Seven Witches

thirty-six

Vladimir;

He put his hand on his chest, wondering if his heart would calm any time soon. Vladimir sat on her bed as she showered, thinking about whether or not she was able to hear his heart when they had hugged. He didn't even think about what he was doing, his limbs moved on their own and then his heart fluttered away. He closed his eyes.

He could still feel her arms, the calm that washed over him in that brief moment. Vladimir fell back on the bed, staring at the candle chandelier. The sound of the water dripping came to a stop, and he froze in place, waiting for her to come out.

When she did emerge, she was dressed in a plain white dress with a robe over it, and a towel over her head. Cythera was rubbing the towel with her hair, and when she saw him she paused.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, standing and taking the towel from her hands to putting it under her hair. "You have to be quick and forceful."

Vladimir dried the bottom part of her hair and went up until he was so close to her face. She had her eyes locked at him, and he wished he could go inside her head to know what she's thinking. "You're staring," he murmured.

Cythera looked away. "I was just wondering how you are so good at drying hair,"

He put the towel on her shoulders, stepping back to sit on the bed. "Iskra used to be shy around her bathing times, because she was not used to being blind and having to stand and let the maids do everything. So for a while, I would help her," he sighed. "But then we got her a new handmaid, and while it took her some time getting used to her, she soon grew very fond of her."

Cythera sat next to him, the Tsar noticing a pale birthmark under her jaw. The silence grew between them but it was not uncomfortable or awkward, if anything, it was comforting. He remembered the report he got that day when Ivan died, her sitting by Hera's bed tears spilling into her palms to mix with the blood. He wanted it to never happen again, not if he can do something to prevent it.

Vladimir didn't know what got into him, all he knew was that he took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "Did you have a nice trip?" His head cleared enough for him to ask.

She didn't answer immediately, and when she did her words came slow. "It wasn't exactly a trip, moy Tsar,"

Moy Tsar. "You can call me Vladimir, moy Tsar is not my favourite," he suggested, leaning closer.

She leaned towards him too—a small challenge, "Well, Vladimir, if I had to describe my trip, I wouldn't call it pleasant."

The beat of his heart got harder until he was able to feel it in his throat. She was so close to him, a mischievous smile playing on her mouth. But hearing her say his name was his undoing, he brought a hand to her face, brushing away strands of her hair. "It wasn't pleasant for me either," he whispered because he did not need to be loud, their faces so close. "I missed you dearly."

For a moment none of them said anything, and he thought she would kiss him but then she pulled back, face back to being hard and unfeeling. It was as though she had remembered something and was now repulsed by him. While it was only an assumption, it made a little jab in his chest.

Cythera ran her hand over her face, sighing as she got off of the bed. Vladimir, trying to erase the flush from his cheeks, pulled out his smoking pipe from his pocket and the bottle of tobacco. As he was inserting the tobacco in the pipe, her hands came and snatched it from him. "This will make you ill,"

"I know," he said, leaning back, watching her open the drawers and closing them. "But for now I need it."

Cythera did not return the pipe to him, instead, she kept looking through the drawers. She pulled a wine bottle and two glasses from one of the bigger ones, then began to slowly pour a knuckle's length in each.