𝑵𝑰𝑲𝑶𝑳𝑨𝑰 𝑫𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑯 𝑽𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑶𝑽
his gaze shifts to the child as she mimics the motion of his hands on the keys , and admits that it is mostly correct . a surprisingly gentle touch is placed on the inside of the girl’s wrist , indicating that she should raise it slightly . however , at the mention of the pakhan’s injury , nikolai looks up and pulls his hand away as if he had been stung . ‘ vova ? ’ he asks quietly , childhood nickname on his tongue , frown deepening . however , whatever weight that had been added to his shoulders is lightened by her reassurance , nodding gently . ‘ you are a medik ? ’ he’s seeking confirmation , making sure he had understood this interaction correctly . that would explain things , though he’s somewhat embarrassed at having not known already . especially given the fact that he had , as much as he would allow himself to these days , gotten to know marya in her shop .
‘ perhaps . i … ’ he trails off , a pause heavy in the air for a moment , before continuing , ‘ i did not expect any child , not just your niece . ’ he was surprised , but his reaction was not personal ; that’s what he was trying to convey . he looks down at olga again and frowns to see that the correction of where her wrist should be did not stick , and repeats the motion . his only concern for the moment , besides confirming with his brother that he would be fine , and if this injury was related to anything that would require his attention , was on making sure that the girl handled the instrument with care ─ oblivious , completely , to any thoughts of the night everything had occurred .
he doesn’t have full memories to rely on , even if he knew that’s where marya’s thoughts were . he was a toddler , and any scenes play out in flashes : bright colors , loud noises , feelings he tries to hold onto and those he tries his best to forget . he had not known vladimir had been shot until the doctors in moscow took him into their care ( and not even immediately then , considering how little dmitri choose to share with his youngest ) , let alone that anyone was trying to shoot him too . most of what he knows comes from after , as he built scripts for the actors in his mind to play out , a way to make sense of the chaos his young mind was unequipped to handle .
he nods at the question , thinking it was obvious . ‘ yes , it’s been my piano since i was young . ’ maybe about the time he was olga’s age , though he could not be sure .
there are remnants of a melancholic memory in the curved line of her mouth as the toddler hushes into an observing silence when his attention returns, briefly, to where her plump hand rests, gently correcting her slackened wrist so that the imitation is as similar as it can be. with her feet hanging off the piano stool ( one fat ankle still woefully bare as the white sock remains tucked in marya’s pocket ), olga kicks her legs in delight, turning the moon - roundness of her face up at her aunt in search of approval ─ an attentive, indulgent hum leaves the throat of the older female, though her thoughts remain affixed on matters of the past. earth - brown gaze locks onto the piano keys though it is not the child that she watches but nikolai, as he withdraws guiding touch abruptly, as though surprised. a minor reaction that only serves to confirm her worst fears. the diminutive nickname furthers the dread that nestles in her belly ─ panicked, she attempts to sort through former conversations, wondering if she had spoken out of turn to someone that she had assumed was a harmless stranger, unconnected to the wolves of moscow yet nothing pressingly urgent comes to mind.
( an offhand mention of his name and the name of her eldest brother, perhaps, but nothing that might tie her explicitly to the preobrazhensky brotherhood, or so she hopes. )
though her countenance remains downcast, as though her sole focus was on the child, her gaze flicks up at his question, widened hues softening with warmth. ❝ i am. ❞ swallowing slowly to push back the bile that gathers at the base of her throat as anxiety flares, she continues. ❝ i went to school for it, before the war. ❞ there is very little pride in her words ─ she does not speak with an intention to boast but to assure him in her capabilities, so that he does not mistake her for some poorly trained nurse. ❝ he was grazed by a bullet ... no stitches but the wound needs to be cleaned and checked for infection daily. ❞ the medik had said as much to vladimir as she wiped trickles of claret from his skin with tender murmurs, knees aching against the carpeted floors, though her doubts in his attention to the details of aftercare had remained unspoken. instead, she extends a wordless request to the younger brother ( for who else could he be ? ), bidding him to mind the elder for as long as the wound took to heal.
blinking back the confusion that threatens to unravel her confidence in the cause, brought on by unexpected concern for those that should be seen as the enemy, she allows his words to wash over the ear, pulling her to the present, fingers still curled lightly in the soft tresses of her niece. ❝ i understand. ❞ her jaw aches with soured apprehension. a deep sigh leaves her lungs ─ an attempt to soothe away any unpleasant sentiments. there will be time to ponder upon her discoveries later, but now she needed to ensure that her pretense was not exposed. ❝ there is no place for a child in such business but there was no time to find someone to watch her. ❞ tentatively, she attempts to wean herself from the room, but olga seemed determined to conquer the instrument, bringing her postured hand down to press upon a combination of keys that did not make such a horrendous noise. the sound draws a huff of laughter from marya’s chest, pensive fondness curbing nervousness.
