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When you have kept your eyes closed for the majority of your life, you learn to differentiate footsteps by ear.
It is instinct by now, and the name comes to mind faster than the sound can be processed: the faint clink-clank and buzz-whirr of keys that accompany the Marionette’s gait, or the swish of hefty silks trailing in Rosalyne’s wake.
Yet, this set of footsteps is new.
It drags against the ground, slow and hesitant, overly-cautious. Deliberately quiet, like it doesn’t want to be heard— the gait, she knows, of a child.
A strange occurrence. Children are few and far in between within the space of these halls, and most are accompanied by the sharp click of Crucabena’s heels as she leads them through the palace gates into the warmth of the foyer.
No, this child is alone.
The air shifts as she drifts forward, and she smells it: apprehension, piercing the atmosphere like flame searing down a canvas.
—The scent of a prey-animal, cowering in the bushes.
Columbina slows her pace, drifting to a gradual halt below a dusty oil painting of her colleagues donning their huge white cloaks. The swaying of the uncleaned chandelier above her head alerts her to the wind whistling through the open windows, and her heart beats a little faster against her chest as the unknown child approaches from the other end of the hallway.
She lifts her chin now and takes in the scent of the newcomer. The tang of antiseptic floods her nostrils, sharp and overwhelming; something she’s smelled before, somewhere in the space of a pristine white laboratory with her hands weak from kuuvahki-overuse.
Her brow furrows.
The Second is not the sort of person to let his test subjects loose. That’s not the type of man he is: spontaneous, yes, with a penchant for taking (rather unnecessary) risks in the name of science— but never once careless.
So: not a test subject. What is he then? He reeks of him, of the place he dwells twenty-three hours a day in, all chemicals and smoke with the undercurrent of bright-wood beneath.
Huh.
She bends closer to the source of the stranger’s gait, struggling to ascertain their identity, and is still pondering when the footsteps come to a stop, five or so feet in front of her.
“Miss,” says the voice, shuffling his feet, “I’m lost.”
He glances furtively around, anxious hands pulling at the folds of his button-down coat, and stares down at the floor. Trying to make himself smaller, unthreatening.
Columbina taps a finger against her chin, deep in thought.
Hmm. Something doesn’t feel quite right about all this.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she begins gently.
A gulp. A sharp withdrawal of breath.
He keeps his voice steady, nevertheless.
“...I don’t know.”
What a solemn little thing. She’s never met anyone quite like him before. With the face of a child but the countenance of someone thrice his age. Trotting about the palace like it’s a side street he’s wandered off to instead of the largest imperial structure for miles around.
But whatever the case, he does not belong here.
“This is no place for you,” murmurs Columbina. “Go home.”
She speaks no further as she pulls her coat over her shoulders and sidesteps him. Surely a guard will find him soon, wandering the halls of an institution far from his ordinary life, and return him to the cozy mortal life he belongs to. How he ended up in the palace, she’ll never know— but far be it from her to pry.
It does not matter. He will forget this encounter in several weeks’ time, anyway.
She lets her thoughts wander as she continues the way she came. Where had she been going? Ah, right. Marionette’s workshop— en route to ask her out to tea. Certainly Pulonia will have prepared a wonderful new array of sweets today; not to mention that it’s the first of the month, which means the shipment of Liyuean teas Sandrone had ordered should have arrived by now. Delicious. She picks up the pace, hitching up her skirt as she wafts down the halls of Zapolyarny Palace, propelled forward by the notion of piping-hot fare. Her mind is preoccupied with thoughts of finger sandwiches and homemade brownies when the little voice cuts through her thoughts once more.
“—But, I haven’t been home in a long time,” says the child.
Columbina glances over her shoulder, downward, and senses his presence tainting the crisp frost that hangs heavy in the air around them. He seems to have been trailing after her for a while now.
She kneels, and regards him more carefully now.
“Oh,” she says gently. “I haven’t, either.”
There it is, the drag-and-stumble of footsteps again. Columbina has no time to react before the boy draws close and trips— deliberately, she thinks— onto her arm.
She reaches out to grab him. Her hand closes around the spindly wrist.
It comes bursting out of her, a surge of kuuvahki meant to break his fall, and a quiver passes through her as the blurry image of a boy coalesces from scraps in her mind: his shoulder at doorknob-height, shivering under the thick folds of his coat. Curls the vibrant-blue of arctic tundra and the glow of soulful red eyes, darting round the room like they’re on the lookout for something.
