Chapter Text
The Jester’s office is not as sterile as one might expect. No one enters it very often and not without reason, but Polina likes it here. It’s safe, safe from prying eyes and reaching hands. Safe from questions she doesn’t want to answer, and Lord Pierro doesn’t seem to mind as long as she’s quiet.
So she spends her time curled up on an armchair by a window, looking out to see the frozen lands surrounding Zapolyarny Palace.
The man in question looks up from his short stack of paperwork. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His icy blue eyes look at her with fleeting interest. “I hear Dottore is searching for you again.” It’s half a question, half a statement. His indifference is like a fog that obscures the room from her view. Its haze brings neither protection nor judgment; it is simply there.
Polina nods slightly, not tearing her gaze away from where she’s seeing the horses draw some noble’s carriage towards the gates. She replies quietly, “I do not wish to see any more of his patients today. Tomorrow perhaps.” Tomorrow or the day after. It never ends. Will it ever end?
The Jester goes back to his papers, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. The two need not converse; he is not all that interested, and she is not all that forthcoming. The snow keeps falling anyway. “I cannot help you.” She repeats in her head over and over.
When she leaves an hour or so later, she visits the Tsaritsa’s kennels, walking past the indoor section where the companion dogs are held and out the door into the heated outdoor space. The snarling hunting hounds that snap at everyone but her are her favorite dogs in the kennels. Though she can only look, and not touch, it soothes her heart to see them. Just as it soothes them to see someone aside from their handlers. Their excitement is like firecrackers going off all around her.
They exist in similar ways, her and these hounds. Hands are outstretched to both of them, with the carrot in one hand and a crop in the other. This is their existence. She kneels and outstretches one hand. “You know he’ll bite that hand off.” She pauses, looking at the Kennel Master, the man is in his late forties, at least. The hound snarls at him, his ears pinned back. Firecrackers have become landmines.
She tilts her head, her gray eyes meeting his, “They won’t bite. Not this time.” At least they won’t bite me.
He scoffs at her, “How would you know? If you want a pet doggy go see the inner kennels, they keep the lapdogs inside.” His words are crude and mocking; she could have his tongue cut out for that. She won’t. But she could. Perhaps the Mayor would laugh in her face, but he’d have it done. Perhaps she would have to pay for it with a sufficiently important vision, but it would be done. The other hounds pace back and forth in their cage.
“I like these ones.” They are vicious towards men, vicious towards the loud and arrogant. The other dogs in the kennel begin to bark; it is loud and rings through the building. This Kennel Master will not last long, it doesn’t take a seer to see it—he is impatient and immature, the way the hounds snarl at him, back themselves away...it is clear he is an improper caretaker. It is as simple as that; she will slip a note into the Jester’s office by the day's end.
The Tsaritsa has no love left for her people, but her dogs? Her dogs are precious to her, and beaten dogs do not show well; they do not hunt well. They will lash out and bite. The one closest to her licks its lips. Can’t you see their fear? It is like light rain that will threaten to grow into a thunderstorm.
Polina looks up as the fear reaches towards the sky, and she whispers a word that calms that fear. The dogs anxiety lowers slightly, and their ears are not so flattened now. The snarling dies down, but it is not erased. Even she has limits. “I can’t control them, I can only—” She has limits, no matter how much someone may try to insinuate otherwise. Animals are much easier to read and soothe than humans. This is one gift she does not hate completely, even if it is weak.
The Kennel Master stares at her like she’s a ghost, “Get out of here, brat. I don’t need the backlash if you get bitten.” That’s right, if she were to be injured… Injury is unacceptable. Unacceptable for someone of your station. Her station is a lie. It is a charade that is used to control her actions and keep her in the cell that is this Palace, and in this prison that is Snezhnaya.
“If you treated them right, they wouldn’t bite.” She retracts her hand anyway, and the dogs are looking at the older man with a mixture of fear and aggression. Fearful animals will scratch and bite, they will lunge and tear into flesh. And it is not their fault. Like a pot of boiling water, if you aren’t careful, it will spill over.
Polina stands, adjusting her fur collar. She just shakes her head, “You will find it easier to pack your things tonight, rather than tomorrow.” The girl goes to leave as she was told, and the Kennel Master grabs her wrist. It is painfully tight. Polina’s gaze flicks up to his.
“What the hell are you trying to say?” His words are tight and angry, and his actions startle her out of her focus. The music stops. The dogs snap and snarl, their fear coming back full force. How sad. “I cannot erase emotion. I just can’t. If I could, I would take away their fear so that at least they wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Do not lay your hands on me,” she says flatly. She suppresses a wince at how hard he has grabbed her. Her guards have come to stand at the doorway to the rest of the Palace. They act too swiftly, with too much aggression, that they set off the whole kennel. The hand that was once gripping her wrist is ripped away, and the Kennel Master is shoved away. They are incompetent as always. The hound that she was just looking at gnashes its teeth in aggravation. The other dogs' barking escalates. Her eyes shift to the guards, eyes locking on each other. He looks away, crossing his arms uncomfortably. Wonderfully incompetent.
She turns on her heel and leaves. She does not care for them or their aggressive tactics. She does not care for how they have trapped her in a cage of protection that she does not want, and she does not like how they follow her every move even when she cannot see them.
She does not like it in the least.
It was not her original purpose to be strung up like a puppet. It was not her original path, but those greedy Harbingers and the Tsaritsa have never cared to follow fate.
She was never meant to be special in any way. Even when she received that blessing, it was intended to be a kindness —the last gift of a guide of Humanity. Instead, all she is is a herald of the damned’s demise, to tell of their futures so that their pitiful lives can be extended by however many days, however many minutes, however many seconds. All power comes with a price, even if you never asked for it to begin with.
“You see, to guide humanity is my duty. It is my honor.” Those whispered words from that dying angel remain imprinted in her mind. They will always be there until the day she dies. “So please take this gift and guide those you meet along the right path. Like I wish I could continue to do.” But Polina has the misfortune of living in the snowy white lands of Snezhnaya. It is unfair and cruel, but it is her reality.
That angel had blessed the girl only three years ago. Blessing? It is a curse that was given with adoration for humanity, yet also in ignorance of that very same humanity.
Her life has changed before her eyes, the damned look up at her with fear, and those who would use her outstretched their hands. She watches emotions spiral up towards the Heavens, she sees their past play out before her eyes, she feels their anger and fear, their joy and love. As one touched by an angel, she is different: “I’m sorry to burden you like this.” Polina does not believe that, not even in the slightest, but like everything else, her feelings on the matter are completely discarded. Useless.
If you had been sorry, you would never have given me this gift. The Harbingers, the Fifth, had read some of her work, had seen the carefully hidden lines within, and had pinned her down without a second glance. The old man saw the ability she had to predict things she should not know of. “I cannot help you.” She repeats over and over until her voice goes hoarse.
She was ‘invited’ to this palace as a ‘guest.’ In the years she has been here, she has seen countless soldiers, prisoners, and nobles; she peers into their futures, reads them like they're an open book and pens it down in verses of poetry that cannot be unwritten. “I don’t want to help you.” Her thoughts go unsaid and unnoticed.
She writes with aching hands, turning the page with eyes that peer into the threads woven by time and fate. Ears bleeding at the wailing of those who cannot change their futures, and the screaming of those who can only endure their present.
Polina writes and writes.
And though her tears never cease to fall—Snezhnaya does not believe in tears.