❝ do you think she is too young to learn ? ❞
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𝑭𝒀𝑶𝑫𝑶𝑹 𝑮𝑹𝑰𝑶𝑮𝑶𝑹𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑯 𝑹𝑨𝑲𝑶𝑽𝑺𝑲𝒀
neither was taking care of themselves properly , if the truth were to come to light . there’s a certainty in him about why he puts himself through this ; how could he train others if he could not practice himself ? but that neglects the full story , hidden paragraphs of how the care he has for others is not given to himself , or the lack of acceptance of what injury has done to him ( he won’t pretend he is the same now as he was , but he pushes forward with a similar fervency ) . that’s how she finds him , in a moment of this passion and stubbornness that makes him appear more like the fighter he once was .
his hands are wrapped with practiced perfect , thirty years of the same motions make them second nature ; it’s why he chastises the younger men about the sloppy attempts they make , because he’s seen it done right , he’s done it right . however , despite or perhaps because of this striving for perfection , teddy keeps his own training to the times when others were not present in the den . he’s all too aware of the shortcoming he now felt were so visible . thus , he’s surprised at the sound of the door opening , and just has enough time to stop the swing of the bag he had been attacking with precision , to turn and see marya as she begins her onslaught of him .
‘ it’s at home , marya . you’ll have to go get it if you intend to strike me with it . ’ today was a better day , the pain easily managed with the bit of help from painkillers ; good enough to train , which meant it was good enough to walk the way he wanted to . screw the cane . he did not want to feel like an old man quite yet , even if he knew there were days it was out of his hands . fyodor swung in the balance , almost accepting his new life , and other times wishing he could ignore it . ‘ i’d be happy to eat lunch though . thank you . ’
❝ stubborn mule. ❞
growing fondness tempers away any hint of exasperation that lingers within the mellow intonation of her words, even as the dark hairs of her brows begin to knit together at the center of her forehead in passing concern at what she perceived as recklessness on his behalf. though she had been heavily involved in the months that he had spent in the hospital, aiding in the recovery of his physical state, she could not begin to understand what traumas might have been left on his mind, nor did she pretend to know more than what he would tell her ─ so she does not attempt to verbally chide him about the dangers of training alone, unaware of the moment when his back might tighten up into a lock, protesting the overexertion. fyodor knew better than she ever could, no matter her years of study, and she was never one to waste her breath on the determined.
( that he was walking, talking and having a good day is enough to soothe her worries, for now. )
beneath the woolen scarf, her throat itches with bruised rawness as the humidity of the den settles upon her frame and she attempts to ease off the discomfort by pulling at her gloves gently ─ her mother’s own gestures, delicate and graceful, as though she were pulling off silk from the skin, rather than a frayed knit. muffled, glass clinks together as her shoulder is relieved of the weight of her bag, placed carefully upon a bench while she grabs a towel from the stack nearby, holding it out with one hand. ❝ you look better today. ❞ not that marya was familiar with such sports ─ that had been a part of yuri, though she had suffered through enough of his mock wrestling matches to know good form, grumbling through mouthfuls of dirt whenever her older brother decided to throw her around like a ragdoll that bit back. ❝ no tightness ? ❞ her words are soft and nearly whisked away with the wind.�� it is within her nature to worry, to fuss, and if he was not such a large man, she might have even bullied him into lying down, just so she could build a hot compress to place on his lower back.
but they were no longer stuck in wartime, and she was no longer a licensed doctor, able to throw her weight around, so instead she asks and hopes that he respects her experience enough to be honest. ❝ i will lay out lunch while you wash up, yes ? chicken sandwiches, and there is soup in the flask as well. ❞
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sorry i called you a fucking idiot i was trying to flirt
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𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑲𝑺𝑬𝑰 𝑷𝑬𝑻𝑹𝑶𝑽
when : early evening , — december 1920
where : the fruit and vegetable shop
who : @maryasky·
the flat itself is falling apart . peeling pastel floral wallpaper , creaky wooden floors , a leaky kitchen sink that would keep him up all night if he was the sort to get a decent night sleep ( he isn ’ t , so instead it will keep him company . ) the length of the room is twice its width , giving it the impression that he is living in a hallway . aleksei has always been ambivalent about his living quarters despite an upbringing that never left him wanting for anything , so this does not bother him much . spartan is just fine with him . he ’ s moved in with one suitcase and one suitcase only , and the only thing he ‘ s managed to unpack in the day he ‘ s been here is his ashtray . the ceramic dish teeters precariously on the window sill now as aleksei enjoys the swirl of nicotine in his lungs ; smoke curls into the sky like a chimney . the same window sill , with chipped green paint , oversees the fruit and vegetable shop of one marya sergeyevna and this is the only reason aleksei is putting up with this place .
