#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

carelessgraces · 3 years

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as promised ( threatened? ), the massive grishaverse info post —

HISTORY

PRE-SERIES. Witch, they called her, drüsje, but the woman paid them no mind; she smiled and bared her teeth when someone stared too long, laughed loudly and with abandon, and for all the men who whispered that she was a demon made flesh, there was one willing to test that theory — newly married, visiting his wife’s family from the Wandering Isle. For weeks they remained together, the world outside forgotten in favor of one another’s insatiable hunger, until his wife called for the drüskelle, certain that her husband had been bewitched. There was no magic; he had simply fallen in love. But Veronika knew better than to test her luck, and so she left Elling. By the time she returned to Djerholm, she knew she wasn’t traveling alone.

The child was born Asta Viktoria Grim, and she inherited her Kaelish father’s copper hair and her drüsje mother’s power. The water around her would sing to her, and even as a child, Asta found that it would do as she asked — until Veronika took her little hands one day and kissed her palms and made her promise never to tell a soul what she could do. The neighbors already looked at them strangely: Veronika had never married, and passed her own name to her daughter. She worked, maintaining the little household on her own. When the windows needed fixing, or the door creaked on its hinges, Veronika fixed it herself. The daughter, whose illegitimacy would certainly haunt her, was unlikely to grow up much different. There was no need for them to look further. There was no need for little Asta to give them anything else to look at.

For nineteen years, mother and daughter were at peace in Djerholm, despite the way the neighbors looked at them, but Asta — who had inherited her father’s temper and pride along with his hair, and who had been encouraged by her mother’s independence — wanted more. In her loneliness and naivety, she confided in a friend, who she believed would keep her secret. ( She knew it was a risk, but friends trusted one another, didn’t they? He would know she would never harm him, wouldn’t he? ) She told him she could hear Djel’s voice in the water as it danced on her fingertips. She told him she thought that perhaps drüsje could do something marvelous, and begged him to understand.

He told the drüskelle where to find her, all but brought them to her door. In an attempt to save herself — and her mother — she lashed out, strong but undisciplined. It was easy to find the water in the witch-hunter’s blood. It was easy to make that water boil.

She begged Veronika to come with her, but it would be easier to hunt two witches than one. Veronika promised to lie, to tell the drüskelle who would come looking for their brothers that she hadn’t known of her daughter’s powers, and Asta packed enough to get her through a few days and she fled. A few miles out of Djerholm, another drüskelle caught up to her, and she killed him, too, stole the coins from his pockets and the cloak from his shoulders and left his body for the wolves.

The third found her at the border, with orders to take her in alive or dead. ( And still, she survived. )

VOLKVOLNY

She wept when she set foot on Ravkan soil, and she traded the drüskelle’s cloak and coins for clean clothes and food, and when the merchant asked her name she told him it was Astoria. Asta Viktoria Grim had died in the Fjerdan snow. The coins bought her passage to Os Kervo, where she hoped to find a way onto a ship. Not forever, of course, but just long enough that the drüskelle might believe that she was dead, and give up the search.

For weeks as she traveled she thought she was safe — but they found her in Os Kervo, anticipating her next steps, and she offered herself up to the mercy of the first captain she could find at the port. He called himself Sturmhond, and the ship the Volkvolny, and he wouldn’t turn away a Tidemaker, even one being chased by drüskelle. ( She watched from the ship’s bow as they departed, and made sure the drüskelle saw one last look at the red of her hair. It didn’t matter if they thought she was dead; she was free. )

Her loyalty to the captain who saved her was unwavering, and expanded into a loyalty to the crew, to the ship, to their goals; she worked harder than she knew she was capable of working, wore each scar and callous with pride. ( When she learned pieces of the truth about the captain, she kept his secret — after all, he had kept hers, and they were all entitled to a few secrets. )

And when the captain called for volunteers to do the impossible — save the Sun Summoner, betray the Darkling, and return to Ravka — she was among the first to put forth her name.

PRE-SERIES TO SHADOW AND BONE. Astoria is an active and devoted member of the Volkvolny’s crew, deeply loyal to Sturmhond and ecstatic to be free from the drüskelle. Slowly but surely, she learns to trust the rest of the crew — with her freedom, with her safety — and tells them of her history. While on the ship, she learns to read in Ravkan, and learns conversational Kerch, but the majority of her focus and energy go into learning from the other Tidemakers on the ship. ( Her unexpected skill in boiling blood is not forgotten, or ignored. )

SIEGE AND STORM. When Sturmhond calls for volunteers in a venture that could mean death, Astoria jumps at the opportunity, emboldened to take risks and determined to repay the kindness showed to her. She aids in the battle against the Darkling, and when Sturmhond comes ashore to reveal himself as Nikolai Lantsov, Astoria remains in Ravka, offering her support. She remains as a member of Nikolai’s guard, though she acts more often as a spy, moving quietly throughout the palace whenever she can to report back to him. When the Darkling strikes, Astoria remains with Nikolai and the few escaping Grisha, including the other rogues from the Volkvolny, retreating to the Spinning Wheel.

RUIN AND RISING. After months in the Fjerdan mountains, unsure if the Sun Summoner is alive or dead, Astoria is elated to learn of Alina’s survival. She volunteers to join Tamar on the Bittern as they search for the firebird, and it’s only this that saves her when the Darkling strikes again. After the final battle, Astoria remains in the Ravkan court, taking advantage of the opportunity to formally learn about politics in the hopes of someday acting as a member of an ambassadorial team.

* Note: While this verse is built around a specific set of circumstances and assumed relationships, most notably with the crew of the Volkvolny, I am more than happy to discuss, adjust, and compromise on most things in this verse when writing with canon characters, and will not assume any relationship we haven’t discussed. Built with either my own Nikolai and serendpitous’ Alina in mind, or clpdwings’ Nikolai, these are the versions of the characters I’m referencing in any character development posts.

SECOND ARMY

A miscalculation prevented Asta from crossing the border near Arkesk and instead sent her further east. Despite her exhaustion she managed the impossible — she survived. Chased into Ulensk, she managed to avoid detection only briefly before she was found by the drüskelle hunting her.

Fear of a Fjerdan invasion — and whispers of a terrorized Grisha girl trying to keep herself alive — prompted the soldiers stationed at Ulensk to send word to the Little Palace. The Darkling and his modest force found her covered in blood and dirt, dead drüskelle behind her and more to come, and protected her. When asked her name she said Astoria — and when told she would be brought to safety in the Little Palace, her power encouraged and sharpened, she was overjoyed.

She wept when she saw her kefta. ( She would never be powerless again. )

Training amongst other Tidemakers to hone her skill with water, and taught by senior Heartrenders to better hear and manipulate the water in the blood, Astoria’s power — raw, but significant — grew, became deadlier. As one of the many the Darkling had saved she was loyal without question or condition; as a woman who had been hunted, who would never be hunted again, she was quickly identified as a true believer in the Darkling’s cause.

Even the arrival of the Sun Summoner — a saint, a gift, a promise of something better — didn’t sway her loyalty to the Darkling, to his mission, to the Grisha.

PRE-SERIES TO SHADOW AND BONE. Astoria’s power, straddling the line between Etherealki and Corporalki, becomes more focused with time and training. As she spends more time in the Little Palace and learns more of Ravkan politics, she becomes more critical of the Lantsov king and his attitude towards Grisha — and becomes easy to identify as a potential believer in the Darkling’s cause. One of many recruited to the effort, she firmly supports the moves made to dethrone the King, and to subdue the Lantsov forces. When the Darkling expands the Fold into Novokribirsk, she swallows any discomfort she feels at the news — how many Grisha died screaming because they were so desperately feared? how many would be saved with this show of power? — and after his return she joined him in his search for the Sun Summoner.

