✵ SWEETER THAN HONEY ― nikolai lantsov ✵

Yi

" You drew stars around my scars,

But now I'm bleeding  "

―WHEN WE ARRIVE at the copper mine near the crater where Nikolai suggested we could hide the Bittern, the only thing that all of us want to do is collapse and forget about the world. Instead, we settle for dragging ourselves out of the ship and pulling along our bags and bedrolls. Adrik has woken up, the stump that used to be his arm still bleeding a bit, but he's overall quite alright. Misha, the little boy I fell asleep next to by the hull, refuses to move, so we unfortunately have to leave him there with a few rations for when we return the next day.

I pray he'll eat, because after the last few nights speaking with him, I'm not sure if I can bear another loss.

We find a good spot in a nest beneath the overhang of the Bittern and decide that nobody should take watch, knowing that it would be futile to try to fight in our exhausted states if anyone came. Soon, everyone has dozed off, gentle snores or the occasional shift in a bedroll the only sound to be heard. Not even the faint, usual rustling of leaves is audible, and I sit on my sleeping bag and stare out at the woods in the south.

Sleep eludes me on these days I spend grieving, the times where I need it most. 

I pick at one of the threads of my bedroll and involuntarily, the image of Nikolai's self-assured grin comes to mind, the memory of the day I first met him when he was that brash, arrogant privateer with those muddy green eyes, when I knew who I was and what I wanted.

I look at my hands, my bandages caked with dried blood from my knuckles. I flex my fingers and revel in the gentle pain that jolts through the wounds.

My mind wanders off to the days I spent with my cousins, Princess Ehri and Princess Makhi. How eager I was, and how I admired them, poised in their forest green silks hemmed in gold falcons, jewels pinning their pin-straight hair up into delicate styles. How childish I was, believing that as I rambled on about moon cakes and animals the two were actually intent on listening.

"You're awake," I hear someone note, and my eyes land on Zoya, leaning back on her elbows. For once, her usual, perfect composure has been shed, all the others in deep sleep and unable to ever know.

It's something I like about being around her. The way I can make her feel comfortable, casual, even, makes me feel like I'm at least doing one thing right.

"I can't sleep," I say quietly, pulling in one of my knees and resting my chin on it. "But I know that you can after that flight. You should get some rest."

She looks away, as if saying the words pains her. "If you need someone to talk to. . ."

"Don't baby me, Zoya."

"You are quite the child on occasion."

I give her a look. She lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug, the movement graceful even in her awkward position resting back on her elbows. I look down.

"They're going to treat me like I'm weak," I whisper.

Because maybe that's what I really am is what I don't say.

"If you need someone to complain about how horrifying your hair looks you can always turn to me," Zoya reassures calmly. "Or Genya."

I let out a mirthless laugh. "Of course." After a few long moments, I look out at the woods again, seeking comfort in those repeating greens and the sway of the leaves. "Were you. . ." I swallow. "I thought I was ready. I thought I could look him in the eye, finally. But I was―I was afraid, Zoya."