from here , he can just make out the dark mahogany locks and slender frame of the medik in the crosshairs of his vision . the sovietnik ’ s head has made a home for the hum of his suspicions ; most days he hears that wasp nest sound somewhere in the back of his mind . it is a white noise that bleeds into the cacophony of the rest of the world and there is a comfort in it , he ‘ s found . a reminder that he is still alive and alert , at least for another moment . aleksei is SUSPICIOUS of everyone and marya is no different . there ‘ s blank spaces in the history of her . the medik is just one of the changes that has occurred in his absence, and aleksei can only stand a state of ignorance for so long . he decides if he has to buy a flat now that he is back in the city , it might as well be the flat across from marya ’ s fruit and vegetable shop . two birds with one bullet , as the saying goes . the sovietnik is certain only good will come of such proximity and observation : he will either identify and isolate a weakness or they will grow closer because of it . besides , if his pakhan insists that he stay in one of two locations to preserve the secrecy of his identity , then aleksei will make the most of it .
he stubs out his cigarette when it ’ s burned down and without much more ceremony than that, he grabs his jacket and descends to the street ; the movement not unlike lucifer descending from heaven - it ’ s a stroll , not a fall .
aleksei finds the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables pleasant ; something to be enjoyed for its sweet effervescence . ❛ marya , ❜ he calls out for her attention as he makes his way to the storefront . they ’ ve passed before in the hallways of the volkov estate . he knows those sharp , bright eyes will recognize him . ❛ it ’ s not my intention to disturb you, but i thought i would come over and say hello … seeing as how we are to be neighbors - ❜
he points to his little green window across the street . he offers no smile but his voice holds a semblance of kindness … and it simply is a semblance , just barely the real thing . because here is the thing : aleksei petrov does not believe in KINDNESS - but he believes in SURVIVAL , and there are moments such as these that he finds that in order to ensure one , he must succumb to the other . a fucking tragedy, really. he looks at marya down the slope of his nose ; a cat wondering if he’s staring at a mouse - will there be a chase ?
❛ - seems i have every excuse to visit now. ❜
people were creatures of routine and, after more than twelve months into the charade that she has undertaken in service of the brotherhood of petrograd, she has learned the habits of those that surround the shop on the daily, perched on a crooked little stool outside as she feigns standing guard over the humble array of fruits and vegetables as the beginnings of dusk begin to settle over the city. it was still too early in the evening to consider pulling down the shutters over her windows, promises to keep the lights on until the women returned from the factories holding her captive as the medik attempts to busy her hands with arranging the vegetables closer together, removing the emptied crates from the front display as the day winds down into a quieter moment. though she was not in pressing need for the business brought by the young women ( mothers and daughters and wives who were left widowed or orphaned or both after the war robbed them of the men in their lives ), kept afloat by monetary support from the volki bratva as well as what was left of her sister’s savings, marya understood that appearances needed to be kept. while her exposure to the wolves of moscow meant an assured roof over her head, there was more to her story than mere connections to the underworld ─ olga needed some normality in life and it would be difficult to keeping thinking of excuses for their cushy state of living if she did not appear to work hard for such comforts.
the last thing she needed was for a respectable neighbor to begin poking into the hooded figures that came into the shop in the late evenings, skirting through the back lane until they were allowed permission to breach the sanctuary of the shop.
she was in the middle of nudging the empty wooden crates to a corner with the tip of her booted foot when her name is called by an oddly familiar voice ─ not one that she would typically associate with the location or the hour, yet she has come to expect visits from members of the volki at any point of the day. ( while they differed vastly in appearances and duties, the bratva seemed unanimous in their disregard for decency, unable to call ahead with a warning for the medik before dumping their bleeding compatriots at her door. ) aleksei petrov did not seem to be in any distress, though she does not allow apprehension to prick at her mellowed countenance, blinking slowly as a smile spreads across her features, gentle and sprinkled with light confusion.