SIEGE AND STORM. One of the Tidemakers brought aboard the commissioned ship, Astoria witnesses the creation of a second amplifier firsthand, and only becomes more certain in her belief in the Darkling’s goals. She remains on the ship, searching for Sturmhond and his crew, and when they fail to locate Sturmhond and Alina Starkov, she helps navigate Fjerda to launch an attack on the Grand Palace from the North. ( Her memory is sharp, and she remembers the way to Ulensk through the ice and the snow. ) After the Lantsov line is driven out, she remains in the service of the Darkling, slowly becoming one of his favored guards for her ruthlessness and her quick action.

RUIN AND RISING. Astoria’s knowledge of Fjerda proves useful again. Present for the attack on the Spinning Wheel, she is one of many to witness Baghra’s death, and the Sun Summoner’s escape. She joins the march on Keramzin, determined to protect the children brought there and to bring them home to safety, and when the Darkling returns to the Fold to meet Alina there, she remains with the children as their guardian. After the battle, she remains at the Little Palace, watched closely by Zoya and the rest of the Grisha Triumverate, until it’s clear that her dedication to the Grisha as a whole will win out over any political alliances. Once she’s determined to not pose a threat, she volunteers to join excursions outside Ravka to find Grisha on the run and bring them to safety.

* Note: While this verse is built around a specific set of circumstances and assumed relationships, most notably with the Darkling as a leader, I am more than happy to discuss, adjust, and compromise on most things in this verse when writing with canon characters, and will not assume any relationship we haven’t discussed. Built with my own Darkling and Zoya in mind, and unless otherwise specified, these are the versions of the character I’m referencing in any character development posts.

KETTERDAM

She crosses the border in Arkesk and buys passage to Kerch, desperate to get as far from Fjerda as she can with her limited resources. When she reaches Ketterdam she uses the last of her money to pay for three weeks’ lodging, and she settles in to observe, determined to learn the lay of the land and determine the safest place she could be, and after weeks of deliberation ( and quiet, careful watching ) Astoria approaches Per Haskell of the Dregs.

The Fifth Harbor is promising. So, too, is its savior. Astoria offers an indenture of her own design — something guaranteed to keep her in Per Haskell’s employ for at least the next decade — and her services as a grisha. As a Tidemaker, she can help bring shipments to safety, though Per Haskell is more interested in her ability to manipulate water in the body to boil blood. He agrees, with the promise that if she is of no use to him, she won’t be given access to his protection any longer.

Astoria gets to work — starting with the Black Tips. A months-long affair with Elzinger leads to information: places where they think the Dregs’ control of their territory is vulnerable, plans to intercept shipments, even calculated attacks. ( Men talk. She listens. She finds that wide eyes and a thicker accent tend to help make her seem less threatening. )

After eight months, nearly a million kruge saved, and a parley that nearly ends with Elzinger killing her in his fury at her betrayal, Astoria secures her future, with Per Haskell and the Dregs as her salvation.

PRE SERIES. Proving her worth to the Dregs is difficult, but she manages — the affair with Elzinger gives her an in, and she refuses to waste it. Her role as Per Haskell’s spy morphs somewhat as she becomes known in Ketterdam for her allegiances and for her willingness to kill to protect herself and her newfound family. ( Betraying Per Haskell in a parley becomes far more dangerous when he arrives with his witch in tow. ) She works rarely with the Crows, though she keeps a careful eye on Kaz’s bold moves, and whenever he’s in need of a grisha’s service she’s among the first to volunteer.

SIX OF CROWS. When Per Haskell learns of Kaz’s plans for the Ice Court, he recommends Astoria to join the team. As a Tidemaker she can help secure safe passage to Fjerda; as a Fjerdan refugee she can help navigate the climate and the landscape, as well as the language; as a woman willing to kill, she’s a help in a tight spot. Kaz ( reluctantly ) agrees, intending to make use of Astoria’s skills and her willingness to strike a blow against the Fjerdan state in retribution for what’s been done to her.

CROOKED KINGDOM. Under construction as I read!

* Note: While this verse is built around a specific set of circumstances and assumed relationships, most notably with the Dregs, I am more than happy to discuss, adjust, and compromise on most things in this verse when writing with canon characters, and will not assume any relationship we haven’t discussed. Built with clpdwings’ Kaz and Matthias in mind, these are the versions of the characters I’m referencing in any character development posts.

GENERAL CANON NOTES

I follow a combination of book and show canon. I’m happy to compromise on most elements, but as a general note, this is my default:

Show ages. Alina and Mal are in their early twenties; Genya, Zoya, and presumably Nikolai, are in their mid-late twenties; the Crows are in their early-mid twenties. Overall, I think this makes more sense than everyone being teenagers.

Show characterization. I tend to assume show characterization for the Darkling — I think he’s more dimensional and more compelling in the show, and also a much more frightening villain. I will absolutely defer to any Darkling I write with, but this is my assumption when writing with other characters.

The exception to this is in the Darkling’s interactions with Genya; since I use my own Darkling and Genya as default, unless writing with either of these characters, I default to the characterization in S&B and “The Tailor,” in which the Darkling intended for Genya to be a spy but was more than willing to protect her when he learned of the King’s abuse.

Show and book plot. I like the blending of the kidnapping plot with S&B’s plot in the book, as well as the added political elements ( West Ravka seeking independence & General Zlatan ). I’ll default to book plots, as influenced by the show, for anything past S&B.

I’m still in the process of reading the series — I’m starting Crooked Kingdom for the first time — and so SOC / CK verses will be developed as I read, and Astoria’s post-R&R verses may change as I read KOS / ROW. Please feel free to let me know if I’ve made any mistakes with later plot !!

VERSE WISHLIST

Some dynamics and plots I’d love to explore —

Astoria and Fjerdans. Especially Astoria’s friendship with the boy who betrayed her to the drüskelle, meeting again when Astoria is in the Second Army. The two of them navigating the aftermath of such a significant betrayal, particularly if one of them is saving the other / if they have to rely on one another. This person being the only one who calls her Asta and her equal parts homesickness and anger at hearing it.

Astoria and the crew of the Volkvolny. Sturmhond, absolutely, but everyone else on the Volkvolny, as Astoria starts to figure out who she is and what she’s capable of when she’s no longer bound by shame and grief surrounding her power and her history.

Astoria returning to Fjerda. As an ambassador, to save her mother, whatever, I just want Astoria going home and dealing with the fact that it’ll only ever be temporary.

Astoria in the Little Palace, training. Training with Tidemakers, training with Heartrenders, becoming a True Believer, all of it.

IMPORTANT NOTES ON THE VERSE

Gen. notes, Astoria in the Second Army

Gen. notes, Astoria on the Volkvolny

Gen. notes, Astoria in Ketterdam

Astoria and Fjerda

Astoria and her mother ( feat. Astoria and Fjerdan concepts of womanhood / her Ravkan alliances as rejections of Fjerda & Astoria’s family )

Astoria and monstrosity

#v. but if you must be clever‚ then be clever. be brave. sleep with fists closed and shoot straight. ( grishaverse | volkvolny )#v. life is sly and unscrupulous. in service to itself it will commit any offense. ( grishaverse | second army )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#i. you never hear of anyone storming a castle on a wednesday. ( character development )#( mobile info )#iv. actually... i'm gonna go with the fame and fortune. ( wishlist )#(dang this took DAYS i'm v proud of it and now you all have to see it and be proud w/ me)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@clpdwings said: five times kissed for matthias ( my favorite meme of all time | accepting )

one.

