Work Text:
In circles do the torn ones dance.
"Would you grant me this dance?” He extends his hand.
At another time, she might have considered him perfect. The embodiment of her unattainable childhood dreams.
She scrutinizes him from head to toe. She's not fond of that smile, nor his piercing blue eyes, nor his tanned skin. She doesn't like anything about him. Yet she has learned to ignore her discomfort and do everything in her power to please him. To feign a genuine interest.
She takes it, these are the rough and calloused hands of a warrior who has lost count of the battles, of the weapons it has wielded. They bear the marks of thrusts and cuts between life and death.
And she returns a knowing smile as if the passionate game were real. As if she were in love with him.
In a different reality, perhaps.
But there, her sole desire is to rip the smile from him with bites. To hear him plead, to decorate the velvet carpet in the study with his blood. To burn him and throw his corpse into the lake he defiled by baptizing it with his family name. To purge the memory of the land sullied by his boots, his steel, and his foolish ambitions.
If the circumstances had been different, she might have wanted to be his wife.
When they dance, they command the center of attention. Every graceful movement is stoked by the piercing gaze of onlookers. Amidst the clamor of the ballroom, hushed whispers abound, and she strains not to roll her eyes in response.
Some of the crowd refer to her as a future queen — And she wishes she were viewed as such, and not as the companion, the left hand, the witch of a decimated elven tribe —; whilst others ooze disapproval like venom, albeit being from the same race as her. — "How can he marry that vile serpent, that witch?" —.
One misstep, her heel collides with a leather shoe. She gently takes hold of his chin, her desire for his undivided attention palpable. Her fingers trace his features: the scarlet lips, the chiseled cheekbones, the remnants of acne scars, and the weathered skin bearing the marks of premature aging, a hallmark of warriors like him.
She sees his eyes moving and knows what's going through his mind, or at least she can guess. His gaze drifts over to the table where his brother sits, laughing and engaging in conversation with some noble whose name she doesn't know. They talk as if they were close acquaintances, taking a sip from their wine glasses in between jests and gossip.
Such a contrast, his brother. Smooth skin, sparkling eyes. As lively as a young artist can be, and yet so naive.
He rests his hand on the woman seated beside him. That one, a valley flower, possessed of singular beauty. With velvety, fragile petals that crumble at the touch of tender fingers.
'There is no mightier weapon than lust,' she had told Kasimir some time ago, while she caressed his hair and planted a kiss on his forehead; the scent of myrrh lingered in their tent. He had protested, opposing her intentions. You'll end up dead. But she was not going to alter plans.
At that moment, she couldn't have foreseen the arrival of such a particular flower. She was an elven witch, not a Vistana seer.
Crimson hair, sun-kissed skin, a sapphire gown. And the flush on her cheeks that only a woman who had never shared her lover's bed could possess. Tatyanna, the betrothed of the younger brother, Sergei von Zarovich.
She finds intriguing, almost affronting, that a woman like her could attract the attention of men, be they nobles or commoners. She, a flower who reveled in innocence, that had blossomed amidst the filth and the corpses left in the wake of conquest.
And all it took was adorning her hair with wildflowers from the fields and clumsily curtsying to bring half the court to her feet. To have both brothers.
If circumstances had been different, she might have felt jealousy. She might have confessed jealousy towards her. She's just a pebble in her path. One she could kick and cast aside, creating ripples in the water before sinking out of sight.
She grasps her dance partner's chin, her long nails sinking into his skin, and their gazes intertwine. She presses her body close to his, and their lips lightly brush against each other. He tastes of blood, his breath carries the scent of death.
"What are you doing, woman?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with irritation, his heart racing.
She plants another kiss on his dry lips.
The hand firmly pressing against her waist serves as a poignant reminder of Kasimir's touch, that moment when he told her— begged her not to go to the castle. 'Your place is by my side, and with your people,' he had pleaded. She felt the warmth of his breath as he drew her closer, the slight quiver in his fingers against the black cotton fabric of her dress. And when he left their tattered tent they called home, she could only think: 'Oh, brother. Oh, brother. I do this for you, for myself.'
She smiles and clasps the fingers that seek to harm her.
Her right hand finds its way to her companion's nape. She kisses him with fervor, a gesture that prompts some guests, including Tatyanna, to avert their gaze; while others, like Sergei, wear smiles.
The hand clings tighter to her waist.
She kisses him once more, her fingers caressing his oiled hair, parting a few strands marked by hints of white. The clock ticks away the hours for all, though, for some, it seems to pass more slowly, more agonizing.
She has spent more than a hundred years with Kasimir, each night resting her head on his shoulder, each night feeling his cold hands against her cheeks. In this wretched world, all we have is us.
In another life, perhaps. And in another life, she might be happily married to the man she just kissed.
They twirl around as more people join the dance. Amidst the cacophony of unfamiliar faces, they discern Sergei at the table, he kisses Tatyanna. It's a fleeting, inexperienced kiss, punctuated by giggles.
The hand on her waist lightly glides up to her neck. It's a warning, but she can't help the shivers that course through her, reaching down to her thighs. She has lain with him before, and no matter how much she loathes him, she reveres the inherent sensuality in his violent virility.