❝ aleksei ... ? please ... do you see anyone else around that needs my attention ? it gets quiet around this time of day. ❞ and then the streets would be filled with ashy - handed people, smelling of smoke and chemicals. her gaze follows the tip of his finger to where the green window sits, unassuming but conveniently in line with her little shop ─ she counts her blessings that there is no way for him to get a clear view of the back lane. though her uncle was not one for sentiment, he was also unpredictable and disappointed in her slow progress. she would not be surprised if he sent men after her and little olga, were she to take any longer with eliminating the head of the volki bratva.
the thought nearly breaks the pleasant upturn of her mouth. a shiver runs down her back and she wonders if he can see the way her breath catches, just for a second, in her chest. ❝ oh, that is wonderful. perhaps you could be so kind as to give me a warning the next time one of your boys decides to pop in for a fixing up ? it would be the neighborly thing to do. ❞ dryly, she nips at one of the wolves, lips twisting into a half smile before her head inclines towards the inside of the shop. ❝ i just put a pot of coffee on. come in, i’ll pack some fruit for you as a house warming gift. ❞
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nyc - interpol / blossom - erik thor sandberg / craig thompson, carnet de voyage
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richard siken, the torn-up road
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𝑩𝑨𝒀𝑬𝒁𝑰𝑫 𝑴𝑬𝑯𝑴𝑬𝑻 𝑲𝑼𝒁𝑬𝒀
he knows the sanctuary he’s found ‘ pon the rooftops in the moscow slums is fleeting and momentary . allowing the strap to slide off of his shoulder , he drops to one knee and leaves the duffel bag stashed behind loosened brick and concrete . unsteady , tremouring breaths clouds the cold , blackening night air ‘ round him , labouring lungs causing tightness to build in his chest . he straightens himself and stands , pulling acherontic masque down from his face , unmasking battered visage . he takes a rearward step , lungs aching and heart pounding ‘ gainst his throat . weighing his options and the mistakes he’s committed tonight , the adrenaline has numbed some of his pain , and it is what he takes advantaged of whilst he skirts ‘ round to the opposing side of the building and begins to descend , clambering down the fire egress and generating more noise than he cares for .
pain and indignation tears through him at street level , but he crosses the street and weaves through an alleyway to reach a back lane . he unknots and detaches the masque from ‘ round his neck with his sinistral hand , tugging the cloth free to tuck it into his rear pocket . his fist collides ‘ gainst hardened fibrous surface the instant he reaches her door , pernicious and impatient — and the saboteur’s knocks come neither soft nor respectful in regards to the hour . ‘ sergeyevna . ‘ he attempts to make his way in after the door is breached but her touch ‘ pon his chest halts him . he can feel the warm stick of his own blood ‘ neath his clothes where her hand lays , and more of the same sanguine warmth below his ribcage where the bolshevik’s knife dug in . ‘ i ran into some trouble . ‘
his weight pushes gently ‘ gainst her hand ‘ fore she relents and commands him in . ‘ thank you . ‘ bayezid ducks his head and saunters past her into the shop , raven crown slanting in her direction . ‘ where do you want me ? ‘
❝ clearly. you seem to be a magnet for trouble. ❞
a harsh reprimand curdles at the concern that had briefly slipped past the shackled passivity of her features, knitted brow and widened gaze morphing into flared nostrils and a thin press of the mouth ─ gone are the lessons on patience and understanding that had been etched into memory as a nursing student, replaced instead with an impatience that is founded on repressed emotion, prompting her to lash out unkindly if resistance is present. fortunately for them both, he was not known to be a difficult patient and the added gratitude is enough to slacken the tightness in her jaw, unfurling the storm in her narrowed gaze as a noncommittal noise is issued in response. the vermilion that stains her palm leaves a sticky print on the frame of the back door ( that she makes a idle note to clean before dawn breaks ) as she hurries to close it, body leaning forward as her head gives a quick glance down each side of the back lane to check for any tails. finding no one other than the alley cat that begins a quick trot towards the opening, she chases the half - starved feline away before locking the heavy door, sparing a second to gather her thoughts and chase any remnants of exhaustion from the mind.
❝ through here. ❞ she cannot spare him a soft mattress or a gentle word ( or gentler hands ), but as the medik weaves past the empty crates, to the sterile room in the back of the shop, she understands that it is not a coddling that he needs, but her silence. the makeshift medical room is in a piteous state ─ not as large as what she may have had, if she had chosen to pursue medicine legally after the war, and her surgical chair had been repurposed from a hospital nearby, along with the cabinet that houses her kit and several bottles of necessary ointments and drugs. it is from this drawer that she pulls out a wad of gauze pads, shoving it into his hand as she passes. ❝ sit. apply pressure directly on the wound with this. ❞ she uses the pointed edge of her elbow to nudge the light switch on, consuming them with brightness as her feet glide towards the sink where the plumbing groans before spluttering out ice cold water. a hiss as her hands are plunged into the stream, scrubbed clean of any dirt that might have gathered. a pointless gesture, perhaps, considering the dubious origins of his injury and what infections may already linger in the wound, but a habit that would be unwise to break. the worn leather of her kit is grabbed, weight coming to rest on the stool that is kept by the surgical chair as she coaxes him into a seated position, steadying arm kept affixed on his bicep.
