Chapter Text
Have you heard the rumors from Dimovka?
Since the massacre of the imperial Veselovsky family, the people believe their new ruler to be unstable. As if one too many cold winters has frozen over their heart. They say the new Tsar personifies the winter months of Dimovka as if they themselves were wrought from the snow. Cruel and merciless, unforgiving to the passions of the previous season. Slaughtering what lies naked and unprotected, unable to defend from the chill of December. And they rage like those winter months, heartless and unrelenting. Nothing but the bitter freeze of anger to drive their soul.
Some say the Tsar is a woman, born of no noble rank and who once held a position of military strength. Others say a man of bastardized royal blood, driven out with overwhelming humiliation of the previous Tsar Mislov Veselovsky IV. Yet most agree that they are more beast than human. With no redeeming qualities yet to be seen and an iron grip of fear over the empire. They are called Tsar with a waver in one’s tone and a shake of one’s hand. They are called Imperator with a quiver of the lip and a hesitation budding on their tongue. They are called Bies with the utmost certainty from all.
It’s said that former Tsar Mislov IV was killed with their sword. Slit on the throat and gouged of eyes. It’s said that his corpse was flung from the castle onto the pavilion below. That his organs spilled from his stomach and his empty eyes lamented with vermillion tears. That the stains of his mangled corpse smothered the blanced snow in a sea of red-- that the cobblestone latent underneath has been stained since. It’s said his heart was cut from his chest and found between the teeth of Bies. And there it remained with fangs dug into the brute of the vessels and a tongue resting flat beneath it. It’s said that those who saw the body of Tsar Mislov IV were convinced that no man could have committed such an act, as it was more ferocious and condemning than hell itself.
Have you heard that the Tsar of Dimovka is most thought to be the devil?
That the only religion spoken from the native tongue is that of violence?
That the empire will fall at the hands of a holy war?
Have you heard that the Tsar of Dimovka is coming to Paradis for talks of unity?
309, PARADIS
june
The kingdom of Paradis is not exempt from the callous gaze of Dimovka.
The normally humid and hot weather of June has subsided to an ugly frost, the streets darkened and chilled. The countrysides frozen over with hatred of the North, the sea muddied grey, the forests choked with a wintry grasp. The previously vibrant wildlife has become decayed and lifeless. The shops closed and boarded up. The lively streets diluted down to nothing but imperial guards and citizens peering curiously outside of their curtained windows. The world moves at a snail’s pace, slowing down to accommodate the arrival of the continent's most feared dictator. The streets of Paradis are silent. But not so much the homes.
For the people whisper in their walls, rumors and stories of Dimovka. Ill will towards their people and curses towards the Tsar. Murmurs of bloodshed and hints of despair. Uneasy and unsettled, the people huddle in their homes. Fingers tensing at every drop of a pin and head snapping with each rustle of the pebbles resting upon the cobblestone outside. And in their solace, they await the Tsar’s arrival with a tentative curiosity.
In contrast, the King of Paradis remains unfeeling in his throne.
His Imperial Highness Levi Ackerman matches the borean freeze of Dimovka.
Said to be an indifferent man, his highness befits the image. A benignant ruler born from nothing of account with a leaning bias towards military matters (after all, he did serve in the Paradisan army for quite many years before his ascension to the throne). Yet, his words hold no emotion, his decrees no passion for his country. To his people, he is a spirit which only unearths itself on rare occasion. A beautiful man with features that could be mistaken for that of Venerable Venus and an anger corresponding to Malignant Mars. A myth of a ruler which is more folk tale than true. The people of Paradis are haunted by his reputation yet at peace with his command. The country is in flourish. A golden age. One which could quickly rupture under the weight of Dimovkan politics and the steel toed boots of its leader.