She is suspended from the ceiling of her cell, hands bound, the chains hanging from a hook dangling above the drain in the floor. Her feet just barely reach the floor, her weight balanced precariously on the balls of her feet, and she knows there will come a point — if not tonight, then still, soon — when she loses the strength to keep herself held up. The weight of her body will pull her arms from their sockets, and she will be in agony, too much to do anything even if they free her hands. She knows, too, that the drain in the floor is there to contain the mess, should they decide to simply bleed her dry.

She’s clever enough to be frightened. She’s clever enough to know that no matter how much she trusts that Matthias will come back for her, there are a thousand things that could go wrong. He could be killed. He could be prevented. It could come down to her or getting Bo Yul-Bayur, to her or his pardon, and she couldn’t blame him for making the choice that saves his own life, sentimentality be damned. ( Hasn’t that been the point she’s been making since they met? Not to apologize for survival? )

He could decide that coming back for a drüsje, that coming back for her, simply isn’t worth the trouble. Perhaps this is his way back in, pardon or no. Could she blame him for that, either? ( If the roles were reversed, would she do it to him? )

There are footsteps coming down the hall, a key turning in the lock. The blood at the corners of her mouth has dried, and her cheek aches from where Kaz struck her — she should have anticipated how much it would hurt when she asked him to make it look convincing, and how much every inch of her would hurt in a cell like this one. The scrape of metal on metal is excruciating, echoing thunderously off the white walls, and Astoria bites down nervously on the inside of her uninjured cheek, until she’s drawn blood.

Maybe it’s Matthias.

The man who comes in is young, younger than her by a few years, broad-shouldered and clean-shaven. He hasn’t caught his first witch yet, she notes with some satisfaction. He’ll no doubt do less damage than his better-trained counterparts. He looks almost familiar, for a moment, stormy eyes and sharp cheekbones reaching into her memory to dredge up something, something at which her mind rebels —

— she’s nineteen years old and he is hovering over her, a knife aimed at her chest, and she sees flecks of her own blood in his beard and something like pride in his eyes as he swings down with the blade and she watches his eyes widen with terror when he realizes she has her hands thrust against his chest and that his body temperature is rising, rising —

— her own eyes widen and the drüskelle lets out a grunt of approval. “You recognize me?” he asks, and she swallows, hard. “Do I look much like my brother?”

“Not much,” she says with a bravery she doesn’t feel, “but try killing an unarmed teenage girl, and maybe I’ll see the resemblance.”

He raises a hand to bring down across her face and she spits at him, blood and saliva finding its mark in his face; he wipes it away with a sound of disgust and hits her, probably harder than he’d initially intended, and then he’s on her, a hand over her mouth, the other hand holding a knife to her throat.

Matthias should be here. This isn’t how it went. Any moment now he’ll come through the door and he’ll help me.

But there’s no savior, no help, nothing but the sharp agony of the blade beginning to move —

— she wakes with a yelp, a hand flying to her throat, and immediately she feels an arm tightening around her middle and movement at her back. The ship rocks soothingly, as if the water is trying to reach up to comfort her, and behind her, Matthias wakes, exhausted but alert all the same. He sits up to get a good look at her, reaches for the hand at her throat, and she rolls over to face him and offers him a tired, apologetic smile.

“Nightmare,” she says softly, “I’m fine, really — ”

No doubt he understands. She’s certain that he has had plenty of his own since arriving at Hellgate, since his family’s death. Matthias brushes his fingers lightly against her jaw, settling back down beside her.

“You are alright?” he asks warily, his voice husky with sleep, and she nods, moves her hand from her neck. She strokes the backs of her fingers across his cheekbone, affection swelling in her chest.

“I promise. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“’s fine,” he says, and he yawns. “Do you need anything?”

For Nina to be safe. For Kaz to get their money. For Kuwei to be what they need him to be. “No, nothing. If I’m disturbing your sleep and you’d rather go elsewhere, I won’t be offended.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then I will stay.”

He says it with such authority, such certainty; he turns onto his back and pulls her closer so she can rest her head on his shoulder, his arm around her and holding her tightly to him, one of his hands holding hers over his chest, his nose tucked against her hair. The muddy brown of her Tailored hair has already begun to fade, and her roots have returned to their natural red, and she feels herself, now, even like this, even wrapped around him.

A few weeks ago he would have been the enemy. Now, it’s the memory of him reaching her in time, of him coming back for her that chases away the fear.

He drops a kiss to the top of her head before falling asleep. She watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, listens to the rhythm of his breathing. ( Like the sea under her ear. Comforting. Welcoming. ) Careful not to wake him, she brings their joined hands to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, scabbed over from disabling the drüskelle who’d thought to cut her throat.

She sleeps soundly, only wakes again in the morning while he’s still asleep beneath her and she has, in the night, wound every limb around him. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so safe.

two.

“We’ll have to get you some clothes,” she says, moving around the room that’s been given to him with the surety of someone who’s known him for years. “Something flattering. I have some books in Fjerdan; take them. I’ll buy them in Kerch, I need the practice anyway — ”

Amused, Matthias takes a seat on his bed and watches her as she brushes the dust from the windowsills and tries to rub out a smudge on the glass with her sleeve. One of the stray cats that’s taken a liking to her sits in the doorway, glaring daggers at him, but the other has been weaving eagerly around his ankles since his arrival, perhaps sensing his importance to Astoria, or, more likely, certain that she’s found someone else to dupe into sharing their supper.

“She’s dangerous,” Astoria warns, pointing at the cat, who blinks her beautiful green eyes up at her. “She’s tricky enough that she makes Kaz seem honest.”

“What does she intend to take from me?” Matthias asks pleasantly, reaching down to scratch behind her ears.

“Your time. Your pillow. Any meat that hasn’t been seasoned much.”

“I will be cautious,” he promises solemnly, scratching under her chin while she purrs. He looks up at Astoria, then looks around the room, his expression neutral. It’s better than Hellgate, she’s sure, though she doubts he likes it much; the Slat is hardly known for its decor or its luxury.

“It’s not much,” she says, as if in apology, “but you’re one of us, and this is the safest place for you.”

“And this is where you live, as well?”

“Yes. I’m just down the hall, around the corner.”

He holds a hand out for her and she takes it, stepping obediently closer when he tugs lightly; the cat bolts from the room at this, though her sister remains to stare haughtily at them from the open doorway. As soon as she’s within reach, Matthias looks up at her — even sitting, he’s nearly her height, and she thinks this must be the first time he won’t pull a muscle looking at her with a foot between them. Astoria’s hands make their way to his shoulders as his own settle against her sides, his touch careful, almost reverent.

“And do you intend to spend much time there alone?” he asks, rather pleasantly, and he smiles up at her, warm, boyish, joyful.

“I’m going to be honest,” she says, and has her throat been so dry all night? “I don’t stand a chance when you look at me like that.”

She moves to kneel on the bed astride him, waiting until he’s given permission for her to settle into his lap. His hands tighten against her sides to hold her in place.

“How else am I to look at you?” he asks, still smiling, and she slips her hands up to curl against the curve of his neck.

“It wasn’t a complaint,” she promises. “I like this very much.”

She presses a kiss, careful and lingering, to his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and his hands flex against her sides. “You didn’t answer my question,” he points out, and she laughs.

“I’ll be here as often as you’ll have me,” she tells him, “and the rest of the time I’ll expect you in my room with me. I liked waking with you, on the Ferolind. I don’t see much reason we shouldn’t continue.”

