#oleg is my sweet cinnamon roll

[larchraven]

elizabeth/nadezdha (the americans) is my meow meow and im having emotions about her at start of last season and i have Fear

[inforapound]

Two Faced

I wrote this for the writing challenge celebration for @geekandbooknerd​ and @fandomfic-galore​. Congratulations you two. This is some dark Oleg shit. 

Warnings: mentions fo abuse, mother issues, low self-worth

Words - 1,300

My situation could certainly be worse. Where I found myself and with whom was in no way part of my life’s plan. The reality was women like me, hunted since the dawn of time, were rarely given a choice. More days than not, I chose to live from a place of gratefulness. A place of nothing from where I could create who I wanted to be, always appreciating the comforts and security that so many were never granted. At least that is what I told myself when, each evening, who I would become was determined at the whim of a beast of a man.

I relied on the fact that Oleg was unpredictable. Never allowing myself to slip into complacency. I was poised and ready. The ever-stoic witness to his mayhem. To his darkest depravations, I was his enabler, less often a spectator but always his victim.

The note under the door told me how to prepare.

Mother, come to me. I feel unwell.

“Prince Oleg,” I whispered after closing the door from where I stood behind his chair in his private chambre.

The scent of spice and fruit was warm and inviting mixed with the smokiness of cedar burning in the fireplace. The room was lit by candles just enough to see the ornate furniture placed around the room.  For a man so particular on the details of his surroundings; the colours of the drapery, the pattern of stitching on his quilted bedding, cloves not cinnamon in his mulled wine – he seemed blind to it all. Oblivious, always a prisoner of sorts to his own complicated mind.

Oleg was a force. He possessed great wisdom, with a memory like an iron trap with potent stamina for ruthlessness. Ever merciless. On this night, like few before, I could unknot and breath knowing I was his one weakness. Oleg loved his mother.  

“Prince Oleg,” I repeated softly, cautious not to startle him.

Stirring in his chair, I could tell, even from behind that he sighed while staring into the fire.

“Mother, I hate when you refer to my title.” His tone was laced with impatience. “The fire is warm, come closer,” he added in a milder voice.

Walking around to face him, the severity of his features released as if he was surprised to see me standing there. I would never grow tired of that reaction. Always reminding me he was human.

“My dear boy, you look like you are fighting a battle in your mind.”

“I have done terrible things today, Mother.” Closing his eyes, he huffed air out through his nose. His mouth twisting with shame. Slamming his hand down onto the rest of his chair, he looked up. “These foolish men. They bring it upon themselves. Why mother?” he gawked, shaking his head, confused. “Why do they force me to be… unkind. It is terrible what they make me do. You know I hate this. It is all so brutal.”

There were no tears running down his cheeks, but the anguish was clear in his face. He felt victimized.

“No, none of this is fair. It is their doing.” I reassured. “No other man could carry such a burden. Come, my darling.” I held out my steady hand. Not a single tremor or shake to be seen. “Let me tuck you into bed. Tomorrow is a new day, and little cannot be made better with a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Guiding him by his hand to his bed, I undressed him, having him raise his arms into the air, as a child might, to slip on his nightclothes. Few people had seen him in this light, not even his dead wife.

With a delicate touch, I guided him to lay back, pulling the gold and rust dappled cover up to his chest. Without being asked, I knew tonight’s requirements. He needed tenderness and quiet and a mother’s love.

“Lie with me mummy,” he whispered in a small voice. His eyes round as if I might return to my room and leave him forgotten.

“Of course,” I whispered rounding the bed and climbing under the covers beside him. Careful to keep my relief from rising.

Within a moment he turned onto his side, pulling me close and wrapping me in his arms. Moving lower, he pushed me flat onto my back, resting his cheek against my bosom, relaxing to the rhythm of my heart and breathing.

“I love you, Mother.” He mumbled, melting closer to sleep as my fingers dragged lightly over his scalp.

“You are such sweet boy,” I hummed softly. “So brave and strong my darling Oleg. Such a good prince and you will be an even greater king. You will forever be my most beloved son. A gift from God, a Prophet, one who will rule over....”

He was asleep.

Thank all that is scared. Tonight was a gift from the spirits world. In these moments I knew it was me who was not forgotten.

Not daring to disrupt this mercy of a night, I waited some time until he was deeper in sleep. I crept out of bed after rolling him onto his side and pressed my lips to his temple, whispering goodnight. I had been doing this for enough years to know that staying in face until the end was utterly critical.

Back in the corridor, I closed my eyes, leaning back against his door and fought the feeling of the floor rising toward me. A rush of cold made me shiver and my hair puffed like it had been hit by a gust of wind. The sensation could not be explained, and I worked quickly to avoid being questioned. The quivering and itch began and the skin on my face melted away, evaporating with a mere sliver of pain.

The transformation was complete, and Yelena was gone, and I stood recast in my own face once again.

Yelena, the prince’s mother was the identify that I was most grateful for. He rarely touched me while I was her with heaviness or anger and less often did it progress to anything considered intimate. Another consolation for me to appreciate.

The nights I was forced to wear the face of his late wife made me think that I would not survive, and it would be the end. It felt like the end. His dramatic weeping and experienced backhand were loaded with disdain, but the punishment of his desire was worse than any treatment or torture. To say that he used his prick to try and kill me would simply trivialize the pain. Once he was satisfied and I could turn the spell, I often needed help by the slaves to get back to my chambre.  

 Witches like me, who can wear any face, were hunted down like demons and I could feel in my bones there were few of us left.  One would think these Christians would celebrate us for our ability to infiltrate their enemies, spy, pose as anyone.

But here I fall again, being ungrateful. I could be dead or barely surviving in the freezing cold forest, starving, selling my body to strangers. Even harder would be facing the future alone. The sheer unknowing.

So tonight, as I tiptoe to my private room, with a four-post bed and meal waiting that I had the luxury of picking at before going to him, I am beholden. Indebted and thankful that as bad as it gets, as much as it hurts, life could always be worse.

Tomorrow will be a new game. Wearing the face of the blue-eyed, raspy-voiced Viking. I will need to put thought into my movements having had a little time to study him in person. The premonition has been there for days, but I will experience soon enough what obscene degradation Oleg has planned for him.

I will, of course, remain positive as someone who, in this world, is worthless. I will earn my keep for enjoying so many advantages. Being whoever Oleg wants me to be, will keep me from burning, reducing to ash as so many witches have who wore two faces.  

*Thank you for reading. Please, please do not stay in a terrible situation because you feel it could be worse.

MASTERLIST

@youbloodymadgenius​ @naaladareia​ @whenimaunicorn​ @lol-haha-joke​ @ceridwenofwales​ @tephi101​ @captstefanbrandt​ @mdredwine​ @ivarsrideordie​ @fields-and-fields-of-poppies​ @flowers-in-your-hayr​ @silly-bullshit-collector​ @readsalot73​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​ @waiting4inspiration​ @squirrelacorngliterfarts​