What takes her aback most of all is that these are a series of features she has seen before, on a face more weathered and self-assured. Pieced together, even, in an arrangement that makes him look… soft.
The face of the man who calls her sister.
The words leave her mouth before she can rationalize them.
“...Dottore?”
The wind dies down in the background. The chamber collapses into silence.
The boy stiffens in her grasp.
“Zandik,” he corrects.
Zandik.
Like a punch to the gut. He does not say it like a child would; rather hastily, uncomfortably, in fact, and after a long beat of hesitation. As if having a name is something to be ashamed of.
As if he is ripping a bandage off an open wound.
But Columbina lowers herself to the boy’s level and lets his hot, anxious breath warm her cheeks. She holds him still with one gentle hand, and tries to commit this strange new face to memory.
“Zandik,” she repeats.
The word comes out like the prelude to a song, slow and steady, in stark contrast to the boy’s phrasing.
She observes his mannerisms now, again, and thinks that this child is most peculiar indeed. The first thing she notices is that his hand is cold to the touch. Not in the way her own is, porcelain-smooth; rather it’s as if she’s touched a still-moving corpse. Beneath the layers of antiseptic she smells a hint of wood, smoky and strange: a little like the way the Balladeer smells, she thinks.
But that is where their similarities end. He seems too flawed to be fully puppet, and too unsullied to be fully human. There is an uncanny quality to the way he gazes up at her, curious but lacking the excited, childlike quality all of Crucabena’s lot possess.
Zandik, who looks just like the Doctor.
…Well, then.
He must be— of course— one of the Doctor’s latest projects.
Now, what lengths the madman had taken to get here, or how this miniature version of him came to be, she’ll never know; what she has been able to work out, however, is where this child belongs.
“Please,” presses the boy, “I only ask for a few minutes of your time.”
He sounds a little desperate now, much like a lost Scion-child, and Columbina has begun to flounder. The coldest winter Snezhnaya has seen to date is upon them tonight. To leave him here would be to condemn him to an indefinite wait— to freeze, even, to death in this maze of hallways where nary a soul knows where to take him.
She sighs, and the air ripples as a spray of gray-white escapes from her lips, spinning and warping the lines of pillars and floors all around. It is up to her now, as it always is: she must step into the too-large shoes of an all-seeing goddess once more and guide him into the light.
The legacy of a savior is something she will never be able to outrun. What a shame.
Well. Here goes nothing.
Columbina takes a step closer, tentatively, and takes a deep breath.
“Come with me, then,” she opens, and offers her hand. “I think I know where to take you.”
Zandik returns the gesture. His pudgy fingers unfold to reveal a series of marks in the middle, shiny and swollen red.
Frostbitten, she notes. He must not be used to the cold weather, much like his older counterpart is not.
Poor child. Snezhnaya is not often kind to those with poor immunity to the weather.
She grips his hand a little tighter, and feels the small fist tense beneath hers.
“You will be paid for your trouble,” he gets out. “I’m sorry for delaying you, Miss...”
Columbina bites her lip.
He sounds like a more outwardly cynical version of her: a child who already knows that the world consists of give-and-take, push-and-pull. In that regard, she realizes, they are alike, but to think she has anything in common with the cold and elusive Doctor is an amusing thought indeed.
And, in truth, what can a child possibly give her that she does not already have? Offerings are of little use to her— rotted fruit and other sacrifices in no way measure up to the delights that come served to her now on silver platters and doily paper.
“Miss Columbina,” she finishes for him. “And do not go to the trouble of apologizing. You may pay me back in company—” she lowers a hand to the child’s head and gives his curls a gentle rub. “—and promise me you will not get lost in these halls again— I may not be there to help you the next time you do.”
He thumbs his chin thoughtfully; he really does seem to be considering this bargain with some degree of seriousness. He makes a little hmm sound with his mouth as he ponders, and Columbina wonders briefly if he would ever be interested in singing with her.
Quite a nice voice. Surprisingly soft, for a man made of sharp edges.
What a peculiar child the Second used to be.
“—Okay,” Zandik says finally, cutting into her thoughts, and nudges the maiden expectantly with a clumsy elbow.
