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She hallucinates the dead.
The Tsaritsa sees her from the corner of her eyes. Herself a shambling husk, she long ago shed the chrysalis of old names like Anastasya or Beloved. She is but her lineage.
The Ruler of Death awaits the day of her own demise. The world's scales have tipped dangerously, and now the orbit of fate is askew. Gently, Ronova caresses the Celestial Nail hanging above their heads.
You cannot take me, as I have forsaken the act of creation. I commit nothing so much as sin. Though you may paralyse my hands or sever my feet, you cannot seize the stopped-clock soul inside my breast.
I challenge you, O Lord of the Underworld. What is a fire starved of fuel?
A conflagration unable to burn is but a breath never released.
In her mind, she waltzes with the end.
Heaven's judgement clasps her wrists. At night, wild dreams hunt her, doubts her dogged pursuers. Death begs, Use me. Feed me. I can be your willing tool of revolution.
A sin that is not tempting is no sin at all. She yearns, with her hands, to trace Ronova's bloody wings.
To paint the floor of Zapolyarny Palace with poetry, morality tales, prognostications;
To bite that pale throat and come away with a black mouth, forever causing the story to change;
To speak the name Ronova and hear the rushing tide spent with each word of reply.
She lies with a phantasm that wants to crawl beneath her skin. Steal her away.
The Tsaritsa was once a person. Death craves that experience.
One day death shall refuse to puppet itself in the bastard act of parthenogenesis.
You will turn your face away from your own tail.
My fair Death.
Most of all, I hope you will be kind.