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Where did Nikolai have the breadth to yearn when he was king?
A king never cries, never sings. He only bleeds and bleeds, never to look back, stumbling into a labyrinth of decisions and decrees.
He has somehow kept pushing forth all these years. Dreams and decisions alike, it’s his duty to pave that path he himself cannot see. Lately, however, the paths have gone blind. There’s no dream no future; there were strategies instead to devise, finances to manage, maintenance to do, fears to smother—the list, one can very well imagine, was endless.
To pine and long, and befall his conscience to nostalgia and want, would be criminal.
He was a king, not a boy. He mustn't be.
But amidst the woods of the library, Nikolai allowed his heart to grow weary with grief. Want dusted his heart, falling tenderly like the winter’s snow outside. All glorious stories surrounded him, serenading him with love and warmth… and yet, for just one brief moment—just a small second really—he wondered if he would ever have such a pompous story, a grand love that stood the test of time.
What do I not have, though?
What was the void he saw in being a king? He had the people, his most prized assets, and he had a mostly favourable companionship with Zoya, the Triumvirate, his ministers and guards and subjects. He had his wits about him too; he could perfectly match the challenges Ravka put up when he used them.
His story may not be a love story, but it would stand with time nonetheless. The bastard king and his endless pursuit to justice. The demon king who endured his secrets to protect the country he loved. His seeming association with Sturmhond, the legendary privateer, and the origins of many glorious adventures.
The gossip, the rumours, the talk.
What stories did he not have?
Between all the calls of duty, another call rises within him. An innate longing that grew from the sapling of loneliness, a sentient darkness at odds with the demon’s darkness within. He’s told himself each time he wished for a companion, a dreary mind scalding the angry heart: whom do I not have?
But the answer, he realised, lay in his dreams. It’s not his logic and competency that demand a partner; he already has his ministers and triumvirate and his subjects. He has Zoya. She’s everything the country needs.
But no, no , it’s his heart. It's his heart that longs for the companion. It’s that wretched, shameless thing that made him a boy more than a king, unheeding of his advice. He mustn’t be a boy; he was a king. He mustn't.
And yet, far, far away from him, somewhere beyond the ornate, welcoming doors of the library, he heard familiar footsteps. One rapt step after another rhythmic one, constant as the drone of a steady downpour. The closer they got, the more certain Nikolai became. It hadn’t been just the Fold that had connected them so strangely. He knew her stride—he has known it for a lifetime, and he’ll know it for a lifetime more.
He mustn’t be a boy; he was a king. He mustn't.
As a king, he was to gather the ruins of his dilapidated heart and be brave.
As a king, he was not to pay attention to the wind thickening around him like the low thrum of a heartbeat.
As a king, he mustn’t turn upon hearing commotion.
And yet.
Moments later, when she thundered into the library, Nikolai strained his sights between the shelves and steps to catch a glimpse of her. The thunder of my heart. A momentary commotion ensued, overtaking the gentle grunts of the crackling fire. They sounded very disappointed in him.
Nikolai turned, if only to be briefly stunted by her glorious face, her person, her energy.
Zoya .
Why wouldn’t his heart listen? How much longer must he beg for its silence?
Would he be able to live with that silence?
This library, with all of its stories and glories, could narrate one certain story effortlessly to Nikolai—that love is a circus. Every majestic spine sang the sweet cajole of a love that embalmed the wounds of pride and pity and power.
Was it love then? Was it love that was growing in him? It was precarious to name it love and give it that sentient, self-awared identity. It made Nikolai do stupid, silly things, like steal glances of her, or be attuned to the beat of the breeze and waft of tea she dearly adored.
Your heart is in your eyes, Your Highness. He couldn’t imagine how such a precious had lodged itself in the terrain of his heart, buried like love, and only unearthed in dreams. And death.
Yet, death was all it was. Not love.
Poetry rummaged through his bleary heart. Zoya was a majestic verse; her eyes built of sapphires, her bones made of steel, her grit made of grief.
How would he tell her all of that?
Why should he tell her all of that?
Because she is asking you .
“What do you dream of me?”