“Be patient,” she replies, nudging him in return in what she has heard is called a light ribbing-between-siblings.
Zandik huffs, but does not object. He steps aside and stills, allowing her a berth to lead the way down the halls of Zapolyarny Palace and all the way home.
The walk there is awkward.
As always, she thinks to herself with a quiet sigh. She has this natural flair, she’s observed, for turning otherwise normal situations tense: the silence that befalls a crowd when she walks into the room, or the scornful glances thrown her way when she pipes up in the middle of conversation.
In this case, the child’s strange demeanour doesn’t help matters. So here they are: two oddballs freezing in the heart of Zapolyarny Palace, tolerating each other’s company with both their gazes averted.
They turn a left and pass the cafeteria. Columbina’s stomach growls, and she licks her lips absentmindedly, thinking of the array of desserts that awaits her after this detour. Between all her aimless wandering, she’d lost track of the time— she hasn’t had anything in quite a few hours.
“Are you hungry?” she prods the boy. “I could take you to the kitchens.”
The hall is so quiet she can hear Zandik’s blinks in response.
“No.”
And that is the end of it. He shows no further sign of wishing to converse, and the only way she knows he is there at all is the drag of his boots on the slippery ice and the clammy palm curled around her wrist.
Now that he has gained the certainty that she will assist him, he seems to have loosened up a bit, at least by comparison, and the tension holding his face taut has released itself into the dry chill that surrounds them both.
Columbina pads closer, faster to bridge their distance, and turns the corner into the hallway of portraits. She hears the slowing of the footsteps beside her, feels the dragging-out of pace, and knows the child must have paused to look at the paintings.
She’s never seen them herself— all she knows of the gallery, she’d learned from Sandrone’s instruction. What she does hear now is the muffled sound of breathing, of awed introspection as he prods and pokes at every portrait he comes by, glides his fingers down the curves engraved into gold-alloy frames. Hears his breath still at the images of rulers past and present, and wonders if he is looking at them, the ten who occupy the seats by the Tsaritsa’s side. Severe and united in the painter’s eyes; bitter and disjointed from behind.
—Maybe, right now, he is looking at his master, the older iteration of himself that brought him into being.
But he makes barely a sound. Keeps his face impassive, lost seemingly in his own little world. His boots tap softly on the slippery floor when he lifts up onto his tiptoes to touch the acrylic and his hand flies to his mouth to suppress the incoming sneeze when the layer of dust on it disperses into the chilly air.
Columbina swallows.
“You are very quiet,” she murmurs at last.
“That I am.”
He makes it a point to prove this, then, by shoving his hands in his pockets and speeding up his pace. His too-large dress shoes skid on the ice-glazed floor as he walks, leaving thin, jagged scrape lines in his wake. His arms flail a little, but he lifts his chin in a childish attempt to look dignified, shoulders pinned back and oversized coat dragging after him.
Columbina’s mouth twitches, but she arranges it into something more neutral before young Zandik picks up on it— Sandrone had told her that it was “poor form” to laugh at people (even though Rosalyne had called laughter the “best medicine” so hmm, she’s not sure which it is).
“Zandik,” she prompts, watching as the boy trips over his own feet and grabs on to the nearby wall to stabilize himself, “do you need help?”
The winter sun hits his round cheeks when he turns back to face the goddess, flushed cherry-red from the cold. The skin over his lips hangs dry and peeling, and Columbina wonders if he’s ever seen a tube of lip balm in his life.
He looks at her, seemingly caught off-guard by the question.
“I’m f-fine,” he gets out at last, teeth chattering.
Columbina purses her lips. Of the habits of children she remains largely unlearned, but the tone of voice tells her that he is far from alright.
She glides over to the child and takes his hand, feathers ghosting along the line of her neck, and angles her head towards the stairway leading downwards.
“Come,” she insists.
And it is there that she senses the fall of the sleeve onto her wrist, a stitching too large to be factory-woven, with the wefts frayed at the ends, hidden beneath his mass-produced coat five sizes too big for his tiny frame. Grazes fingers on threads, across the seams that smell of a land far from here.
A taste of home, miles away.
“Your coat is ill-fitting,” she remarks. “You should ask Lord Dottore to purchase a smaller one. You don’t want to trip on it.”
His breath catches for a moment when he hears his master’s name, but he collects himself and speaks anyway.