❝ we will do something about your face in a minute, mhm ? let me see that bleeder. ❞ her palm cradles the weight of his jaw, thumb skimming over the swelling bruise on his cheek with a small noise of sympathy before dragging the width of her hand down his torso to where the more severe gash laid beneath a temporary gauze covering.
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𝑵𝑰𝑲𝑶𝑳𝑨𝑰 𝑫𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑯 𝑽𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑶𝑽
nikolai blinks back at the child as she , for lack of better phrasing , laughs at him . he doesn’t remember the last time someone had done such a thing , and he isn’t quite sure how one was supposed to respond to it . ‘ we do not bang , ’ he repeats , but as he’s saying the sentence he hears someone else talking . he begins to look up , but then the child is tugging his hands towards the keys , where they settled but do not play quite yet . finding the form is almost natural at this point , magnets pulled together , hands snapping into the gentle curve with fingertips resting on the keys . given this action , it takes him a moment to process the words . he frowns , shaking his head . ‘ it’s not that — ’ fragile , is what he was going to say , contradicting himself slightly , finally turning towards the voice , when he realizes who is standing in the music room with him and the child .
‘ yes , ’ he answers , as if she wasn’t sure . yes , i am nikolai . he believes his presence makes sense here ; it is his family home , it is his music room , it is his piano . it is hers he cannot make sense of . ‘ what are you doing here ? ’ he looks between marya and the child, brow creasing but the rest of his features as stoic as always . ‘ with this one ? ’
if the fear of losing her niece in the unfamiliar maze of the volkov estate had thickened her blood into ice, numbing the senses until her ears felt stuffed full of cotton, deafened to all else but the familiar pitch of the toddler’s intonation, seeing him at ease within such an unexpected place was akin to a scalding bath after a spirited gallop through the acres of land that had once been beneath the preobrazhensky control, just as jarring of a feeling. she is more accustomed to the soft - spoken man that lingers at the peripherals of her vision, smooth fingers trailing over the fruit and vegetation until the store is cleared of chattering wives and fond grandmothers ─ even in the quiet of her shop, nikolai has a manner about him that keeps her from pushing conversation, yet the stilted silence was not always discomforting. she had welcomed his company, wordlessly pointing out the better option between the root vegetables and smuggling an apple into his bag of greens whenever possible yet seeing him at the heart of the volkov estate casted a shadow over what she had once thought of him, when he was still a casual friend that popped by the shop, like clockwork.
she almost thinks to lie, but the pakhan had filled the toddler’s head with promises of a visit to the stables and marya was not about to incite a tantrum from the already impatient child. ( it was nearly time for a short nap, though she had been hesitant to ask vladimir for more than he had already offered. ) ❝ i was asked to come. ❞ her gaze flickers to the child as he queries, noting how olga attempts to imitate the form of his hand with less grace, fingers short and chubby and sprawled out endearingly across the white and black keys. ❝ pakhan was injured and i was called in to clean him up. ❞ a minor wound after being grazed with a bullet but she is prompted to add onto the sentence, following with quick reassurance. ❝ it was nothing too serious, more of a bleeder than anything else. ❞ the toddler that sits between their figures whines gently, calling for attention and marya silences the noise with a firm hand atop the dark head, fingers scratching through unruly curls.
❝ olga is my niece ... i mentioned her once or twice before, no ? ❞ as she explains, the sovietnik medik attempts to rake through her memories on what they had learned of the volki bratva and the volkov family. ( ❛ there was a younger one, a younger brother. ❜ uncle fedya grumbles, breath smelling of whiskey. ❛ i remember ... because we got the older one, but the little one was too small and too far away, like a bear cub. ❜ it was a revelation that she had repressed, disgusted at the thought of them knowingly hunting and hurting a child but now she wonders if they had made a mistake in not pursuing the subject of the younger brother as fervently as they had with the elder. )
❝ this is yours ? ❞ an easier way of asking if he lived here, if he was the little boy that her uncle had failed to kill.