She bows her head to kiss the corner of his jaw and she lets out a huff of laughter against his skin when he shivers. Tenderly, she brushes her lips over his, the gentlest ghost of a kiss. She thinks she’d like to memorize him and to start with his face, the clear ice of his eyes and the generous curve of his lower lip and the warmth of his breath against her skin when he looks up at her like this —

— there’s a knock on his door and the mewl of a disgruntled cat being displaced from the doorway, and then Jesper’s voice behind them, sounding thrilled. “Kaz wants to see us,” he says, and there’s something of an ecstatic child in his tone, as if he’s caught them doing something spectacularly scandalous. “I can tell him you’re busy — I’d love to tell him you’re busy — ”

Matthias lets out a sigh and bows his head, rests his forehead against her shoulder. Astoria clears her throat. “We’ll be up in a moment.”

“Really,” Jesper insists, “I can tell him you’re preoccupied, I’m sure he’ll understand...”

“We should have left you in Fjerda,” she tells him, and Jesper leaves, crowing all the way. Beneath her, Matthias lets out a little huff of laughter as his hands fall to her hips, eyes still on hers, as if he’s waiting for instruction.

“Later,” she promises, and she climbs, however reluctantly, out of his lap. “Now that we know where to find each other.”

He stands with her, one of his hands catching hers. He hesitates in the doorway as they move to the hall, and she can’t help but smile. It isn’t the Ice Court, but it’s not Hellgate, either. It’s something. It’s something.

“Welcome home,” she says, and he squeezes her hand before following her to Kaz’s office.

three.

The night is never quite silent in the Fifth Harbor. She’d opened the window in the hopes of relieving the evening’s sticky heat hours before, and the noise of people going about their lives outside the Slat trickles in like a steady rain. Laughter, off-key drinking songs, the click of a pair of heeled boots on the crooked cobblestone — but they hardly notice that, any more than they notice the temperature. It could be because they’ve cast off the blanket from her bed, dropped in a pile with their clothes. He’s spent the last twenty minutes admiring the tattoo on her side, tracing the details with his finger — once, with his tongue, and he’d looked pleased with himself when it drew a delighted whine from the back of her throat. She has her knees bent on either side of him while he hovers over her abdomen, one of her hands carding idly through his hair, the other hanging from the side of her bed.

Well. Their bed, she supposes, considering that she hasn’t spent a night alone in it since their return from Fjerda, though putting it to such enthusiastic use is still new. Astoria absolutely cannot get enough of him; the sight of his hands or the tone of his voice are enough to leave her distracted to the point of uselessness, and Kaz has already grown frustrated with them more times than she can count. “He’s a cranky old man,” Astoria had teased last week, and Matthias, in his fathomless compassion, had shrugged.

“If you were not with me, I would be, too,” he’d said, and she’d melted at that. The water hears and understands, and the ice forgives anything, even Kaz’s foul moods, when he turns those eyes on her.

Tonight he’s thinking of the past, and the future they won’t have in the land they call home. “I am not your first,” he says, and he doesn’t look bothered by it.

“No. My first wanted to marry me. Did I tell you about him?”

A lesser man might be intimidated by the mention, but Matthias only shakes his head and folds his hands over her stomach, resting his chin there so he can watch her as she speaks.

“His name was Jani. His parents thought we were a poor match but he was smitten. Something something the color of my hair the color of my eyes. I was seventeen. He went through the motions, courted me for over a year, and my mother adored him, and I thought I was in love with him.”

“Thought?”

“I’m rethinking a lot of things these days.”

He looks pleased at that, too. Astoria’s hand slips from his hair, and she strokes her fingers across his cheekbone. “But you did not marry him.”

“No. He asked me the morning days after and I told him no.”

“Did he know about — ?”

“What I can do? No. I wanted to tell him a thousand times but I could never bring myself to do it. Even if he still wanted me after that, what would happen if we had children and they were like me? It would endanger them. It would endanger him. And — truth be told, I didn’t imagine he would want me after that. If I couldn’t trust him with that, what good would a marriage be?”

“I see.”

“Then there was a sailor on the ship that brought me to Ketterdam. I was curious. It was underwhelming. I spent eight months with Elzinger in the Black Tips — ”

“Eight months?”

“Well, he didn’t tell me anything for a while. They were moving on our territory, and Per Haskell still wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to keep me. I saved us a million kruge in those eight months. We lost a few small skirmishes, so as to not tip him off, but it was worth it.”

“And he thought you loved him?”

“He thought I was fool enough to betray the Dregs because I batted my eyelashes.”

“You bat your eyelashes at me.”

“Do you think there’s anything I’d choose over you?”

Her fingers fall to his lips, and he presses a kiss to her fingertips.

“I never spent the night with him; I never wanted him to see me vulnerable. He never knew what I could do. I never told him my name. I would never have trusted him to come back for me in the Ice Court, and I had eight months with him. I’d had a couple of weeks with you by then and I still didn’t hesitate. When you know, you know.”

“Any others?”

“None who took me to bed, but my first love was named Eirik and he stole an entire cake for me when we were four years old. His family moved away not long after that. It was the start of a lifelong love affair with criminality. And, cakes be damned, you’re still my favorite.”

With a swiftness that she never quite expects he moves up her body, gently pins her wrists together over her head with one hand, his other hand settling at her side and covering her tattoo. She’s practically purring at this, knees bracketing his hips, lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes on his and utterly adoring.

“You are the whole of my heart,” she tells him, honest, open, sincere. “Anything good in me is because of you.”

For a long moment he watches her, and then he bows his head to kiss her collarbone, her shoulder, her throat, her mouth.

( They hear her outside, too, if they listen, and there is something holy in the spoken litany of his name. )

four.

"We could leave.”

“Where would we go that they would not follow?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be at war with Ravka? Or almost at war? Where are they finding the time for this?” Her hands won’t stop trembling, and she can hear the hysterical edge to her voice. It’s still we; Fjerda has burrowed into their bones and doesn’t seem willing to leave them be. “We’ll go to Novyi Zem. Or the Wandering Isle. Ravka will take us, if we disguise you. Or I’ll march into the Ice Court again myself and I’ll tear Jarl Brum’s head from his body if he so much as thinks your name.”

To his credit, Matthias doesn’t seem particularly concerned by the violent turn of her thoughts; he’s too used to her to be surprised by it, and too fond of her to be troubled.

“I don’t want you alone until they’re gone.”

“You are, surely, in as much danger from them as I am.”

“With one exception, my love — you have qualms about killing them. I do not.”

She wants to go home. To the green house in Djerholm, to a little cottage in the Kaelish countryside, to a flat in Zierfoort, to anywhere that isn’t here.

“Could you bear to leave the others now?”

“For you? Unquestionably.” And she would, too, gladly, but the Crows are under threat, too, and no matter how much she is willing to abandon for Matthias’ sake, Astoria knows that the guilt of it would eat at her.

“Astoria.”

“I would hate it but I would do it.”

“Astoria.”

“Don’t! Don’t ask me not to be frightened, don’t ask me not to be concerned — I cannot bear losing you. Do you understand me? I have survived every loss. My home, my mother, my freedom. Everything that’s been taken from me, everything I’ve given up, I have lived through it, but this is intolerable to me. This is one loss too many. So if it comes to you or the Dregs, you know the choice I’ll make.”

He stands and he crosses the room to reach her, taking her hands in his when he reaches her and holding them together. “Then tell me what you need.”

“You. Safe. Don’t go anywhere alone until they’re gone. Get Kaz to agree to have them watched until they leave. No risks. No attention. And if they make a move against you, please, please, I’m begging you, don’t be so fucking moral about it. Ask yourself what I would do and then do it.”

She wants to go home.

“Kaz will listen to you before me,” he says quietly, “but the rest, we can discuss. And we can try. Together.”

She’s already home. Here, in the little room in the Slat where she wakes up beside someone who loves her. Here, with him.

Astoria pushes herself onto her toes and grabs him by the shirtfront, pulls him to her to kiss him, reckless, hungry. Matthias’ arms snake around her and he fists a hand in her hair and he holds her as close as he can.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she breathes when he pulls back. “Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks. Promise me you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”

“I will come home,” he says, “to you.”