Nikolai blinked, first at the broken sonnets he transcribed between the smudges of war strategies, then into consciousness. “What?” he asked, until the question settled in. “I don’t dream of you. Not particularly,” he clarified.
“Of course not,” she scoffed. “Dreams don’t work that way.” But Zoya spoke no further. She turned back to her own heap of notes, training her gaze on the multiple files of strategy and sciences strewn on their low table by the balcony.
The fire crackled distantly, its disappointed grunting forgotten and instead fed by the breeze that sauntered in and out. That Zoya had brought.
He should have already known that he was ruined that day; the sight of such warmth and peace brought back the memory of his chambers aboard the Volkvolny, his dear majestic ship, and the tatters and tidiness of his room.
Oh the circus of love.
Breathe through the great wave
“Why do you ask?” Nikolai said instead.
She did not answer immediately. He turned back to his notes, shifting between the pages to find any sanity. Was he lovesick? How could he afford this? In the stillness that stretched vast between them, Nikolai found himself reaching for her time and again, through the illusions of distance and time. He caught glances of her. He mulled over what he would tell her if she let this conversation grow.
Still not facing him, she finally replied, “Curiosity.”
Splinter the jewels, bury the trove.
Is thy heart not your grave?
I don’t dream of you , he thought.
Dreams don’t work that way .
Nikolai thought of her sometimes, particularly when they weren’t spending their time together. With the distance that had grown between them since the Fold, notwithstanding the distant General herself, Nikolai was sure he’d lost track of the many times he circled back to the familiarity of their routine. It sent a pang to his heart each time he realised that their ceremony each day and night was no longer a reality.
He twisted the spare paperclip he produced from his pocket between his fingers and took a deep breath. But Zoya spoke before he could start.
“You said I’m nicer in your dreams. What did you dream of me?”
You,
Your heart, you brave.
You
Take from the sky, gather from the sea,
Tell me the tale whom you give this to.
He had said that, perhaps in the spur of a moment. Did he remember his dreams? The monster often plagued them, planting reels of death and destruction that left Nikolai sweating through the blankets. The steel cursed him with angry scratches where the shackles bound him. His heart struggled to break free from him in such times, scared of what he was becoming. But they were only one of the worst.
He tried earnestly to reach for his troubled dreams and give Zoya what she asked. Seldom she asks you anything ; give, give, give !
What could he give from what he was so afraid to reach?
Lover you be, lover you make thee be
But tell ye, where is your love?
“You are as you always are,” he whispered, not entirely sure why his voice had gone soft. Like a secret, like a feather ready for flight lest he mistakenly said something too forthcoming. “Formidable, brave. Persevering.”
Zoya was still not looking when he cut her a glance though the pen she held had stilled. He continued, but words failed him. He had dreamt of her; dreamt of the comfort he wanted to give her and remained unable to offer. He woke up to sweat and shame, and to jealousy of a better man who gave Zoya everything Nikolai wanted to give. He couldn’t imagine what he would become if he allowed himself that nightmare.
(Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy.
How could I deny Zoya her happiness she could find with another man?)
There were other nights too, woven with dreams more simple and soft. There, her laughter was bright and unguarded. It was buried in his mind somehow among the many other priorities jumbled in his head. He’d never realised he’d confined it when he’d heard it on a rare occasion after her win at a board game, surfacing like treasure in a bottle.
His heart swooped to his stomach and back at that. The insulation covering the paperclip chipped off slightly when he continued to twist it under the table.
Some other nights were utterly sinful. Some nights, he was devouring her, killing her in his monstrous self. Some other nights he was devouring her all the same, teeth and tongue sunken into her flesh, glossing over her brazen, folded skin.
I give you this gift, dead and wrapped,
prisoned yet free. Find me, take me, chew me,
See me. I’m yours, in quiet and death
Zoya had resumed her work, focused on the swathe of pages. It shouldn’t have hurt; he knew Zoya was still listening, but must she be so cruel to keep her attention to herself and not spare him some, even for the shortest of moments?
He was being unfair, he knew. He righted the paperclip before winding it around his forefinger. He knew what he could tell her now. At long last.