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𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑨 𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑨 𝑵𝑨𝑹𝑽𝑨𝑬𝒁 𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑹𝑶
elbows deep in murky water , rosalía works to scrub out the pots of gruel that had been bubbling on the stovetop for most of the day to keep the meal warm . she is always happy to volunteer her time to the less fortunate , to help those who did not see an end to their trouble after the war . yet , in the same breath , she is grateful for the blessings that she has been given . she is grateful for nikolai , really . he is the reason she was not one of those in this line all those years ago . in a way , he is her savior , but he is so much more than that . she is lost in her thoughts , as she tends to be while on cleaning detail , the activity mindless enough to allow her mind to wander . when she finishes , she dries her hands and tries her best to scrub the remaining grub from beneath her nails and around her nailbeds though it is of little help . her apron is discarded in the bin with the others for washing and her long hair is swept high atop her head to cool her .
as she steps outside the hall , she is greeted with a cool breeze from the door repeatedly opening and closing as the figures file out again into the cold . she often wonders where they go once the meal is done , if they are warm until the next . she smiles upon seeing a familiar figure seated on one of the benches before that smile falters slightly at the observation . shoulders rise and fall in a shrug , “ there was not much left over today and i was on cleaning detail , so taking my pick of the bread with soapy hands was not ideal , ” she offers the other as a means of explanation . though , upon seeing the bread in the others hands , her stomach growls . she did not often skip meals , except for the rare fasting days of roman catholicism , and finds that she is not the greatest at it . “ i do not want to be an imposition , marya , " she offers the woman an out if she'd like it , " i know you have olga to care for , " that little girl could make her laugh on any day of the week . ” but , if you do mean it , i would like that . “
though her integration within the ranks of those who volunteered for the open kitchens of the chapel had been a quicker, less scrutinized process than her assimilation into the volki bratva, whose members still eyed the medik with muted suspicion in their gazes even as she pieces them together with a needle and some surgical thread, she remains wholly aware of the mysteries that�� surround her past and the child that calls her ❛ mother ❜ with such sweet innocence. ( olga is still too young to be corrected and marya knows that such a conversation would be too much to handle now, so deep in enemy territory. ) her preferences for solitude did not aid in dispelling any rumors, though none could dare call her unhospitable, speaking only when spoken to and never questioning more than what she would be willing to answer herself ─ it was not a skill that she had been born with, but rather a skill that she had acquired as a necessity in times of war. continuing conversations had become easy after several months on the western front, when she needed to keep an injured man awake for just a while longer, distracting with words and with smiles but never allowing herself to be similarly open in return. ( a necessary distance, as she watched those under her care grow strong, only to die another day. there was no time for sentiment in medical tents, and by the time she had returned, speaking of herself felt selfish, filling her with a loathsome guilt that came with surviving when others did not. )
yet rosa was among the few who knew a little bit more than surface - level information, entrusted with good secrets that she had guarded so fiercely against the chest. speaking the names of her brothers without fear of discovery had been surprisingly liberating, fostering a closer camaraderie built over remembrance and a desire to steal some of that peacefulness that she sees, glinting in rosa’s gaze whenever the sun catches against the lacquered wooden statues, for herself. ❝ use my gloves. ❞ she does not care to ask, almost ashamed by the worry that knits at her dark brows, but the soft gloves are pressed into the other woman’s empty hands, cold from the water, as though to apologize for not having anything of substance to soothe the grumbling of the belly. ❝ just until we can get into some place that is warmer. ❞ she recognizes the offer for what it is ─ a chance to feign politeness before returning to her niece, but she chases away the words with a firm shake of the head, cropped tresses brushing against the jaw with each shake.
❝ nonsense. i would not have offered if i thought it would be a burden. ❞ determination sets into her jaw, words uttered through a pouting smile as she intertwines their arms, exchanging the chapel grounds for the streets of moscow. ❝ what are you hungry for ? i know very few street stalls in the area, so you will have to be my guide. ❞
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𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑨𝑳𝒀𝑨 𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑲𝑺𝑬𝑽𝑵𝑨 𝑲𝑯𝑽𝑶𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑽𝑺𝑲𝒀
timestamp: late evening , — of december 1920 . · location:the garnizon , the bar . ( public space ) · tagging: @maryasky·
natalya was not a volki. she was not a wolf. she was not part of the pack. she had been allowed to sleep in the den of the alpha , allowed a place amongst the wolves , but that is where a line is draw . she is given fragments of trust , but she can see the distaste in the eyes of those who frequent the estate often . she can see sharpened teeth and claws waiting to claim her throat as theirs the moment she steps out of line . it is not a thought that has crossed her mind , to expose what little she knows in favor of something else . she is grateful for the life she has been granted and does not imagine a way to return to the one that had been ripped , bleeding , from her hands . this distrust does churn her stomach some days when she catches the leytenant's glare or the ice in the eyes of the youngest wolf . these are the days she wonders if she has somehow done wrong by staying , if she has somehow made their dangerous lives even harder .
