside her, the tracker is silent, and fuming. 

     ( She followed after them quietly, allowed past when he described her as a personal guard. 

     “You’re fine with this?” Mal asked after Nikolai explained himself, expression thunderous. It was the first time she had been addressed in the conversation, and Astoria only shrugged. 

     “What do I have to complain about? That Ravka will have a worthy king, or that Ravka will have a worthy queen?” )

     There are many things to complain about already: that she and Nikolai have been keeping plenty of distance between them, that they’ll have to continue to do so at least until they reach the capitol. That she has, apparently, forgotten how to fall asleep without someone next to her, and without the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. That Mal is so furious he won’t carry on a conversation while they walk, and she’s bored stiff, and she misses the ship and she misses the sea. 

     At some point in the day Nikolai returns to the coach where Alina has been riding, and it’s not jealousy Astoria feels — until she thinks of the sharp ache in her feet, and then she’s jealous enough that she can feel it in her teeth — but it’s not something particularly pleasant, either. 

     “You’re fine with that?” Mal asks quietly, nodding toward the coach, and Astoria doesn’t answer. 

     She’s summoned to the prince’s tent when they make camp; he’s waiting for her, blessedly alone. “I sent for your kefta today,” he says by way of greeting, and he looks up from the map in front of him with a grin. Sturmhond’s grin, not a prince’s.

     “How? No one took my measurements.”

     “I,” he says, “have a very good memory. It’ll be ready for you when we reach the Grand Palace. If you’re going to stay with my personal guard, they’ll want some reason why.” 

     “You’re serious about this, then? Letting me stay with you, instead of going to the Little Palace?”

     “Absolutely. I need people I trust with me. Tolya and Tamar are staying with Alina, so unfortunately for you, I’ll need you available to me regularly, and I’d rather you were bulletproof, or close to it.” 

     He’s still wearing that grin. Astoria takes a step closer to him, then another, until she’s standing beside him, looking at the map, her hand on the table next to his. “And I won’t make things more difficult for you? Being there?” she asks, voice low. There’s a funny insecurity that’s settled in her chest, and the arches of her feet tingle uncomfortably. Since when has she been nervous around him?

     Nikolai bows his head to bring his lips to her ear. He moves his hand just enough to cover hers, and he squeezes her fingers lightly. “The greatest difficulty will be focusing on anything that isn’t you standing next to furniture we haven’t put to good use,” he promises, his voice a rumble of laughter. “But I’ll do my best.”

     “We shouldn’t have unrealistic expectations for ourselves,” she says airily. “We need to be comfortable with the occasional failure.” 

     “Very wise.” 

     “What were you looking at, on the map?”

     “Hm? Nothing, really. I thought it would complete the look.”

     She laughs, then, looking up at him, and he releases his hand in favor of catching her jaw in his hand and bringing his lips down to hers. All the discomfort from the day vanishes. ( He is still her captain. The thought brings her more relief than she can quite express. He is still her Sturmhond. Still hers. ) 

     When he breaks the kiss he presses another to her temple. Yes; she can do this, easily — what’s a bit of unease in the face of his victory? 

     She leans into him, and he doesn’t move away from her, either certain that they won’t be interrupted, or not caring if they are. She taps her fingers against the map, and she looks up at him again. “Teach me?” she asks, and he meets her eyes, a surprised smile unfurling on his face. “This is important to you. I’d like to be able to know about it.”

     Still smiling, Nikolai takes her hand in his and guides it farther west. “This,” he says, “is where we are right now. You never made it this far south when you crossed the border, did you? Right — so it’s still some time before we reach the Grand Palace, which is here, in Os Alta...”

five.

“It suits you.” 

     She’s grateful that he was the only one present when it was given to her. The kefta is everything she’d always imagined it would be — a deep, beautiful blue, the cuffs and lapels embroidered with a lighter shade. The contrast against her hair is striking. The fabric fits as though it’s a second skin — Nikolai hadn’t been kidding about knowing her measurements, and she’d almost blushed when she put it on and felt the way it clung to her. 

     She loves it so much it’s a wonder that she’s taken it off for anything, but if anyone could charm her out of the kefta, it’s him. 

     “Is that why you were so eager to get me out of it?” she asks dryly, and Nikolai laughs, gathering her hair out of her way as she shrugs it on. 

     “Can you blame me?”

     “Not a bit.” He releases her hair over her back again, and she turns around to face him. He hasn’t bothered getting dressed yet, and it’s almost enough to have her stripping the kefta off again. “You’re cheating.”

     “I am. I’m trying to be more distracting than whatever else you have planned today.”

     “Rifle training. I imagine it’s important, for your personal guard.”

