Work Text:
When you move
I can recall somethin' that's gone from me
When you move
Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free
(Movement, Hozier)
In the Darkest of Night
The night was still at the Palace – quiet and uneventful, only the echoes of the servants’ soft clicking heels scurrying about down the corridors. Quiet like mice, there and gone just as Zoya turned a corner, vanishing like wraiths. A flash of an ankle-length skirt, the dregs of a shoe.
Gossiping about their King, no doubt.
But Zoya was used to gossip. She’d lived in the Little Palace most of her life, and rumors surrounding the Ravkan royal family made their rounds like coins lost in a card match.
She’d never paid them any mind then, why should she now?
The King had summoned her to his chambers, and a soldier did not ignore the demands of her sovereign, rumors be damned.
Outside of the double doors, Zoya smoothed down her immaculate kefta, stood up straight and pushed her shoulders back, wielding her features into stoicism and steel.
She knocked twice and then tucked her hands behind her back, waiting patiently. Zoya tilted her chin up in defiance – she was aware that he was taller than her, but she’d never let him believe that she could be intimidated. Not even by royalty.
But when King Nikolai opened the door to his private chambers, he appeared to be anything but royal. Nothing more than a disheveled boy feeling the weight of the crown, and judging by the dark circles under his eyes, one that was not getting much sleep, either. Zoya couldn’t help the way her dark gaze scanned him from head to toe – golden hair askew, clothing rumpled as if he’d quickly thrown something on for decency’s sake. Still handsome but in a sloppy way, Zoya surmised.
A state that, had he been anyone but a King and she not his soldier, she’d probably have left him in rather than finding him this way.
Zoya exhaled through her nose. “You requested my presence, your highness?”
Maintaining her haughtiness, ensuring he was aware that she would stick to propriety regardless of his state of dress. This was a professional meeting, no matter what the rumor mill would suggest the next day.
The King having an affair with a beautiful Squaller. The ice queen herself, melting in the arms of a forbidden dalliance with the handsome, young Ravkan King. Was it the promise of money? Or the allure of power? And what of his poor, unsuspecting betrothed?
Nikolai blinked, as if remembering where he was and who he was, and then quickly stepped aside to usher her in, the royal charm returning to his golden features. “Ah, yes. Nazyalensky, thank you for making the trek out here so late. Please come in.”
Zoya raised a sultry brow, but did not question the King of Ravka – she stepped into his room and he quickly shut the massive double doors behind her, the familiar sound of a lock clicking in place. Not that a lock would stop inquisitive eyes and ears paired with ruthless imagination.
The room itself was generally tidy, but the bed was a mess. Clothes lay scattered about, suggesting it had been quite some time since a maid had visited Nikolai’s personal quarters. Whether by choice or demand, she couldn’t be certain. Zoya stood perfectly still in the middle of his room, not quite knowing what to expect, or what to do. Nikolai brushed past her in a blur of motion, scratching at the back of his head, and muttering a form of an apology for the state of his bedchamber. His warm scent – rosewater and finely aged whiskey – a gentle gust of air against her senses.
“With all due respect, your highness, but if it is a maid you require, perhaps you ought to fetch one?” The ice in her tone was difficult to mask – Zoya did not have time for whatever game this was, King or otherwise.
The Darkling. The former King. Prince Vasily. She’d had enough of being a plaything for powerful men.
But if Nikolai was offended, he was careful not to show his anger at her insubordinance.
“No,” he began, his tone patient. “No, Nazyalensky. I have not asked you here to clean up after me if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then why is it that you’ve summoned me?” This late, she wanted to add, but could not put words to the implications of such a question – not with him in a state of undress and her with a reputation of a vixen and temptress.
Visibly, Nikolai appeared to sag, and for a moment, the princely act fell away as he sank down onto the edge of his bed. Eyes pleading, he gazed up at her, sincere in a way that made her traitorous heart flutter against its cage.
He is not mine, Zoya reminded herself briskly. This one is off limits. He belongs to Ravka.
“I called you here because Alina trusts you,” he said slowly, biding his time. “And if she trusts you, then so do I.”
And Alina was not currently here, having gone back to Shu Han to return Sankta Neyar’s ceremonial sword and act as a Ravkan ambassador on behalf of Nikolai.
