HEALING || NATASHA ROMANOFF

|PROLOGUE|

"Again."

Natalia Romanov did not fail. However, throughout her training, she never gloated. Other girls would come and go, other instructors would be brought in, but she does not let her hands drop. Her fingers curl around an imaginary cylinder, poised and bony- and the air glides between them.

Ballet becomes easy when you practice long enough, and Natalia had worked tirelessly to perfect her movements, to make sure she survived until tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. She can do any move she's asked to do. No matter how her young bones ache, how the sweat plasters her auburn hair to her head.

They tell her that she's made of marble.

A scream erupts from the floorboards, vibrating her ballet slippers, and she doesn't move. She doesn't clench her jaw, she doesn't fall. If she did, if she blinked, she'd be the girl's replacement. 

She bows low to the ground, staring at her feet. Blood is beginning to ooze through her satin pointe shoes. She can feel her toe splitting under her weight.

She stretches her torso back upwards, looking ahead, and only ahead, at the mahogany walls.

She doesn't move, but in the corner of her eye, she can see the same grey hair, the same wrinkled hands, the same bony feet, held forever in first position. First position. First position.

"Again."

Today, it is said in English. Yesterday, it was French. The day before, it was Mandarin.

Natalia pivots on one foot, keeping her torso taut, her arms in, and she spins. When her back faces the other way, she tucks her arms in, в. When she returns her gaze to the mahogany, she swings her arms gracefully out, вне.

She swings her left leg back and forth repeatedly, keeping her shoulders forward, relaxing her neck, trying to ease to the pain in her foot. She finishes the dreaded balançoire, feeling in her bones that she did it right, it was muscle memory at this point. She always did it right.

She resumes en pointe, and feels her skin split. She flinches. It's noticed.

"Романов, первая позиция!"

She clenches her jaw then, and she can feel tears in her eyes. Her eyes always shine, though. There's no telling when that comes in handy. She flattens her shoes against the hardwood floor, holding her hands near one another in front of her stomach. 

The blood is warm on her foot, like a hot bath, too hot to stay in. It makes her feel trapped, she needs to get out. She needs to win.

"раздеваться."

Natalia lowers her hands, sliding her thumbs under the band of her petticoat, pulling it to her ankles timidly. She steps out of it.

"Бочаровин!" The call echoes in the room, bouncing throughout the establishment.

The walls creak. The windows seem so very small, clouds blocking any light that dared give them hope. The room is cold, it seeps into her bare arms. She takes a deep breath in.

Antonina Bocharov has black hair, and it never leaves the bun at the base of her neck. Any baby hairs that grow out of place, she nips at the bud. Her nose is too small for her face, and her eyes are too big. Cavernous and black, absorbing anything she sees with frightening speed. She never smiles. None of them ever smile.

"Бочаров, Романов, бьются насмерть." 

Bocharov clenches her jaw, her fists growing rigid at her sides, and Natalia knows that she's determined to beat her. She feels her face harden, and she doesn't blink once.

The headmistress had not allowed her enough time to take her pointe shoes off. They were still tight, bloodily attached to her feet, tied all the way of her calves. If she bent over to remove them now, she'd be dead.

She carefully, gracefully steps across the wooden floors, the ends of her shoes making a clicking sound as she circles her prey. There's no air in the room, and not a peep comes from the wind anymore. Her arms are glossy with sweat, and she fears that if she puts Bocharov in a headlock, she'll slip right out.

The girl in front of her had finished her practice earlier in the day, her poise perfect and her toes still in tact. Natalia nearly snarls. Her legs must be sore, so she looks. 

Bocharov is shaking. There's a tremor in her knees, as if holding up her own weight is a challenge. Natalia compartmentalizes the information, keeping her eyes locked on her opponent's hands. They circle each other.

"начинать."

Natalia lunges at Bocharov's knees, clasping her hand around the wobbling joint and yanking towards herself. Her opponent yelps quietly.

She slides her fingers below the kneecap, pressing firmly enough to cause it to come loose, and then she lets go.

Seeing Bocharov flail to regain her balance didn't make Natalia feel victorious, it didn't make her feel anything, and it scared her. She gives her the chance to steady herself. She already knows she has the advantage. If anything, she was doing Bocharov a favor. No one with bad legs has ever survived in the Red Room Academy.

Bocharov growls, holding her fists in front of her, looking for an opening. She hides her injured leg behind the other, entrusting her balance to half her body. 

Natalia ducks away when she swings, keeping a ready distance between her and the injured girl. Anyone trained within these walls is still dangerous with one leg. She lets her eyes flick over her body, small collarbones, wide ribcage. Easier access to her organs. Strangling is easy if the target is already incapacitated, but a knee isn't enough.

She doesn't react in time, and a bared hand comes barreling down onto her cheek. She feels the nails digging into her skin, feels the blood rushing to her face, and the droplets fluttering and tickling her neck. She kicks Bocharov in her stomach, pushing her far enough away that she can spare a second to wipe at her injury. Her fist is now just as bloody, already starting to brown at the edges.

Natalia sucks air through her teeth. She lunges forward and is met with a fight. Their closed fists and exposed forearms meet in midair, faster than the human eye. They block each other's hits, throw their own, staring deeply into each other's eyes. 

There are flecks of green in the depth of Bocharov's irises, and for a moment, Natalia wonders if Bocharov sees any beauty in her. 

There's no beauty in what Natalia's about to do.

She blocks yet another punch, using her other hand to grab Bocharov's injured leg at the pit. She turns her wrist, clamping her fingers around the meat of her forearm, and lifts. Bocharov is pulled off her feet, her eyes widening, and Natalia savors the look of fear, savors the promise of another day, and throws Bocharov to the ground.

She groans as her spine hits the wood, and she sucks in a hopeful breath, her leg twisting at an awkward angle. Natalie steps close to her head, examining her, taking in her beauty one last time,

and stomps on her neck.