"Darling, you know I enjoy it when you're aggressive with me and choke me, but can this wait an hour or two?" she says in a calm whisper, so close to his ear that she could almost lick it.
"Quit toying with me, witch."
Witch . Despite their time together, despite the trust she tries to cultivate with precise advice and lascivious caresses, she remains, in his eyes, nothing but a witch.
A witch who had unveiled to him the dark powers of the valley, the temple where no one, save for her, could hear his pitiful pleas. 'Oh, make me stronger. Oh, keep me younger. Oh, grant me the fortitude to govern the valley, just as my father did.’
Take the damned gift and stop whining. She thinks, every time.
How she despises Strahd von Zarovich, Conqueror of Barovia. He and his father, nothing more than butchers in linen and silk clothing. She wishes him to follow his father's example and become a feast for maggots; his flesh forgotten in some forest, his bones crushed by hags for use in some vile concoction.
His name carries the memory of murder, yet he built a castle and is cheered. And a witch like her, no matter how many eons pass or how many times her soul reincarnates into different bodies, will forever be seen as a witch.
"Be cautious, Von Zarovich," she says, her voice still calm. With each step, the fabric of her dress lightly brushes against Strahd's knees. She secretly hopes the performance will conclude with his throat slit, "Do you truly intend to kill the woman who showed you that anything you desire is within your grasp?"
For elves, the passage of time can be excruciating. How many years have slipped by since she took Kasimir by the hand, and they were forced to flee from what had once been their homeland? Ninety? Seventy? Yet, nothing can erase the bloodstains etched into her memory.
For humans, it's intriguing. They yearn for immortality, to gaze into the mirror and find no new gray hair, no fresh wrinkle, no additional blemish on their neck or hands.
Strahd contemplates briefly, his eyes locked on Tatyanna's neckline. It's all too evident; all men are the same. Meanwhile, at the table, she leans toward Sergei. Terrified, she flees from the Count’s intense gaze. Poor thing.
"She's not interested in you, dear. At least, for now," she says, taking his hands. They separate, twirl, and reunite in a waltz that is beginning to fatigue her, "If you were to accept the gift, everything would become so much easier. She would be yours.”
There are moments when she yearns for eternity, despite her lifespan. She wishes for an abundance of time to mend her wounds and her brother's. However, she cannot do it; she remains deeply attached. When she goes to wash away her smudged makeup, she catches glimpses of Kasimir's face reflected on the lake's surface. At night, she slips into his bed, curling up with her back to him, seeking only his warmth during the frigid nights, particularly those when memories hurt the most. They exchange secrets in soft whispers.
But what she yearns most, it's power.
Strahd also loves his brother, albeit in his own manner. Although she has never witnessed a brotherly embrace, she can detect it in the tone of his voice when he addresses him, so similar to Kasimir’s. But lust is more powerful than love.
Yet, beneath the egocentric conqueror, beneath the ruler striving to elevate his family's name tarnished by corpses, there lies a man who dreads growing old. Aging, above all else, represents vulnerability.
"I desire her. I yearn to have her for an eternity.” and she realizes, some women are nothing but possessions. Beautiful jewels to show off.
She shares another smile with him. He doesn't need to age to showcase his weakness.
She's close, so close to her objective.
Days earlier, she had taken the Tarokka deck that her brother kept on a small nightstand inside their tent. Although the dusk elves will never possess the portentous skill of the Vistani when it comes to reading it, it's an unusual deck of cards that seems to have a voice of its own. That evening, she shuffled it and drew a card from the center, the first one her hand touched. The Beast.
How appropriate.
They cease their dance and clasp hands as they return to the table together.
"Well, you'll have to hurry; the wedding is less than a week away."
His eyes reflect irritation, obsession, and fury. It feels as if she had gained something.
Strahd took his seat, and she released his hand to continue her dance. She twirled alone around the hall, offering a wide smile to both the nobles who had looked down on her and those who hadn't. She imagined Kasimir by her side.
She takes a glass of wine and lets the music envelop her. Some of her steps are borrowed from Vistana dances, while others are traditions of her people.
She extends her hand to Tatyanna, inviting her to join in the dance. The young commoner seeks her fiancé's approving glance, a captive of youth who can't make decisions for herself. Pity her if Strahd accepts the gift; she'll remain so. In this century. And the next. And the next.
But that's not going to happen. Because she's drawing closer and closer to her goal.
She thinks one last time about Kasimir, who's probably pretending to be asleep, wrapped in at least five blankets to endure the winter in the valley baptized in blood with the name of Barovia.
She converses with Tatyanna, whose voice is exquisitely melodic, articulating each word with elegance. They engage in light-hearted chatter and share laughter as they spin and tap.
She catches a glimpse of Strahd departing from the hall, dismissing those who wish to exchange words with him. She'll reach him in his study, later.
Kasimir, my dear, I'm steadily closing in. Soon, I'll reign over this valley and I'll return it to its old glory. She hopes her thoughts might somehow reach her brother.
Patrina dances with her, the one she envisions will be a curse to Strahd von Zarovich.
And they dance until she wearies, until her feet throb, burn, and nearly bleed.