It will have to be enough. For now, it will have to be enough.

five.

She is frozen before him, the red of his blood a vicious contrast against the fabric of his shirt, and when she reaches for him, he falls away from her, just out of reach, just too far. No matter how desperately she fights it she is paralyzed by her own fear, and she hears someone scream, and she notes with a passive sort of awareness that she’s hearing her own voice.

She needs to get to him. She can stop the bleeding. She can find a way to draw the bullet out and close the wound, at least until a proper medik arrives. But her body moves with a will of its own and she turns to the boy, the boy with his gun, and she screams again, but this time it’s animal, feral, furious. The scream shreds her throat and her hands snap up in front of her and she twists them and twists them until he’s on his knees and begging for mercy while his eyes roll back and his skin reddens and a sweat blooms —

— he falls back with a sickening ( satisfying ) thud and only then can she turn to Matthias, his breath coming in short and pained gasps, his hands reaching for her. “I’m here,” she tells him. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Ast — ”

“Don’t talk. Don’t. I can fix this. I can fix this. Fuck. Fuck. Just — just give me a minute, I know what to do...”

Her quivering hands move to his wound but she can’t hear the song in his blood anymore. It’s too faint, it’s just out of reach, as though there’s something impenetrable between them. Her fury. Her rage. The boy is dead behind her, precious moments lost to a revenge that serves no one, Matthias least of all.

“Matthias. I can’t find it. The water. I can’t find it. I need — I can slow the bleeding, I can, I can, I swear, you just need to help me — ” But his breathing grows fainter and his grip on her sleeve loosens and the blood won’t stop, the blood won’t stop.

His hand falls. She screams again, this time in frustration, and she shakes her head. There’s something wet on her face. Blood? No. Tears. They’re blurring her vision, but it doesn’t matter because she can’t hear the song in his blood, she can’t hear Djel anymore — stupid girl, playing god, can’t save your country, can’t save your mother, can’t save yourself, can’t save the only thing in your miserable life that means anything —

“Don’t,” she begs, “please, please. I need you. We need to go back. We need to make things right.”

Precious time lost to rage, her rage, and now when he opens his mouth to speak she can’t even hear the sound of her own name.

If loving someone were enough to fend off death she could save him, she knows, but he slips away from her all the same, cold under her hands —

— the space beside her, where he should be, is cold, is empty —

— why is the space beside her empty?

She sits up with a cry, looking around wildly for him, but the room is dark and her eyes need a moment to adjust, but even a moment is too long. Her breath catches in her throat and her heart pounds in her chest as if it means to split her in two, and her hands are shaking her hands won’t stop shaking until she feels a dip in the bed beside her and familiar hands catching hers.

“I’m here. Look at me.”

He’s warm when he touches her, warm and alive and real. ( She let the boy run. She slowed his heartbeat and lowered the temperature of his body so he wouldn’t bleed out while she held him. He asked her to promise to bury her in Fjerda, and she told him that they’d be buried together, decades from now, returned to Djel hand in hand. She let the boy run. )

Matthias’ hands move to cup her face with impossible tenderness, and he presses his lips to her forehead. “You were only dreaming.”

( She let the boy run. )

One of her shaking hands flies to the scar that marks where she’d dug out the bullet with her own fingers. She lets out a laugh, exhausted, relieved, and she lets her eyes meet his now that she’s certain he’s truly there.

“I got up to open the window. I’m here.”

“Shouldn’t I be comforting you?” she asks hoarsely, and she curls her hands around his wrists. “You’re the one who was shot.”

“And you do,” he insists, “but tonight, you need looking after.”

She brings his hands together and she bows her head, presses a kiss to each palm, to the backs of his fingers, to the steady thrum of his pulse in his wrists.

( She dropped to her knees beside him and got to work at once. The anger didn’t come until later, and she could have gone searching for the boy — could have torn the city apart to find him — but she stayed by his side until he opened his eyes again and smiled up at her, exhausted, pained, but alive. She let the boy run. )

She’ll miss the Slat, but she thinks they’ll return sooner than later. Word has it that her mother is in Elling, these days, living under a different name. As much as she loathes the idea of a hound keeping them company, she thinks she can grow to love even a wolf, so long as it’s a part of him. Kaz has, reluctantly, agreed to keep an eye on the cats while they’re gone, on the condition that it isn’t a permanent relocation. She expects that the cats will be handed off to Jesper and Wylan within the first week. They’ll have some time adjusting to Trassel. She has no doubt they’ll find him.

( She’d like to marry him near Halmhend. His parents, she’s sure, would have disapproved of a drüsje for a bride, but if they cannot be there themselves, then they deserve to be close. She intends to ask him the moment they reach Elling, the moment they touch Fjerdan soil. They haven’t followed tradition and she hasn’t completed any rituals, and good Fjedan girls don’t do the asking, but she’s really only ever good for him. )

( After all, she let the boy run. )

“We need sleep,” she says, and she yawns, as if her body agrees. “We leave in less than twelve hours. You’re still sure you want this?”

“I do. And you?”

“More than I can say. Tell me again where we’ll go from Elling.”

He simply looks at her for a long moment before he leans forward to kiss her, with no consideration for what she’s sure is the beginnings of her morning breath. Her hand settles over the scar again and she is overcome by sorrow, by relief, by hope. When he pulls back from her his eyes settle on hers with a deep, profound affection, and he settles in bed beside her, waiting until she’s curled up against his chest and he’s begun playing with her hair before he speaks.

“From Elling, we’ll send your mother back to Ketterdam first, and we’ll turn our attention east — “

She falls asleep to the rumble of his voice and the rise and fall of his breath and the promise of a future.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( matthias helvar )#iii. until i wrap myself inside your arms i cannot rest. ( matthias x astoria )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#(i didn't proofread bc i'm VERY tired so excuse any typos - i'll fix anything i find in the morning)#(but i got inspired at 1am and got out my laptop again to finish this so here u go)#(anyway did you know i love them)#tw: death #tw: blood #tw: gore #(if you need me to change anything lmk !!!)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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since this is where i live now, a few little notes abt astoria in ketterdam —

she doesn’t get the poppy-and-rose sleeve, but she does get the flowers on her back, and the snake in flowers on her left side. those are tattoos that can be covered by most clothing, and that makes her less easily identifiable if she can hide the crow-and-cup tattoo on her right arm.

she loves those tattoos, though. absolutely loves them.

she tends to dress relatively conservatively in terms of the amount of skin showing — this also keeps her tattoos and identifying scars hidden — but she prefers her clothing to be very form-fitting. when she’s home, she’s comfortable showing more skin.

she’s not a crow and she always feels like a bit of an interloper if she’s working with them. kaz is fine; she’s happy to work with him, and she appreciates how unattached he is, because he’s one of the only people in ketterdam not trying to sell something to her. of the crows pre-soc, inej is her unquestioned favorite.

her relationship with per haskell is a good one, though. she’s good at getting information, because she can seem sweet and soft-spoken and therefore unthreatening. she proves her use to him by getting involved with one of the black tips for a solid eight months.

she almost feels bad about it; it’s eight months of her sneaking off to see him and “letting slip” little pieces of information that mean that the dregs lose some money. but it’s worth it in the end; he trusts astoria and tells her enough that she can report it back to per haskell. they’re able to prevent the black tips from moving in on the fifth harbor, one of many attempts that leads to the parley at the beginning of the book. her lover is furious with her when she’s present with per haskell to prevent it. she almost feels bad, but doesn’t quite manage it.