It’s said that the Tsar will arrive with one hundred white stallions and the infamous army of one thousand men-- a regiment of soldiers under the Imperator’s direct command, famed for their massacre of the Veselovky lineage. It’s said that Bies will approach in a snow-furled carriage with two white wolves who are thought to have ravaged the previous royal line in a feat of fury. It’s said that evil and war will awaken in their path. That the destruction which has supposedly conquered Dimovka will spread its poisonous venom to the streets and livelihood of Paradis. That the Tsar will unfurl their blackened, tattered wings, uncovering their three pronged tail and curved horns mounted from their forehead. It’s said that the Imperator will spit blood and fire with a forked tongue and reptilian irises. That the ruler of the Northern territory will slaughter the King on his very throne.
These rumors have not escaped the ears of the Special Operations Squad, a band of royal guards who protect the King with their lives. They are those who graduated at the top of their respective academies. Those who have won battle after battle within an inch of their lives. They are the best soldiers which Paradis has to offer. And they spend their days of peace in the silent throne room, itching for an order from their commander. Or a motion of war from the Tsar. Something which has become an anticipated action from both the people and court. So they sit and stalk across the marble floors of the palace, fingers twitching and footsteps echoing. For they know as well as the King that Dimovka can offer nothing but troubles-- no matter how much their correspondence speaks of a treaty.
“Your highness! The Tsar has entered the city gates,”
Levi Ackerman shifts restlessly on his throne, legs crossed and head tossed back. His medals and jewels resound through the room as he lifts a fair hand in acknowledgement, fingers sliding lazily back into a fist. His sword rests prominently at his feet, just within grasp should any threat truly come to fruition. The fabric of his coat outlines him in a deep shadow, melding into the organized color of his opaque military uniform-- affited with strings of crystals and diamonds. Golden cords hang loosely from his shoulders, a matching sash trails from his right arm to left hip in the motions of a long lost lover. Raven hair falls before his countenance, masking scars from war and the somber bags beneath his tired eyes. He speaks no words, no whisper of a phrase. There is only stillness in the throne room. A stillness which he has become much accustomed to.
It’s reported that the Tsar rode into the city on a single white stallion before the head of their guards. Naught but twenty men rode behind, dressed in grey furs and adorned with sheathed swords. No faces could be made out, hidden beneath thick robes customary for the chill of their homeland. There were no hundred horses nor thousand men. No carriage or demonic imagery. The Imperator was nothing more than a ghost of white fur, a creature appropriate for the unsure fantasies which revolve around it.
It’s rumored that when King Levi first set his eyes upon the ferocious creature dressed in all white, he remarked them closest to Vihansa. That he commented on an elegance seen only in Var and a bloodlust most fervently associated with Sandraudiga. Likened to the gods, they are a beauty not yet held in the eye of affection. It’s rumored that Levi met their gaze with a bitter tongue and a frown. That he looked down upon them from his throne with unyielding eyes filled with resentment. That no praises of the mother tongue fell from his tongue. That he did not equate you to any such deity but spat upon your kneeled form with malice.
Rumors are nothing more but, however. And only those who were present for the meeting know the truth of the exchange.
“Your Royal Highness,”
“Tsar,”
Genuflecting on the ground, you offer a humble depiction of the famed dictator he has heard so much about. There’s no sigils of demonic entities nor blood dripping from sharpened fangs. There is no cocky smirk or arrogant glint fixed in the black of your pupils. You do not ooze bloodlust nor itch for the anticipation of a battle. You could easily be mistaken for nothing more than a hallucinated figure passing through the fallen snow. He can sense nothing from you, no hint of emotion nor plan. A trait which makes you particularly dangerous and unpredictable.
You're dressed in white military garbs with intricate silver designs of age old Dimovkan symbols laced over top of them. They’re well fitting, tailored to fit snugly on your shoulders where silver tassels sprout like the wings of Jegudiel and fall down as if cast from heaven. A high collar wraps its thick hands around your neck, silver and dainty as if it were a diamond necklace which belongs on the throats of the highest of aristocrats. From its pinky sprouts the bejeweled sigil of your motherland which bears down heavy on your chest, unmoving from its rooted hold on your collarbones. There is no sash nor triumphant medals of war which make a home on your frame except for a single, aged coat of arms which resides on the brute of your heart-- an indication of service in the Dimovkan military before your grasp of the rule.