Zoya couldn’t help it – the way she bristled upon learning that she was meant to be a replacement for the Sun Summoner. She had not dedicated years of her life to training and rising in rank just to be left with babysitting duties for a weepy king missing his betrothed. It was a challenge to reign in her visible disdain. But before she could formulate a response both snarky and passive enough not to overtly upset her king, Nikolai was removing his billowy white shirt, slipping it over his head in one swift motion.
What she saw then made Zoya gasp sharply, all the words she’d been thinking to say sticking in her throat like the tiniest of knives. She took a step back involuntarily and blinked rapidly, as if her eyes were deceiving her.
The dark mark on Nikolai’s shoulder was something tainted and alive, and even from here, Zoya could sense the very wrongness of merzost festering in the wound, marring his otherwise perfect complexion. Spindly black veins radiated from it, like an eclipse spreading its disease. Like a black hole sucking him in slowly from the inside out. It appeared to pulse beneath the King’s fair skin, contaminating like a parasite feeding on its host.
“I need your help, Zoya. Please.”
And how exactly would she be of any help? She wondered this, after he’d finished confessing to her the origin of the wound – a tale he was hesitant to share but also a burden he appeared to be eager to lift. The taint had been a parting gift from the Darkling as an act of vengeance – even when the man was rotting in hell, Zoya could never be free of him it seemed.
He’s dead, she chided internally. He can’t hurt you anymore.
Apprehensive yet calmly managing to collect herself, Zoya took a seat next to the King, primly tucking her skirts beneath her, as well as her emotions, to maintain the appearance she so carefully constructed over the years. Maybe if she managed to mask her recoil and fear well enough, they’d both believe it.
Nonetheless, Zoya was sure to be very conscious of the sliver of space between them, even as she forced herself to look upon the festering mark of a demon that had lingered even after the battle was won. The wavering repulsiveness of merzost made her nauseous, but Nikolai stayed patient with her, watching her with guarded eyes as she inched her unsteady fingers closer to the infliction.
“We can…try some poultices. Potions, maybe.” Her voice was a thin, doubtful whisper, silk against warmed skin between them. Before her fingertips could land by the perpetuating darkness on his shoulder, Nikolai caught her hand by the wrist, his thumb brushing gently against her pulse in a way that made her breath hitch in her throat.
“It’s not just the open wound.” Nikolai grimaced at a distant memory. “I see it sometimes…in the mirror. My reflection, it…it’s the Nichevo’ya. It’s inside of me, Zoya. A potion, a poultice…I don’t think it’ll be enough.” He shook his hanging head dejectedly before letting her hand slip out of his grasp. Confirming what she’d already suspected – no one touched the Darkling’s power and remained entirely unscathed. Not even her golden king.
Zoya swallowed, thinking hard, trying to overcome her own fear in favor of logic and rationality – at the repulsive insinuation that some part of that man had managed to survive within her King. It was a slap to the face, stinging like a leftover handprint against her cheek.
Suddenly, Zoya came to her feet, and she whirled on Nikolai like a storm, who looked up at her like a man worshipping a saint – pleading and desperate, yet also in reverence and awe.
“We’ll have to tell Genya,” she instructed him, eyes flashing. “She can help.”
Nikolai also rose to his feet, and Zoya could not help but suddenly become aware of his lack of clothing now that he was towering over her with his full height, his hands open and palms facing her at his sides. “I don’t think telling more people is the solution here, Nazyalensky. Least of all, Genya…”
A pained look crossed his features – a knowing but silent understanding at what the women had suffered at the hands of the Darkling’s shadow pets.
Tucking her hands behind her back, Zoya forced herself to stare down the king with her usual haughty defiance. “Let me handle it. You’ve asked for my help, after all. Give me the benefit of the doubt, your vow of trust. That I’ll keep your secret safe.”
Eyeing her warily, Nikolai ran a hand through his disheveled golden hair, a manner so boyish and intimate that Zoya could once more nearly forget that he was a king at all. “And why would you go to such lengths? Removing me from my throne would be much simpler, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled half-heartedly but Zoya could sense the doubt ingrained in his words – that he believed it to be true himself.
Resolute, Zoya did not hesitate in her reply. It came to her as easy as air came to her lungs. “Because Ravka needs you, your highness.”