she delivers information to per haskell that she gets in this way, and in various other ways — and she’s good at getting people to say more than they’d like, good at getting people to feel like they’re the only person in the world who matters and that she’s fascinated by them. she’s also very good at seeming like a pretty little idiot and listening when people start to talk.

one way she does this is playing up the fjerdan accent. it makes her seem interesting, and it makes it seem like she struggles more with the language than she does.

her intent is not to buy herself out of the indenture quickly. if anything, she’s considering bargaining to extend it: so long as she’s valuable to the dregs, they have reason to want her alive.

she’s good for anything that requires ships, too — and she loves being on a ship — and, in a pinch, for extracting information in less uh scrupulous ways. she’s good at a bit of torture, she’s great in a fight in close quarters, and after per haskell sees her borderline-heartrending in action, she’s less and less able to play up pretty little idiot because she’s present for more and more, almost like she’s a favored weapon. it’s part of why per haskell is willing to continue to parley rather than to strike: you’d have to be very stupid or very bold, or both, to make a move against someone who boils blood as her go-to, even if she uses that pretty rarely.

she’s fairly hedonistic, but she doesn’t revel in it quite as much as she normally would, because there’s not much denying her, or that she denies herself. and while she gets along with plenty of the dregs, she doesn’t have any particularly close friends; this lasts for years. she knows trusting anyone in the gang is foolish, and so she keeps everyone at arm’s length. by the start of soc, she’s fairly lonely, and pretty starved for real intimacy.

there are a couple of stray cats who stay with her in the slat; they followed her home one day and just never left. they have fairly free reign of the building, but they prefer to sleep on her bed, curled up at her feet or on her pillow. if she’s gone for any amount of time, she leaves the door to her bedroom open, and if there’s anything that she doesn’t want nicked or gone through by the others, she leaves it with per haskell.

per haskell recommends her for the ice court heist for three reasons: first, she’s fjerdan, and can not only speak the language fluently but can help navigate the landscape coming into and out of djerholm, since she fled the city herself years before. second, she’s a tidemaker first and foremost, and will be able to help keep them safer surrounded by that much water and ice, and will be able to help them on the ferolind. third, she’s good in a crisis, which means she’s good at killing people. it’s a risk, if anyone’s reported back that she survived crossing the border, but it’s a worthwhile risk; if she’s too much trouble, they can just let her get arrested and use that as a distraction. astoria’s very aware of this and does not mind. she’s getting bored, by that point, and is eager enough to see fjerda again that it’s worth the risk.

when pressed to choose between per haskell and kaz, she will choose kaz — not out of any hatred for per haskell, but because she prefers to choose the winning side, and if she’s gone with them to the ice court, then she’s even a little fond of kaz.

also: if she’s not using her power, she’ll defend herself with a stiletto she keeps on her person at all times. she also knows how to shoot, and prefers a rifle to a pistol, but can shoot both. as always, if she’s ever in a fistfight with someone, and she’s not using her power, there is a zero percent chance she’ll win unless she fights VERY dirty.

( part two )

#i. she had a marvelous time ruining everything. ( about )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#(the best thing abt this duology is that i'm getting to imagine astoria decked out like a steampunk heroine and i'm thriving)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@clpdwings said: “ i practice the art of ‘pull his shirt over his head and punch till you see blood’. ” for damien!

Her back is killing her. Which, to be fair, makes sense — she fell asleep sitting upright, and woke up leaned forward, her head pillowed on folded arms and her corset unlaced by someone else’s hands. Damien, at least, was awake, and she’d been so grateful for it she didn’t notice for several minutes that her corset had fallen into her lap, and that the chemise underneath it was stained so thoroughly with blood she’d never be able to tell the original color again. Her own injuries were all superficial — scrapes and bruises here and there, bloody more for their position than their depth — and she feels a surge of shame when she comes into his room once she’s bathed, wearing one of Wylan’s shirts and a pair of his trousers, hair drying at her back, and sees the state he’s in.

Jesper casts her a knowing look before he steps out of the room, and she almost regrets the conversation they’d had in the hour before she’d finally fallen asleep. ( He’d figured it out; he always does. She’s grateful for him and frightened by him in equal measure, in moments like these. ) Damien’s cleaned up, too, his lanky body still injured, and he’s tall enough that only Jesper could have loaned the clothes to fit him. He looks better in his borrowed shirt than she does in hers; Wylan’s sleeves fall past her hands and have had to be rolled up too many times, and even her formidable skill couldn’t force the shirt into a more flattering fit. What a pair they are. Astoria moves across the room without saying a word, though she offers him a small, hesitant smile, and she’s stricken breathless when he smiles in return, bright and brilliant despite their circumstances.

It takes her a moment to remember herself, and she closes the remaining distance between them, bare feet padding across the floor and fingers flexing at her sides. When she’s beside him again she sits gingerly on the bed, facing him, and she reaches one ( trembling ) hand to tilt his face toward her so she can get a good look at him. Her healing is fine — nothing remarkable, but fine — and it’ll do for now, the palm of her free hand pressing lightly against the swelling around his eye. “Sorry,” she says quietly, certain it must hurt, “just give it a moment — ” She’d been too drained to heal anything last night, though she’d tried. Now, her palm cools, and the swelling starts, slowly, to lessen. She’s silent until she’s finished the task, and she lets the hand on his jaw fall, the hand over his eye moving to rest carefully against his cheek, thumb brushing against the cheekbone.

“We should talk about last night,” she says, voice soft, and she should be smarter than this. He hasn’t been particularly responsive to the flirtation, hasn’t given her any reason to think she’s not alone in being a fool. ( She’ll talk to Kaz. Apologize for her idiocy. Tell her he’s right, she can’t be trusted, and ask him to put her on the first ship to Novyi Zem so she can make herself useful with the jurda shipments for a change. He’ll be furious with her, but he’ll forgive her eventually, and maybe she can put this behind her. ) “I believe my exact words, sweet thing, were do not be a hero, and practice the art of subtlety?”

Damien looks particularly unrepentant, even as he leans into the touch; he may not reciprocate whatever affection she’s allowed herself to develop, but he is perpetually hungry for attention, for touch, and she provides whenever she can. So much for the Dregs’ fearless lieutenant, untouchable, immovable: the lady of the house is a joke. And she’d thought she’d been weak over her silly little attachment to Matthias. “I practice the art of ‘pull his shirt over his head and punch till you see blood’,” he says instead, rather primly, and Astoria’s fingers twitch against him, lips curling up, head shaking.

“Next time someone comes at me, you let them. I can take care of myself, and keeping me from getting a few bruises is not worth this. I’m giving you an order, now, love — I might play favorites but I’m still allowed to give orders every now and again.” He looks ready to argue, and she moves her hand to press two fingers over his lips before she withdraws it entirely, skin burning where she’d touched him. Maybe they should keep her in Novyi Zem for a while. This might take more than a few shipments to get out of her system. She opens her mouth to try for a joke but her voice is hoarse, strained, almost a little panicked when she thinks of him the night before. He’d slept all day, and she’d slept for most of the day, too, and the moon is visible through the open window across from them; it would be a romantic scene, were it not for the fact that she is all wrong for him.

“Seeing you like that terrified me,” she says quietly. “You can’t do that again. You can’t frighten me like that again. And you absolutely cannot put yourself at risk like that for my sake. I can take a beating. Don’t ever endanger yourself for me. Do you understand me? It’s not worth it. You always need to protect yourself. No exceptions.” She presses her palms against her thighs, looks away from him with a little cough and a cleared throat. “Has anyone fed you? Are you cold? How do you feel? Do you — do you need anything?”