Around your shoulders lays the heavy fur of white beasts, ruffling and nuzzling against your cheeks. It extends its reach with the continued length of alabaster cloak, every hem swallowed with the pelt-- providing the illusion that you truly did bring your fabled white wolves with you, stalking the court’s every move as they hover beneath you in wait. Your knees are coated with the length of your boots, affitted with argent riding heels and a plated support for your joints. They are dirtied from the travel, stained with a repugnant mix of dirt and blood which seeps into the previously clean throne room marble. In a likewise fashion, the white of your gloves have tattered down to a grisly grey-- a stain presiding in the shape of reigns rubbing deep into the cloth.
Your upper half remains unaffected by the journey in deep contrast to the mud-covered pants which layer your flesh. There is not a speck of dirt to be found from the elegance of your uniform to the full of your lips and the stare of your piercing eyes-- eye. For your left eye remains hidden underneath the protection of a medical eyepatch, nothing more than a minuscule shred of vermillion skin visible under its care. And yet with this one eye, you scrutinize him. Unwavering and unmatched in attention, you observe the mannerisms of his royal highness. Predator and prey. The consistency of your enduring inquiry leaves a pit winding in his stomach, traveling upwards to stall in his throat. The uneasiness he feels is unrivaled to any matter of war nor any other such individual. Levi doubts this will be the last he feels of it. There’s something about you that’s simply… animalistic.
“Stand,” he commands, lifting a hand to compel you, “You will find nothing there on the floor,”
You breathe out a flighty chuckle as you raise yourself to your feet, although it sounds devoid of humor, the laughter never reaching your eye. Nor a smile from touching your lips. Like Levi you remain insensate and stony, as if you too have forgotten how to perform the most rudimentary of emotions.
At your full height, you resemble utter regality and gentility. A beauty displayed in no living seraphs. An allure derived from Valhalla. The sunlight from the large, opened windows lap eagerly at your clothes, desperate to touch the beauty of your stature. And from there it consumes you, submerging you in a sea of warmer tones-- forcing the bleached color of your clothing to burn ever brighter and for the accents of encrusted diamonds to paint dancing jewels across the room, performing sagas of pirouettes and arabesques.
Your men crowd near the door, each unrecognizable from the next as they hide within their darkened furs. But they watch with attentive eyes and hands ready to strike. Each at your beck and call like a lapdog, prepared to perfectly perform their duty lest they be put down.
“Your letters spoke of a treaty, and yet I see no cause for such an alliance between us,” Levi sits his chin on his hand, peering down at you with a raised brow, “Surely, you are not so foolish to come here without rationale, Imperator”
“Of course not, your Majesty,” you meet his stare with a flicker of an unreadable emotion in your eye which travels down to the tip of your tongue, spilling out into your tone, “My hope for communion comes from the need of your littoral trade routes. I ask for alliance because I would take no joy in the needless bloodshed of conquering your country,”
You phrase it as a trivial matter. As if the domination and slaughter of Paradis is but an afterthought. Like you could , if you truly wanted too, at this very minute. The tension from your threat lingers in the air as thick as molasses, suffocating and choking any other thoughts from emerging from the mouths of the Paradiasan court. They roll their fingers anxiously and tap their feet, looking towards one another with skittish eyes and startled mouths. The hush of panicked murmurs is swift to fill the room, louder repetitions of specific words including ‘dead’ and ‘kill’ resound off the golden walls and arched ceiling. Your words do not fall upon deaf ears. The movement of the Special Operations Squad is silent through the crowd of the court. Effortless and soft, as if they are ghosts from future past. Untouched by inessential emotion and fueled with the itch of danger. The only one who remains unaffected and indifferent is that of the King. There is no sudden rush of anger or fear. Nor is there any change in his posture. He only continues his resolute gaze, uncaring and unafraid.