How was he to tell her?
“That doesn’t make me any nicer,” he heard her mutter. She cast him the briefest of looks, eyes dark like embers in the burning firelight.
It didn’t, of course. Dreams were traitorous. He had no control over them. His dreams came unwelcome, but it was Nikolai who took the shameless, selfish liberty to welcome them. He welcomed those dreams that showed him a future he couldn’t make a reality of. And those where he lazily craned his neck to the side in the early dawn and heard Zoya’s muffled but relaxed breathing, lips mumbling something incoherent.
She was pleasure and punishment at once, he thought grimly. More so as he longed for her ruthless heart, to know whether she felt the same about him, to turn and be met with a slightly disappointed frown on lips he’d long dreamed of pressing his own against.
He longed for her, and he wasn’t at all sure if she took notice of him in any other way. It was beyond jarring to admit that he liked her, cared for her beyond duty and reason. Particularly in a time as such, where the only castle he could make her his queen—so far from who she would be as a lover perhaps—was in his dreams.
Build you a town, breathe you life,
Pulled realms of dreams and death alike
But these were the musings of a boy, not of a King. Not of Nikolai Lantsov. He had never known love and so, he would keep the shame of what he dreamed of her to himself.
Instead, he met her eyes and said, “You’re strong. But in my dreams, you let me bear the weight of what you carry.”
Zoya looked away.
Nikolai returned to his own stack of books, suddenly craving for anything to drink. He had imprisoned his voice for her, not sure if it would be freedom or a fantasy if begged for her to stay. “You’re welcoming. That’s the niceness… that you allow me ,” he continued, the last of his words a mere whisper, not looking at her.
He gulped down a glass of water. “It’s a surprise you remember that, Commander,” he said, regretting having let any of his feelings on. What would this change? Nothing? And if it did change anything, what would that mean? It terrified him. “I wasn’t aware you paid any mind to my idiocy.”
Nikolai might not have hated himself more than this moment, the ease with which he could morph his feelings into charm. It very nearly killed him to say that so nonchalantly, like it was inconsequential matter; "Oh look, it's a cloudy day," or "Ah, the herring again."
If he could, he would plough his heart out and show her all the flowers he'd grown in her name. Nikolai could bare the burial of love he had made for her, had lodged in the stupid mound of his heart and tell her…
Will live, would live
Dead is a life buried not forgotten
Will live, would live,
Offer the heart. Carry—
What is dead is also alive, and will live, if you let me.
But his own heart feared him; what good was it to give it to Zoya?
The paperclip cut into his palm. Nikolai winced before returning to his senses. There were promises to fulfil, those he’d made to Zoya as well. There was no going back from there. He could only hope to die well after fulfilling them and then join the ghosts of all those he failed, intentionally or not.
Zoya remained impassive as ever, a striking Saint, charged with a godly grace and unmoved by his subconscious prayer. He wondered briefly if her voice ever trembled like his did, as if desperately reaching for an anchor in a drowning sea whenever he spoke her name. He didn’t think he was imagining the tightness of her posture, her shoulders relaxed in contrast, as she pored through the old texts that emerged during the older Kings’ times.
“I appreciate your honesty, Nikolai,” she said finally.
He sighed and returned to his own books. It wasn’t until many moments later that he heard the soft thumps of books closing and being stacked upon one another. Zoya deposited the books she had no more use for while collecting the ones she was going to borrow—because protocol was protocol, and even the highest ranking officers were not exempt from the treasury of the library.
She met his eyes. “Good night, Your Highness.”
Despite not having the courage to hold her gaze any longer, to turn away and nurture the ache growing in his chest, he watched her. Not as a boy but as a King.
Oh the circus of love,
Thine fools’ paradise!
Where he shouldn’t have turned, he turned. Where he should have looked, he turned too, not looking away. What wisdom had he learnt? It was a mere negotiation.
Nikolai nodded to himself as he averted her gaze. The distance grew again, taking him further away from her yet bringing him so near, finding figments of her company in her footsteps as the fire crackled and clicked away.