“I don’t need a smaller coat.”
So young and so resourceful, so insistent on being able to make it himself. Not a good sign, mind; she has heard from Lady Crucabena that precocious children blossom only out of necessity.
He, she thinks, must be one such example.
“Okay,” she says with a shrug, “if that is what suits you best.”
The silence stretches on between them.
Zandik, Columbina comes to find, is a child like no other. He is as much of an enigma as his older counterpart: a being in constant conflict with himself. He is someone caught in a back-and-forth between mature and overgrown, youth and adult. He has a curiosity for all that surrounds him and a detachedness from it still, as if he wants to live life from a bystander’s perspective. As if the best thing for him to do would be to disappear into the background, melting in his giant coat, and stare out at the world that passes him slowly by— a feeling Columbina knows, all too well.
She is still thinking about her young companion’s odd mannerisms when their twin footsteps come to a halt before a set of ornate double doors.
Many a time has she come calling in the past, and so her body stops of its own volition without much trouble at all. It sticks out against the design of the space: brown against icy-white, a door to another world, made of deepwood and twisting roots curling round the handles.
She knows, too, what exactly lies behind— not the lush forests and dense undergrowth of the vast land beyond, but a lounge built to resemble the interior of a typical upper-middle class Sumerian house, complete with the vases and elaborate carpets that flood the room with color.
A patch of the Doctor’s estranged homeland, nestled safely within the halls of an otherwise hostile nation that wants little to do with him. The closest thing he will find to imitating a sense of belonging.
And here, she must leave him.
With a sigh, Columbina lets go of the child’s hand and angles her head at him.
“Go,” she urges little Zandik.
The boy glances over his shoulder. His eyes reflect the sheen of chandelier-light, the faintest flicker of holy flame on the lines surrounding his pupils. He clings on to her sleeve with chubby hands, hesitation written all over his face and head cast downwards.
And then, plaintively, softly,
“This isn’t home.”
And it is here, in the low light outside the quarter doors, surrounded by ice and steel in a land miles off from all he has known, that he looks and sounds, finally, like a child should. Huddled in his cloak with his cheeks hollow in the low light, yearning for a place to belong.
The words die at the fore of her mouth before she can say them.
I know.
This is not home for her, either. She does not know what home should look like.
She has heard that home can be a house, and food, and clothes. Home, the Scions say, is a roof over your head and company and protection from the cold. But all this, she already has— all this they have, and yet none of that seems to form something worthy of being named a home.
But how does one explain all that to someone so young? How, when she is not even sure how to process this empty space that exists within herself? She does not know how to care for children as the Scions did; she’d always thought them to be peculiar little people that understood just as much about the world as she. She’s never been one, after all; the joyous whirlwind-confusion of childhood is something she’s never had to know before.
Words do not come easily to her, so she resorts to what she does work well with: a humble offering of service, an act begged of her by many a Scion in the past. She bends closer so that the child’s breath is warm on her cheek, sensing the empty red of his eyes pinned on her person.
—And there it comes. A gentle rush of kuuvahki, infused with warmth from her hands, against the little boy’s cheek.
He stares back, startled.
She smiles.
“Go,” she says, as gently as she can find it in herself to. “The moonlight will go with you.”
Zandik starts. “But—”
She curls her hand inward, and watches as a flush of light soothes the child’s puffy cheeks. It lingers on the nape of his neck, like the guiding hand of a parent, urging him to do as told.
He exhales, shakily. Curls his little hand into a fist.
Then acquiesces.
“Thank you for taking me back,” he mutters at last, staring at his feet.
The hallway lapses into silence once more as Columbina dips her head and spins on her heel to return the same way she came. The onslaught of winter seems less harsh on her skin now, and the remnants of moonlight bring soft kisses to her fingertips, soothing taut the tension in her flexing palms.
And when Columbina reaches the corner, she turns back and listens.
His footsteps drag a little less noticeably as he trudges his way up to the door. There is a spring in his step, and his face looks a smidge brighter— illuminated by the moonlight’s glow wrapped round his tiny shoulders.
He glances back now, at his sister at the end of the hallway, hand half slanted in a wave. Holds the stare, though his gestures cannot be seen, for the briefest of seconds, and turns back.
Young Zandik takes a deep breath and knocks on the door of his home away from home.