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It was simple, really. Ludmila had been planning it for a while. She had it all plotted out in her mind: take the wheel of the Kingfisher, prove her competence to her mentor by steering the ship smoothly through the skies, and then—
Take Marya by the hand, leaving the rest of their crew to celebrate amidst themselves — toasting to a second captain, cheering on her accomplishments, her proving her own worth. Lead her across the deck of the Kingfisher until they reach a familiar room.
A confession, uttered in the privacy of the captain's quarters after this long and particularly exhilarating day. Stumbling over her words, tripped up by her stuttering heart, her only saving grace being the amount of times she had paced before a mirror, practising and practising her confession until she got it all right. A gift, held out to Marya — metal flowers crafted from leftover scrap, a bouquet of iron and copper and brass. Flowers that would not, would never, wilt.
She had it all planned: her confession. Ludmila had wanted this for so long, wanted more than fleeting touches and Marya's smiles, stolen in the moments they would spend together in her quarters. But there had always been a lingering insecurity festering within her, all too aware of the gap between her and her mentor. Marya was older than her, more talented than her, brilliant and unstoppable, dark eyes glittering with a relentless hunger for the skies. Marya was everything—
And Ludmila had thought that she could be something. She could have been. That was why she planned it all out: to confess to Marya after her first successful voyage of the Kingfisher. Prove her own worth, prove her competence; close the gap between mentor and protégé, carve a path for them to maybe, just maybe, become something more.
So she had taken the wheel. Marya had led her there, made a whole spectacle out of it. Grinned at her, sunlight catching her features, making her look radiant. "You got this, Mila," she told her, voice brimming with pride. "Go, make me proud!"
Ludmila had tried. She had really tried.
She just hadn't accounted for the arrival of a screeching metal bird of destruction, that was all.
Another day spent kneeling by the door. Another day with her tools scattered across the floor, thighs aching in cramped discomfort as she clutches a wrench in her hand, tightening nuts and bolts.
The door she is maintaining hums with a perpetual buzz. It is like static, crackling through the air. It is a little like the mechanical buzz of machinery. If Ludmila strains her ears, she swears she can hear the melody of clockwork — tick, tick, tock.
Her limbs still ache from the force of her fall, crashing into Zern with singed flesh and bleeding scrapes. Even now, all this time later (she does not let herself dwell on the length of it, days, weeks, months; to do so would be to spiral, and she cannot spiral), her body is still bogged down by phantom pains. It is not just the physicality of all the damage she has accrued; her heart still aches under the weight of all she has lost. It does not slip Ludmila's mind that while she lucked out, fell into Zern, survived with the help of those who found her, most of her crewmates… were not so fortunate.
(She was at the front of the ship, plunging through what she would come to learn was the biangle. Most of the others were elsewhere, caught in the powerful and sharp maw of the beast, flesh incinerating, bones ground to dust.
She survived, but most of the others did not. Survivor's guilt has made a home for itself within the ribs of her chest, a never-ending pulse of pain that she will carry with her for as long as she lives.)
But she can still salvage this. Fix this door, stabilise the biangle. Set a safe entry point for Marya to come through. For however much Ludmila hates dwelling upon the events of that accursed day — fire and screaming, the Kingfisher crumbling to pieces, crunched in the beak of a Scrapsylvanian myth, the Straka — she still tries to keep it in mind, anyway, if only for one reason.
Marya was there with her. They were both at the helm of the ship because even though Marya finally let Ludmila take command of the wheel that day, she was still her mentor, the ship's captain, on standby with keen eyes and words of advice, primed and ready to take over if anything were to go wrong.
Ludmila fell into Zern first, plunged in through the back of the Straka's throat with blazing hot energy searing her skin. She fell into Zern first, and she knows that Marya should have fallen in after her because she was right there, right behind her, except time works differently here in Zern compared to Gath, so Ludmila does not know when, exactly, Marya will finally arrive.
So she waits, fixes the door. Makes sure it is stable, perfect. Proving her worth in another way, proving her competence by ensuring Marya does not meet the same blinding pain that so devastated Ludmila before, forcing her to waste time healing before she could finally get to work. She waits for the day Marya will come through—
And in the meantime, while she waits, Ludmila dreams.
What can she salvage of her plans? Perhaps it is callous to go back to her dreams of a confession given all she has lost — lives lost, people she knew; how can she dream of love in a time like this? — but she feels the fluttering lightness of hope when she thinks about it. That maybe, just maybe, in spite of all she has mourned, everything she has lost, perhaps Ludmila could still find some happiness too.
She does not leave these halls much. She has to be here in case Marya shows up. But she has seen the flowers that bloom across the hills of Zern. Perhaps she could bring Marya about, show her beloved mentor this wondrous land of automation and nature. Perhaps she could crouch down, pluck some petals, gift it to Marya in a mimicry of the metal bouquet she had once prepared — the one that must have melted in the fiery throat of the Straka while it rent the Kingfisher to scraps.
Is it selfish to long for reciprocation in the wake of tragedy? Maybe, maybe— but she wants it, anyway. She misses Marya, misses her mentor, misses the woman she so truly loves. She misses the small things: the way Marya smiled at her like Ludmila hung the stars; the way Marya would tease her, calling her Mila in a sing-song voice that set the hair on Ludmila's arms tingling.
She misses the time they would spend in Marya's quarters whenever the Kingfisher docked somewhere for the night. Ludmila would drape her head across Marya's lap, feel spindly fingers thread through her mussed hair, stroking her scalp. Her voice would ring out in the room, accompanied by pages flapping as she worked her way through one of Montgomery LaMontgommery's books, of which a copy of each newest entry would always somehow find its way to Marya. Ludmila would read everything out, then listen to Marya laughing as she interjected again and again to tell Ludmila the unfiltered truth of what actually happened in those adventures. "We were all sucking and fucking," Marya would say with glee, lips splitting into a toothy grin, and Ludmila would look up at her and think, lovestruck, I love you, I love you, I want to kiss you so bad.
Ludmila just misses Marya. That is the simple truth of it.
So she will wait, maintain the door, fine-tune it to perfection, because Marya will be coming after her. Maybe it will take days, weeks, months, caught up in the tangled mess that is time while falling from Gath into Zern — but Marya will come. And then Ludmila will embrace her, cling to her tight, confess the words she has held onto for so long, and then— and then—
She does not know. She knows the Corrodi Primarch expect something of her, forcing the title of nobility upon her. Ludmila is no queen, though; she is but a girl, and all she really wants is to spend her life with someone else — someone she misses, someone she loves.
So she will wait and wait, until Marya finally comes. That is all Ludmila can do.