When he gave her a perplexed but intrigued look, Zoya licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I believe that you are the King we need right now. Not any Lantsov pretender, and not especially ones who are working for our enemies, who would sooner eradicate my kind without a moment’s notice out of fear and misunderstanding. Quite simply, there is no one else worthy of the crown more than you. For that alone, I will protect you.”
The intensity of his gaze would have made anyone else flinch. The way he studied her, trying to gauge for any chinks in her armor, might have caused a maiden to flush to her hairline. But not Zoya Nazyalensky – she was accustomed to powerful men sizing her up.
Even kings.
She wouldn’t give him a reason to doubt her, nor any reason to find her weak or wanting.
Eventually, the stare-down ended, and Nikolai sighed, shoulders sagging under some invisible weight. “That’s quite the declaration. I only hope that I can live up to it,” he mused.
“Then promise me that you will – promise me that you’ll live.”
“I can’t promise that.” He shook his head slowly, a wry smirk betraying the charm he sometimes was unaware of. “What if I live, but not as how you know me? What if…I become the monster? What then?”
“Then I’ll kill you myself, your highness.”
The words tumbled out of her mouth like a reflex, and almost immediately, Zoya reconsidered how far she’d gone – not because they were untrue, nor because she was afraid of hurting his feelings. But because what she’d said was treason. Regicide.
People were hung for less.
But before Zoya could think of how to amend her error, Nikolai replied with a chuckle.
The man was laughing.
Zoya swallowed, nostrils flaring. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or getting ready to sentence her to a gruesome death.
Naturally, Nikolai did neither. The ever unpredictable king. Instead, he said, “You’re a true soldier, Nazyalensky. It may one day come to that, although I will hope that it never does. All I ask is that when you do end my life, try and avoid the face – I’d like to remain handsome for as long as possible.”
His half-cocked smile matched the playful lilt in his tone – no doubt lightening the dark and dour mood of his situation, but also, he meant every word. He’d expect her to do it.
To kill him, should he turn.
And for the first time in a long time, Zoya wondered if she could truly commit such a horrible act. The killing of a king – of a good king.
Nikolai didn’t grant her enough time to mull it over. He was already walking past her in another flash, to collect a velvety robe hanging nearby that he threw over his bare shoulders. It hid the black wound from sight, only the very ends of its spider-like tendrils stretching over his heart visible to an inquisitive eye searching for it. Pouring himself a drink, he called back to her, “Alina was right about you.”
He poured a second glass of kvas for her.
Curious, Zoya asked, “Right about what, exactly?”
When he turned, Nikolai was still wearing his trademark smile – mischievous, with a glint of secrecy in his crinkled eyes. “Many things,” he admitted coyly, handing her the glass but never taking his gaze off her.
When he didn’t elaborate further, Zoya felt a hint of amusement tug at the corners of her mouth arbitrarily – her reputation was not something she was ashamed of, after all. But his tone had held a purr of flirtation, or Zoya must have imagined something like it. The rumor was that the King was rather enamored with his little pet Saint, who also happened to be his fiancée. Even though she would always be pining for her tracker and likely never return his feelings the way he might have desired. A tragic and doomed romance, the rumours would paint the tale, as they all so often were.
Zoya may have been a strikingly beautiful and powerful squaller, but she could never compete when it came to Alina, the mapmaker orphan girl from Keramzin – a notion that admittedly still stung her pride, but one she was able to live with if it meant building a better future for Ravka and her people. She had no use for love or sham marriages anyways. Let Alina play that part – Zoya was gladly more suited to the life as a soldier.
And yet, she couldn’t help but consider, as she swirled the alcohol sloshing in the crystal glass, what it would be like to seduce a King.
“Cheers,” Nikolai said, clinking his glass against hers ever so lightly. “To a new, fruitful partnership, forged under…the strangest of circumstances.”
He lifted the drink to his lips with a bemused expression, studying her with eyes like liquid blue fire. Zoya copied him, albeit apprehensively, the sharp, acrid smell of the kvas assaulting her nose and burning her tongue, not in an unwelcome way.
As she allowed her dark gaze to discreetly sweep down Nikolai’s trim and exposed figure, she couldn’t help but smirk in genuine appreciation.
To new partnerships indeed.
~FIN