     “Has it been a difficult transition?” he asks, suddenly serious, and Astoria hesitates before answering. 

     It has, in ways she hadn’t expected. The beds are too soft. As if to apologize for the unconventionality of their circumstances, he’s dedicated himself to ensuring her comfort, and she has no complaints, though her back aches in the mornings even still. She spends more time observing, less time speaking; he’s invited her to every meeting he attends, and she stands a few feet behind him, hands clasped behind her, watching and listening eagerly, though she finds there are only so many times she can listen to his brother talk about road repair before she has to fight off a sudden wave of tiredness. 

     And she so, so rarely has him to herself. That, she thinks, is the worst of it. 

     “Not as much as I imagined it would be,” she says, her words measured. “I’m glad to be here. Are you tired of me yet?”

     “Absolutely. I’m planning to have you thrown from the palace once you step out those doors.”

     “What charm, captain.” And she hesitates, then, and chews the inside of her cheek. “Should I not call you captain any longer?”

     His eyes slide from her to the bed; his bedding is thoroughly mussed, and one of the pillows has been flung halfway across the room, while another’s fallen to the floor. His eyes flicker back to her, the corner of his mouth curling up in a crooked, wicked smile. “Was I not clear in how much I liked that?”

     “I’m serious.”

     “So am I. I like the reminder.”

     Astoria lets out a contented sigh, and she leans into him. She’s adjusting better than Mal, who seems bound and determined to work through this in the unhealthiest manner imaginable — she’s heard about the fights, even considered participating in them, though there seems to be no sport for him, just an urge to be hurt. Perhaps there’s something to be said for the grounding influence of remembering who you were while adjusting to who you are. 

     Nikolai’s hands settle at her waist and she winds her arms around his neck, pushes herself up to her toes to kiss him lazily, languorously. She could stay like this indefinitely, wrapped around him, and never tire of it, and that almost frightens her, to imagine that she could have something permanent, even if it looks so different than what she wished for as a girl.

     When she pulls away from him he sighs, reluctant. “On today of all days?” he says with feigned hurt, and she responds with another kiss, brief but no less intimate, no less adoring. 

     “I will spend the night silently admiring,” she promises, “and thinking of ways to make it up to you, and when we return from the dinner I will put my three best ideas to use.” 

     He steps out of her grasp with his swashbuckler’s grin, the one that knocks the wind out of her and leaves her hungry. He knows her too well. “I’ll hold you to that.”

     He’s getting dressed as she finishes pulling on her boots, and she hesitates at the doorway. She’d spend the whole day with him in this bed if she could, but they’ll have plenty of time for it later. 

     The transition has been difficult, but worthwhile, and here, he shines, almost like he did on the water. She has grown terribly fond of this place and everything it means for him. 

     “Happy birthday,” she says, and he looks up and he smiles, and not for the first time, she has faith, real faith. 

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings​​​ said: ❛  Which is it, huh? You’re angry at me, or worried about me, or happy to see me? Because I can’t keep up.  ❜ nikolai after nearly dying in the fold? ( a darker shade of magic sentence starters | accepting )

He had been ushered off the battlefield with an urgency and speed that was almost shocking, considering that nearly everyone they had with them was convinced he was dead. 

     But there’s something to be said for faith, Astoria thinks. It’s what drew everyone here today — faith in Alina, in the need for there to be something greater than the Darkling and the bloodshed that followed him wherever he went. She had done it because she wouldn’t allow the great sin of his death to go unpaid, and when he came to she was hovering over him, a hand at his chest and trying to urge the flow of his blood, her own face streaked with filth and gore, tracks carved by the tears which were coming with increasing rapidity. She wonders now what that looked like to him, if his first thought upon opening his eyes was that he was being greeted in death by some terrifying thing. 

     Now, she sits in silence, watching him as Tolya and Genya fret over him; she’s already ushered Zoya and David out of the room, and Tamar is standing guard to guarantee some measure of privacy. She’d bathed only when Tolya had him, unwilling to leave his side for anything else, and had returned as quickly as she could, wearing a robe nicked from the abandoned closet of whichever too-wealthy noble had lived here before the Fold came crashing over Tsemna. The satin feels strange against her skin, and it’s too big, sleeves rolled up so that her hands can be of any use to her, hem dragging on the ground, belt tied twice around her waist. She’s silent when they leave, when the door closes and latches behind them and there is nothing between them but space and dust and furniture long-since abandoned. 

     When he speaks, it sounds as if it hurts, and she stands from where she’d been perched on a table she’d knocked clear of anything else. Her bare feet leave footprints in the dust and her movements are quiet, and she sits carefully down beside him, reaches over to tip his face up toward her. 