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( damien westwood )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@pistolslinger said: ❛ Are you trying to psych me out? ❜

"Yes,” Astoria insists, and she sounds almost affronted — not at the suggestion that she would, but rather that there was any question at all. They’ve been engaged in a vicious competition for ages now. ( Minutes, really. ) He’d suggested it at the last lock, stepping aside to give her room to practice with the lockpick she’d just started to break in, and then had sneezed, rather loudly, just as she was getting it and then she’d had to start over, and he’d continued his time count with all the serenity of an innocent man.

The only thing to do, she thinks, is to play equally dirty. Which is why she’s humming, now, one of the Kerch drinking songs the sailors on the ship had taught her, the music interrupted only by her occasional narration of what’s happening in the courtyard below them. She’s well-hidden from view even as she peers through the filthy window beside them, and she taps her foot lightly, occasionally knocking against his ankle.

There is a reason Kaz has started pairing them together, Astoria thinks, almost a little mournfully — it’s not that they work best with one another ( though perhaps they do; she’s never really stopped to consider it ), it’s that they seem to forget with growing frequency that they are among the most feared members of the criminal underworld, here at the behest of Dirtyhands, when they have an opportunity to compete. Bastard of the Barrel’s reputation be damned; Astoria hates to lose, and Jesper always gives her a run for her money, and, infuriatingly, Jesper usually wins. At least this way, their audience is limited.

“Should I stick to sneezing? Ooh, you should see this; Specht is in a headlock. They’re going to find us if you don’t hurry.” And she flutters her eyelashes, offers up her most sympathetic smile. “It’s okay, love — not everyone can perform under pressure.”

#pistolslinger #i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#(i just think they'd annoy kaz so much!!!)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@clpdwings said: five times kaz acted like he didn't care about astoria, plus the one time he did. ( five times | accepting )

one.

She makes it to Per Haskell’s office before she loses her balance, knees giving way and room starting to spin. She’s lucky to find Per Haskell there, and he crouches down beside her; he tips her chin up first, gets a good look at her glassy eyes and the chalky tone of her skin, before he collects her bloodied hands in his to help her stand and guide her to his desk.

Kaz is in the office as well, but if he’s bothered by a bleeding woman collapsing in front of him, he doesn’t seem it.

“Go get the kit,” Haskell commands, and Kaz only sighs as he stands, as if the great sin here is that he’s inconvenienced. Shuddering, Astoria braces her hands against the desk as Haskell moves a chair behind her, turning it so that her back is exposed when she sits. She’s vaguely aware of the thunk of his cane on the floor, but she doesn’t bother to look up until he’s returned, a leather pouch tucked under his arm, a bottle of something clear in his hand.

“I left you alone,” Kaz says, sounding for all the world like an exasperated parent with a particularly troublesome toddler, “for five minutes.”

Astoria lifts her trembling hands to help peel her shirt away, but it’s no use; her fingers won’t hold the fabric, and she feels the blood moving faster when she tries. She’d reopened the wound while she was coming back to the Slat, stumbling and trying not to draw attention to herself, and by the time she’d reached Haskell’s office it was dripping down her back, staining her skirt.

Haskell tuts quietly and takes the bottle and kit, setting them down on the desk beside him before he opens the leather pouch. She glances to the side but only catches sight of a few instruments in her periphery, a flash of white that might be cloth. She hears fabric being ripped, and then her back is exposed, ruined shirt torn open to reach the wound; she hears the bottle being opened next, smells the overpowering stench of strong alcohol, and then a beat later she lets out a sharp gasp at the sudden burning in her back.

“Take a drink, if you can manage it, girl,” Haskell says, and he holds the bottle out for her, careful to ensure it’s in her line of vision. Astoria takes it, still trembling, and downs a mouthful, coughing as soon as she’s swallowed it. It’s strong, no doubt what he’s using to clean the wound, and it burns like acid down her throat, but it’s something. “What happened?”

“Black Tips,” she rasps, “Elzinger.”

“Who could have seen that coming?” Kaz mutters.

“Stabbed you in the back like a coward,” Haskell observes, an edge of anger in his voice. Astoria wonders, trying desperately to distract herself from the urge to shout and quite possibly cry, if he has children; he behaves like a father, sometimes, and she resists the instinct to lean into him, knowing that she shouldn’t move, knowing more that Kaz is watching. The thought of seeking comfort in front of him makes her ill. “Did he run?”

“No. He tried to stab me again when the first one didn’t do it.”

“And?” asks Kaz.

“And I took his knife and did a bit of a — controlled boil, I suppose. He’ll have scars, I’d wager.”

“At least there’s that.”

“You might want to hold onto something,” Haskell warns, withdrawing the rag and tossing it aside. She’s a bit nauseated to see it from the corner of her eye, soaked through with her own blood, reeking of alcohol and copper. “It’ll get worse before it gets better. Kaz — ”

“You want me to hold her hand?” Kaz asks, tone mocking.

The thought of exposing any weakness in front of him makes her want to be sick. Astoria shakes her head, fisting her hands in her skirt. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

It’s a lie. She’s not fine. The sensation of a needle and thread moving through her flesh to knit it back together is agonizing. She didn’t drink enough. Still, she’ll bite her lips bloody before she’ll make a noise; she raises her gaze to Kaz’s face, jaw set and eyes defiant, and the knowledge of his presence is enough to keep her silent. He watches her in return, lips pressed together in a thin line, something odd in his eyes when he watches her take it silently.

It takes too long, pain wracking her body for what feels like hours. She’s sure that, in truth, it’s done in a matter of minutes. When Per Haskell has finished stitching the wound, he gently guides her up, one hand hooked over her arm and the other careful at her back, until she’s standing upright and he can wind a bandage around her. Her ruined shirt hangs from her shoulders, but it’s the only thing covering her. Once the bandage is tied securely, Per Haskell stands, holding his hands out to help her.

It’s not the worst injury she’s sustained, not by far, but it’s certainly different. She’s never been stabbed before. There is a part of her almost amused by this new first, and by the thought that she can celebrate it as a proper initiation into her new life.

Haskell moves to take off his own coat for her, before seeming to think better of it, and he gestures to Kaz. “Give her your jacket, boy. She can’t go through the Crow Club half naked.” Kaz raises an eyebrow but does as he’s asked, watching as she sucks in a deep breath at the pain shooting up her back when she moves.

She thanks Per Haskell with a shaky voice and a kiss pressed to his cheek, ever the faithful daughter as he plays father. She says nothing to Kaz besides a quick thank you.

It takes far longer than she’d like to get the bloodstain out of his jacket the next morning but she manages it, half out of sheer stubbornness and half with her power, the lining a little worse for wear but the outside of the jacket, at least, still in excellent condition. It takes her too long to get up the stairs, and she has to stop to take several deep breaths more than once as she makes her way to the top of the Slat.

He’s in his office when she steps in, and she deposits the jacket, neatly folded, on the desk in front of him. “Thank you,” she says, tone a bit gruff, cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “Again.”

“Mm.” It’s the most she’ll get out of him, and so she doesn’t bother to say anything more, but simply turns back toward the door. She’s almost out of the office entirely when he calls, “How bad is it?”

Astoria hesitates then, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Painful,” she confesses, “but I’ve had worse. Per Haskell says to wait it out until we have a Healer stop by later in the week. I’ll be fine.”

Kaz nods, eyes already back on the papers in front of him. “Good. You’re useless like this.”

She laughs in spite of herself. For a moment, she almost thinks he smiles. ( She’s sure she’s wrong. )

two.

“I can do it.”

Matthias and Nina look toward her with evident surprise; one of her hands is still unusable, fingers broken and mangled — the drüskelle that had chained her up had thought to do a bit more damage, to ensure that she would pose no threat — but Astoria can do it. She’s certain of that much. The others move back to allow her room, Nina hovering worriedly, but Astoria ignores her as she crawls closer to Kaz’s body, still and silent. And, gingerly, she leans forward, bringing her ear to his chest, listening, listening.

