[ don't blame yourself, he says, and swallowing down every protest she has feels like choking on shattered glass. it's an impossibility, when she's become the nexus of so much misery. the common denominator in aleksander's rampage, the only consistent factor they seem to share. she might not be guilty of his crimes, might not be held accountable for enticing him on a path of blood and war and taking no prisoners as he razes the world down around them, but she can't shake the shame that plagues her at night. the thought that, no matter her best efforts, she's done nothing to put an end to it. no surrender, no ceasefire, no victories — not when aleksander always finds a way to make her pay for her defiance.
sometimes, she fears he'll burn down the entirety of ravka until only the two of them are left.
but she thinks of nikolai, of the razor-edged accusation of martyr as he'd shone on a light on all of her worst faults — perfect to him, until she no longer was; until that part of her was too unsightly to stomach, like she had feared all along — and pretends the words she won't say don't dig into her throat when a laugh breezes from her mouth. ]
I'll try. [ a delicate promise. she doubts it carries any weight now, as easily thrown to the wind as the loose strands of hair that float around her temple, still warm from the lasting press of his kiss. the last one she might receive from him. she lets her esophagus seize for a second, gripped by an impossible tightness, and ignores her own messy sniffling. laughter one moment, and tears the next — more evidence, she thinks bitterly, of how much of a mess she really is. ] I'm a work in progress. Like a Monet. Fine from a distance, and a complete disaster when you get too close.
[ but she's enduring. as enduring as he'd called fairytale love, once, and that’s what matters most of all. maybe he's right, maybe it isn't a rescue when they've run off hand-in-hand, like there's liberation to be found with the dock creaking beneath their feet, but — he had found a way to be there for her tonight, even after she’d accused him of forgetting her, even after she’d confessed to feeling like he’s never fully with her. ]
You didn’t give up on me, Nik. It would have been easier for you, but you didn’t. To me, that counts as a rescue. [ her nose crinkles, roughly scraping the square still crumpled in her hand over the tear-slick stains drying uncomfortably on her cheeks. ] Even if we did find a different way to scandalize people.
[ there will undoubtedly be consequences for it, but she can pretend it’s far away for now as she brushes a lingering, thankful kiss over the pristine cut of his cheekbone, right before tugging her purse back to her body. ]
I might have accidentally committed some petty theft of my own. [ she steps away only to settle at the edge of the dock, sitting as she roots around through her bag, dumping the oak cigar box and her folder into her lap. if she’s going to erase his evidence, she’s at least going to give herself the poetic catharsis of burning it to ashes with baghra’s expensive cigars before she drowns them in the harbor. ] Do you want one? They’re terrible.
no subject
sometimes, she fears he'll burn down the entirety of ravka until only the two of them are left.
but she thinks of nikolai, of the razor-edged accusation of martyr as he'd shone on a light on all of her worst faults — perfect to him, until she no longer was; until that part of her was too unsightly to stomach, like she had feared all along — and pretends the words she won't say don't dig into her throat when a laugh breezes from her mouth. ]
I'll try. [ a delicate promise. she doubts it carries any weight now, as easily thrown to the wind as the loose strands of hair that float around her temple, still warm from the lasting press of his kiss. the last one she might receive from him. she lets her esophagus seize for a second, gripped by an impossible tightness, and ignores her own messy sniffling. laughter one moment, and tears the next — more evidence, she thinks bitterly, of how much of a mess she really is. ] I'm a work in progress. Like a Monet. Fine from a distance, and a complete disaster when you get too close.
[ but she's enduring. as enduring as he'd called fairytale love, once, and that’s what matters most of all. maybe he's right, maybe it isn't a rescue when they've run off hand-in-hand, like there's liberation to be found with the dock creaking beneath their feet, but — he had found a way to be there for her tonight, even after she’d accused him of forgetting her, even after she’d confessed to feeling like he’s never fully with her. ]
You didn’t give up on me, Nik. It would have been easier for you, but you didn’t. To me, that counts as a rescue. [ her nose crinkles, roughly scraping the square still crumpled in her hand over the tear-slick stains drying uncomfortably on her cheeks. ] Even if we did find a different way to scandalize people.
[ there will undoubtedly be consequences for it, but she can pretend it’s far away for now as she brushes a lingering, thankful kiss over the pristine cut of his cheekbone, right before tugging her purse back to her body. ]
I might have accidentally committed some petty theft of my own. [ she steps away only to settle at the edge of the dock, sitting as she roots around through her bag, dumping the oak cigar box and her folder into her lap. if she’s going to erase his evidence, she’s at least going to give herself the poetic catharsis of burning it to ashes with baghra’s expensive cigars before she drowns them in the harbor. ] Do you want one? They’re terrible.