     Still the same Nikolai. Exhausted, and wounded, and carrying far more than he should ever have been asked to carry, but still her captain, her prince, her king. Still hers. Her hand is shaking under his chin and she’s rolled her lower lip into her mouth to worry it between her teeth, certain that if she says anything she’ll only be able to manage a sob. 

     “Worried,” she says finally, and her voice is thick. “Happy. Relieved. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now but I’m terrified that if I let you out of my sight you’ll be gone from me again.” They’ll have to move again in a few hours’ time, to get back to Os Alta, but she’d rather coldly informed the remaining soldiers that they would move when and only when the king was well enough to be transported. She had delivered the announcement with such gravity that no one had seemed willing to argue it, and so she can be certain that they’ll be left undisturbed.

     Her hand falls from his face to catch his own, and she turns his palm up for her to look. There are blackened veins visible in his pale arms, and his fingertips look almost as though he’s dipped them in ink. Astoria leans forward, presses a fervent kiss to his palm, her grip tight. ( Why hadn’t he come to see her the night before? She’d waited on the edge of the Fold after Alina told them, her eyes staring into the blackness until she thought she would collapse if she remained out there any longer. Why hadn’t he come for her? ) 

     “Can you speak?” she asks finally, lifting her head to face him. She’s been staring at that face for over an hour now, arms crossed over her chest and gripping the fabric of the robe to keep herself from rushing to him and interrupting the healing that needed to be done. “Are you — how do you feel?” It’s a useless question, but she can’t think of what else to ask, and she doesn’t want to fling herself onto him if he’s in too much pain to be touched. 

[carelessgraces]

POLICIES 

I like having exclusives and mains! I think it’s a nice way to build a coherent canon for my character, and to let dynamics develop extensively.

If you’re interested in becoming exclusives or mains with Astoria, please feel free to message me! If I’m already exclusive with a particular portrayal, please do not approach me to write with other versions of these characters on this blog. Please also know that I’m unlikely to drop exclusivity for any reason besides extensive inactivity, or breaking mutuals.

Threads which ignore or disrespect my exclusivity will be dropped. This is most relevant regarding Draco: I am exclusive with Marta’s portrayal of Draco, found at potterstillstinks. Threads that suggest, for instance, that Draco and Astoria are in an arranged marriage, that Draco needs to be “saved” from an unhappy marriage to Astoria, or that Scorpius is Draco’s child with someone else will be dropped, and you’ll be unfollowed.

EXCLUSIVES

CANON CHARACTERS ORGANIZED BY FANDOM

HARRY POTTER

Draco Malfoy — potterstillstinks

Ginny Weasley — gxtenoughnxrve

Harry Potter — masterofdeath

Theodore Nott — acciortum

Ron Weasley — thegreaterfool

DRAGON AGE

Thom Rainier — imageofdeparture

Wren Cousland ( fem. Cousland origin ) — imageofdeparture

Zevran Arainai — imageofdeparture

ARTHURIANA

Arthur Pendragon (Pruitt) — valiantsword ( Crossover-based, set in The Old Guard )

BLACK SAILS

James Flint — seascourge

THE BLACKLIST

Thomas Keen — indizien

DAMIEN

Damien Thorn — uncannylongings

LOST IN SPACE

John Robinson — uncannylongings

MERLIN (BBC)

Arthur Pendragon — arzhur

RESIDENT EVIL

Albert Wesker — retrovirel

SHADOWHUNTERS

Jace Herondale — createdivine

THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY

Vanya Hargreeves — violeblanch

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES / THE ORIGINALS / LEGACIES

Hope Mikaelson — serendpitous

Marcel Gerard — mournres

SHIP EXCLUSIVES

Rosalie Hale — denieddeath

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS

Alice Black ( OC child of Sirius Black ) — acciortum

Damon Greengrass ( OC Greengrass brother ) — theywerestories

MAINS

CANON CHARACTERS ORGANIZED BY FANDOM

HARRY POTTER

Andromeda Tonks — theywerestories

Daphne Greengrass — theywerestories & acciortum

Fleur Delacour — acciortum

Hannah Abbott — acciortum

Pansy Parkinson — theywerestories & purearsenic

GRISHAVERSE

Alina Starkov — serendpitous

Genya Safin — clpdwings

Kaz Brekker — clpdwings

Matthias Helvar — clpdwings

Nikolai Lantsov — clpdwings

THE RESIDENT

Conrad Hawkins — theywerestories

SHADOWHUNTERS

Maryse Lightwood — eterneaty

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS

Henry Greengrass ( OC Greengrass father ) — acciortum

Seraphina Greengrass ( OC Greengrass mother ) — theywerestories