A funeral march for the passing of gods - Shadow And Bone- Nikolai Lantsov/OC

Water under the bridge

Korol Rezni. The king of scars, the mighty survivor of a deadly war, the only tetter of royalty left in a country coming close to being undone. Nikolai would hold his head high and charm each countess, each duchess out of lands and donations, claiming favors from nobles and obtaining help into threatening them. Despite the immeasurable guilt of having other people fight for him, despite the glorious want to simply evaporate into the True Sea, despite his own boredom regarding elongated meetings that lead to nothing other than complains and nothing obtained through open discussion, he seemed to be made for this. And he was, Nikolai has never been a humble boy and he was not a humble king. He looked at the world at all his responsibilities, at this dreadful task he survived curses and darkness for, and went to work.

Before his coronation, he exercised his grip on the scepter, his equilibrium with the crown, the position of his shoulders under Gregory's cape, not out of vanity, but out of precaution. If the people were to believe he was God sent, he must play the part. If they were to think him a war hero, he ought to satisfy and feed on that hope. Most things came easy to him, from inventing flying boats or artillery to charming conversations and flattery. Most things would seem to roll of his tongue with ease, as if he was trained to be who he is from the day he was born. Nikolai was royal and godlike in his conduct, in his posture, in his flabbergasting ease. But that did not mean it was simple. It did not mean that he didn't rack his brain each night thinking of ways of raising the age limit for military acceptance to something that resembled decency or worrying about how Athena would be poisoned next after giving caution to the wind once again and going after count Veselov. It does not mean that he found it easy to allow Tamar to fight his battles or Tolya to take a bullet for him. It does not mean he enjoyed having others risk their safety to protect him and his crown.

It was after the Fete that he snapped, when Athena has once again gone too far, demonstrating more than ice sculptures or dragon waves, namely deadly aim and blood control. In the quiet of his war room, with the Triumvirate still present, with the most powerful people of this nation as witnesses, he snapped, questioning her reasons, questioning her inability to hold herself from recklessly putting a bullseye on their back. On her back. Questioning why she ought to put her life on the line each and every time, when he needed her alive.

„This is madness, erring on the side of...!" It was not like Nikolai to refuse to be daring, to choose caution over bravado and recklessness. But not when it was her. Not when the price may be her life.

„Cation offers us nothing! This is what the Fete is for, Nikolai, to prove the ambassadors that our grisha are powerful, that we have powers they could only aspire to." He could read the frustration on her face, the tiredness in her eyes, the resolute soldier that could only offer this, as if saying: I am a sword in your hands, I am a knight holding your blade, do something with it. He wished he could look at her as only a general to his army, another beautiful woman that he could never dare approach. He wished the foolish boy inside him would stay quiet about his infatuation for someone he didn't even know. Because, even if Athena was half his soul, even if their pains were their common ground, their scars mirrors of each other's, he knew nothing of her, nothing of what waited behind the mask of composure and armor of sobriety.

„And if that leads to an assassination?" And still, he would want to keep her safe, covet her from the ugliness of the world, save them both the pains of living around greed and want for power. Each time a blade grazed her tight, each time a bullet came close to her Sholder blade, each droplet of poison in her glass, each pain he felt resonating in his body, each and every of these wounds he had to hide their echo from the eyes of the world, knowing how much scrutiny a bond such as theirs would cause. He was a king and she was grisha. And if that was not enough, she was the daughter of a maniac. You can't have the good without the bad. When does the good starts, though?