the churning in her stomach is to blame for the meals skipped during the day today and, consequently, the current revolt of her stomach as it growls in defiance of those fears . there is no time for food now . instead of the typically pleasant smile that adorns her features , as a fine necklace adorns a wealthy woman , her smile seems forced . her cheeks do not hold the same rosy nature and her hand is not steady as she places a glass in front of marya . “ what can i get for you , my love ? ” she asks sweetly , amusement lacing her tone even as her body shows the differences as though she is the one under the spotlight and not those currently dancing at the nightingale .
as a young child, she had been sent to trail after the members of the preobrazhensky brotherhood in an attempt to uncover which role would suit her best in the near future. her own father had begun as obshchak, with an eye for money and quick hands that transferred the brotherhood funds from one legally fronted business to another, yet marya had been taken with those that carried the title of ❛ sovietnik ❜, keen gaze watching as these chameleons slipped in between the lines under different aliases, sometimes afforded the very best that the brotherhood money could acquire, all in the name of espionage. she had romanticized the role to an extend, yet her idolization had been encouraged, tutelage offered whenever possible and it was these teachings that she held close to her heart, as well as their warnings to never find comfort in a role or a scheduled act, lest she forget the true purpose behind such deceptions ─ even after she had strayed from the path, nudged into the direction of mending and caring for the injured and excelling in her studies for it, she had not forgotten the wisdom behind such words, nor the thrill whenever crafted manipulation proved to be a success in drawing her closer to the heart of the enemy.
( as she strolls into the garnizon, sliding into a frayed leather bar stool with experienced ease, she wonders if her teachers would be disappointed as relief floods through her limbs at the welcomed sight of her favorite barmaid. a scheduled visit, twice a week in the evenings, where she would order one of her two favorites and cajole natalya to abandon her duties for a moment of respite, sometimes successfully and other times not. understanding the act was simple, just another part of the role that she plays, but marya found that she could not tighten her smile completely to such a rare brightness in the underbelly of moscow, struck with the urge to indulge the younger woman whenever possible, even if she did think that the pakhan must have been intoxicated when he made the decision to allow natalya to linger in a limbo in such a violent world. )
❝ natya, my heart. ❞ though honey - sweet, there is nothing falsely saccharine about her greeting or the way her shoulders relax as the other woman glides to stand before her, gaze dropping to following the movement as the glass meets with the polished table. warmed by threadbare gloves, her right hand reaches to rest atop natalya’s own, brows furrowing with good natured concern ─ if not for the noise that the glass makes, louder than usual and hinting at an irregular balance, the slight tightness around the corners of the younger woman’s eyes and smile strike marya as something false, immediately unsettling the belly. ( her anxiety worked like a charm as a sovietnik, often urging her to fixate on matters that did not exist. ) ❝ mhm ... is the beef stew and rolls on the menu for tonight ? i find myself needing something hearty to eat as the nights get colder. and a light craft beer with that. ❞ a small pause, hand patting natalya’s cooler palm idly, as though urging her to wait before returning to the back with her order. ❝ and yourself ? sit me with me for a while, yes ? you must have been on your feet for hours. ❞
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theknightfromcydonia:
Laura Marling - Night Terror
If I look back and he is screaming
I’d left him dreaming, the dangers fade
I’ll run back and shake him tightly
And scream, “If they want him, then they’re gonna have to fight me!”
Oh, fight me.
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@prizefght // the den // afternoon.
there was a hoarseness in her throat as the sun gleamed over the city, high in the wintery afternoon sky, that was not spawned by the flakes of snow frost that trickled down into the apartment from above, a misplaced tile in the roof permitting a small puddle of cold water to gather in the middle of her living area. as the doors to the gymnasium ( come boxing ring in the evenings ) were pushed open with an elbow, she takes a moment to smother a cough into the woolen material of her scarf, nose tickled by the stench of sweat, trapped in a humid space ─ the attack on her sinuses was not unwelcomed, prompting a half - smile that flits across impassive features as the sound of fists hitting bags and bodies pricks at the ear. visits to the den often followed sleepless nights, which had become rarer over the years, exhaustion from raising a child outweighing any demon that wished to plague her thoughts, but marya was not liberated from the shadows of war, as the skin upon her neck could attest.