“And yet you speak of it as a possibility,”
“And yet I have not slaughtered you where you sit,”
Levi laughs, tossing back his head and allowing his previously crossed foot to snap to the floor with a forceful bang. It silences the remainder of the room. The reflection of his royal highness’s eyes shows no amusement, irises dripping in animosity. “Do you wish to?”
You offer him the flash of a minuscule smile, so quick that Levi must question himself if it ever happened in the first place. “If I did I would not say so here,”
“I suppose you’re right. Nor would I,”
There’s a pause, a brief moment of placidity which slackens time to a standstill. All breaths are held, all movements hampered, every thought suspended. It is all consuming. Devouring every person, every being, every thing. All except for you and his royal highness. Free from the clutches of stolen time, you do not swallow nor speak. There is nothing more than a momentary second of understanding. You know him just as well as he knows you. And despite never meeting one another prior nor speaking directly to one another in correspondence, it’s as if you have known each other your whole lives. Or a life previous to this one, perhaps. And then … you blink and time has restored itself back to the natural order of such things. Any shared feeling is gone, replaced with the simmering strain of unsaid words and the immovable force of distance.
“Do you trust me, your Highness?”
There is no hesitation in his response. “No,”
“Then allow me to earn that trust. A marriage,”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m asking for your blessing, your Majesty,” the glimmer in your eyes is knowing, calculated-- matching the playfully virulent tone of your voice, “To marry your brother, Crown Prince Furlan of Paradis. Afterall, wouldn’t you say that it’s better to keep your enemies close?”
It takes him no time at all to garner enough for a response, expression warped into something between speechlessness and irritation. “Absolutely not,”
“Oh? Could it be that you don’t wish for your bastard blooded brother to be Tsar? ”
Wolfish eyes slide over to the younger heir, forcing his cheeks to burn with humiliation at both the weight of your insult and the heat of your stare. Under the scrutiny of your words, Furlan nearly shrinks back-- hiding himself among the shadows of the court in a fruitless attempt to escape the biting consideration of your narrowed eye. However, his absorption with avoiding your concern is quickly redirected to the clatter of the throne as Levi stands abruptly, grabbing his sword from its place at his feet in one fell movement. You should be distressed, fearful, even aghast, but you prevail in your steeled composure-- turning to face the King with a lazy drag of your head, as if you yourself have not yet spared him a second thought.
It’s only seconds before he reaches you, close enough that when he raises his sword, it brushes the delicate skin of your throat-- pricking and nipping at the sensitive flesh. The edge of it continues to skate upon your neck in a bitter hymn of a warning. To watch your words, lest you be removed of the ability to speak them.
“Remember your place, woman ,”
“Remember mine?” you bark, bringing up a palm to clutch at the body of his sword-- scarlet blood spilling out from the wound and making its swift and foul descent to the floor where it sleeps in coagulated puddles, “You’d be best to remember yours. We are not yet comrades, Paradisan , it’s best to keep that in mind before addressing me like a common pet,”
It’s said the King and Tsar stood there for naught more than ten minutes.
That the altercation left the room stinking with the sour smell of iron and the enduring pressure of unamicable tensions. That the rage in Levi’s eyes is one reserved for the battle-field. That the calmness in yours reflected best the surface of the Eastern sea. It’s rumored that Levi nearly killed you for your insolence against his family and that you did nothing in return. That you only stood there at his mercy, hand wounded beyond a swift repair. That you looked upon him with a challenging gaze, as if you wanted him to make the first move. A declaration of war. So that, perhaps, you could conquer Paradis and gain the trade routes without any such proposed marriage. The people say that you and Levi shared a few, whispered words in turn with one another. That the agreement for the treaty came to be under these short, muttered breaths.
Have you heard that the King of Paradis made a treaty with the Tsar of Dimovka?
That they almost started a regional war over it?
Have you heard that the Tsar nearly lost a hand? That his Royal Highness was the cause?
Have you heard that the Demon of Dimovka is engaged to Imperial Prince Furlan of Paradis?