( unseeing, she had stared at the yellowed ceiling of her bedroom. after all these months, she still did not know what could rouse such memories yet her chest had heaved with each echoing cry, each passing name, the ones who lived and the ones who died, filth coating their hungry hands as they clawed onto life, onto her. unthinking, an old lullaby escapes her gasping mouth as though she means to soothe the phantoms that cry out for help, hands coming to wrap themselves around her own throat, guilt strengthening the hold until she heaves, shooting up from the bed to empty the contents of her belly on the floor. )
❝ fedya ! ❞ exasperation coats her tone, the calling raspy with remnants of self - inflicted abuse, yet the sentiment holds as she fixes the man with an accusing, slightly incredulous look. she had once praised his stubbornness as he laid, unmoving, on the browned sheets of the medical tent, urging him to keep fighting yet now she finds herself frustratingly amused by his perseverance, disbelieving smile softening the warning that laid behind each tap of her heeled boot upon the floor as she waited ( impatiently ) for him to cease the assault on his spine. ❝ if you will not use the cane to walk, should i use it to hit you ? perhaps then you will be immobilized enough to let your back rest, hmm ? ❞ as she speaks, her mouth twists into an exaggerated grimace, as though imagining the pain ─ though she jests, the reminder of his injury and her reason for seeking him out is enough to punch a deep sigh from the lungs. ❝ will you take a break now ? i have brought you lunch. ❞
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You want me to kiss the ring, I’ll do it to keep the peace, but what you’re asking for is impossible. You’ll find a way.
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𝑵𝑰𝑲𝑶𝑳𝑨𝑰 𝑫𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑯 𝑽𝑶𝑳𝑲𝑶𝑽
timestamp : afternoon , — of december 1920 . location : nikolai’s music room , within the volkov estate tagging : @maryasky·
the younger volkov brother stands as quiet and as still as the grave watching as an unknown child unceremoniously and irreverently bangs on the keys . nikolai does not know how she got there , nor is he exactly sure what to do except flinch slightly at the dissonant sounds ringing out from the instrument . after a moment , his inability to listen to the abuse of the instrument pushes him to move towards the child , it outweighs whatever it is that has him frozen in place .
‘ ah ! — gentle , зайка , ’ he says , moving towards the girl ; not knowing her name , he picks one of the soft terms for children he’s heard women at the church use . he pulls her hands off the keys , hyperconscious about his grip , certain that somehow he would hurt her by mistake even though his intent was nothing of the sort . ‘ gentle , yes ? gentle . ’ he’s unsure how to talk to most people , and is discovering that children are little different . ‘ we do not bang . ’
breathless, panic encircles around the slender column of her throat, coursing through her veins with a painful thickness that dulls her senses to all else that was not the pounding in her chest as the rest room is vacated in search of a missing toddler. bringing olga to the estate had been a clear mistake ─ from the moment marya had relinquished a hold on the child, who had reached so demandingly for the pakhan, innocent curiosity gleaming in her gaze, the sovietnik medik knew that she would not be able to sheathe the blade, hidden beneath a roll of bandages, in the neck of vladimir volkov. attention had waned for a mere second as she scrubbed the skin between her fingers to wash the scent of the antibiotic ointment away, and when her gaze had returned to where the child had been seen last, pulling off her shoes in defiance after being reprimanded harshly for doing so, olga had disappeared, one white sock left behind. ❝ olya ... ! ❞ in a hissed whisper, she calls out whilst skulking about the estate, mouth pulled open in an instinctual grimace as she attempts to navigate the halls. though her pretense had yet to be exposed, marya knew that she was within enemy territories, even if her niece seemed determined on adopting the head of the volki after just once encounter.
the sound of dissonant music grates at the ear, shoulders flinching as the sound reverberates through the otherwise quiet home and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, hastening her steps in the direction of the noise in the hopes that the child does not do too much damage to the instrument. a dark head peers into the room through the half - opened door, witnessing the gentle reproach as the noise ceases and the sound of her niece’s soft voice echoes, forming half - sentences. ❝ we do not bang ... ? ❞ parroted, olga punctuates the words with a giggle and marya takes that as a cue to interrupt, before the precocious child can insult the stranger anymore than she may already have.
❝ i am so sorry ... i took my eyes off her for a minute and she ... it is not ruined, is it ? ❞ her head is tucked against her chin, feigning at abashment ( which was not so hard to achieve ) as she darts into the room with her shoulders drawn tight against the ears ─ she hopes that the child would rush into her arms, so that they could stumble away from the scene and conceal themselves in the room until the car returned to take them back to the heart of the city, but olga huffs at the sight of her, imperious little head flicking away to tug the man’s hand towards the keys in a silent demand. unable to make a quick escape, she dares to lift her gaze, discomfort written clearly across her features, though the unflattering twist to her mouth slackens in near - comical surprise.
❝ nikolai ? ❞
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