Stupid, stubborn Kaz Brekker, always certain he knows more than everyone else in the world, all too often right on that count. Astoria clenches her jaw and closes her eyes, trying to block out the sounds around her, but any gratitude she felt has been ground out by horror and worry and, burrowing into her bones, fear. There is something particularly galling at the thought that one of them might not survive, made infinitely worse by the gnawing possibility that he might be the one of them to be left behind, dead within the Ice Court.

She can hear it. It’s faint but it’s there; the water in his blood, the water in his lungs. Astoria’s injured hand comes to hover over his chest, the other over his mouth, and, gently, so gently, she begins to draw the water from his lungs. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, even though she know he can’t hear her, “but this is going to hurt.”

He’ll feel it when he’s conscious again, and not for the first time in her life, Astoria is looking forward to Kaz’s pain, though this time, she thinks, it’s entirely different. “Come on.” Beside her, she feels Matthias moving to help her, and she snaps a quick no! before returning her attention to drawing the water up through his esophagus, over that sharp tongue, out of his poisonous mouth.

And she nearly laughs with relief when she feels the water gathering around her hand, her fingers moving in slow patterns to urge the water along. Her other hand comes to rest tentatively on his chest, and she winces at the sharp jolt of pain that shoots up her hand and arm at this. Her unbroken fingers flex against him, and she listens until she can hear the song in his blood.

It’s faint. Faint enough that she’s not sure she’ll be able to do anything at all. Astoria takes in a long, slow breath before she flexes her fingers again. Move. Move. If she can get his blood moving, if she can get the water out of his lungs and some air in, then his heart might start again, might do what needs to be done on its own, and Nina’s right here, certainly she can help if Astoria needs it, and if Kaz Brekker dies because of her Astoria thinks she’ll never forgive herself, which is strange, really, considering that he is one of the people she likes least in this world —

— the last of the water clings to her hand and she waves it carelessly to the side, letting the water splash uselessly to the ground beside them. Both hands are dedicated to directing his blood, to urging his heart to beat, and she listens, listens, listens. Ketterdam will be wrong without him. There will be no one else to take the terrifying leaps into something new, something incredible. There will be no one to pick at her insecurities until she learns how to better weather them. There will be no one in his attic office. Ketterdam will be a thousand things it shouldn’t be without him. It occurs to her suddenly that Kaz is the closest thing she has to family, now, and the thought leaves her feeling as though someone’s squeezed the air from her lungs.

She hears a beat, slow and cautious, and then a second, and then a third, and she sits up just in time for Kaz to take in a sharp and shuddering breath before he rolls onto his hands and knees to retch. Instinct guides her hands forward to curl against his shoulder, but good sense stops her before she can make contact. Shaking, Astoria shifts away from him, her own heart pounding a vicious and unrelenting rhythm against her ribs. ( He almost died underneath her hands. How many times had she idly fantasized about wringing his neck, and now, she’s trembling because she almost couldn’t save him? )

“You drowned,” she says when the retching slows, her voice quavering audibly. It’s the stress, the sudden violence, of their circumstances and nothing more. Kaz looks back at her for only a moment before he’s coughing again, hands braced against the ground beneath them, shoulders shuddering. “Try and take steady breaths.”

Nina crouches down beside him, a hand hovering uselessly over his shoulder; he rasps something that Astoria can’t identify, but a moment later, Nina has moved to take Astoria’s injured hand in her own. Astoria lets out a pained and wordless sound, but Nina hushes her, and Astoria can only focus on the strange sensation of her bones grinding back into place.

“Can you move them?” Nina asks when she’s finished, and Astoria nearly cries out when she curls her fingers into a fist before opening them again, but she nods.

Nina returns to Kaz’s side after that, and Matthias reaches to help Astoria stand again; the arches of her feet tingle uncomfortably when he touches her, and she tries not to think about it. From the look of it, he and Nina have reconciled, and Astoria pretends that her chest doesn’t hurt just a little at the thought of it.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Astoria asks, more for an excuse to say something and fill the silence, and Matthias looks over her shoulder. Astoria turns, following his gaze, to see Kaz staunchly refusing Nina’s aid as he stands.

“I think he’s fine,” intones Matthias dryly, and he settles a friendly hand on Astoria’s shoulder before walking past her to reach Nina.

Astoria’s eyes flicker up toward Kaz, who meets her gaze but says nothing. Astoria clears her throat, raises her eyebrows, calls out, “Are we even now?” His lips twitch into a smirk, but he says nothing, turns deliberately from her to face Nina and Matthias.

Good, she thinks. It would be concerning if anything had changed between them.

( She doesn’t think of it until they’re on the Ferolind again, and she’s taking a turn to watch over Nina, dabbing the sweat from her brow and braiding her hair back to keep it out of her face. Her fingers are still crooked and painful, but are functional again, and Nina takes Astoria’s hands in hers to heal them properly. When she’s finished, she looks up, her feverish eyes settling on Astoria’s. “Good as new, now,” she says, voice strained. “Sorry about earlier. We were in a rush. Kaz said to heal you before we went anywhere.”

“You’re kidding.” Astoria lets out a snort of amusement, already withdrawing her hands to flex her fingers admiringly. “Oh, you did beautifully here. Thank you.”

“Come closer. I’ll get the hair. I’m serious; he said to fix your hands first. Said you were no good if you couldn’t help us, but I think you’re as much a member of the crew as anyone could be.”

She laughs it off. It’s the same reason he took her wrists in his gloved fingers while he freed her, trying to massage the feeling back into her hands after she was suspended for so long. The same reason he came back for her in the first place. She’s useful.

Nina hesitates, taking in an uneven breath, and asks, “How did you get out?”

But then she doubles over with a pain in her chest, Astoria’s hands moving uselessly to try and steady her. They forget the question and file it away as one of the many things they won’t speak of, like Nina’s new awareness of Astoria’s stuttering heartbeat when Matthias comes in to look after Nina again — acknowledged only by a quick glance, pushed aside when Astoria’s tone and expression don’t change.

Still, it’s a simple thing, when you get down to it. It’s simply that she hasn’t outlived her usefulness yet. )

three.

( “Kaz,” she calls as he turns back toward the mausoleum. “What about me?”

He looks back toward her, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“You didn’t tell me what you want me doing. Am I staying here with Jesper and Matthias, to keep an eye on Kuwei? Am I distracting while you and Wylan break in? What’s going on?”

“No, none of that,” he says, turning around once more. “You’re going to the Crow Club.” )

When she sees Colm Fahey’s face she immediately cups his cheeks with both of her battered hands and stands on her toes, drawing him down so she can press a kiss to his forehead. “You beautiful man,” she tells him, “you absolute gift, if I thought I could convince you to stay in Ketterdam I would marry you on the spot.”

It’s rather sweet, watching Colm’s face turn a red deep enough to compete with his hair at her idle teasing. Astoria releases him with a grateful smile, looking around the space — it’ll do, for now, and it’s certainly safe enough for the moment, though she hates the idea of drawing Jesper’s father deeper into their mess. “You’re injured,” Colm says after a moment, frowning, and Astoria waves a hand.

“I’ve had worse. I need to see Kaz, is he here — ?”

“Right through there. Do you need me to call for someone? It looks bad.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I look lovely. Radiant, even,” she laughs, but there’s a tangible nervousness in her stomach that she cannot shake, won’t be able to shake, until she sees Kaz. She follows where Colm points, and she sees them there, all of them looking exhausted and in various states of disarray. Inej looks to be the worst, though she stands as soon as she sees Astoria and moves to meet her halfway, greeting her with a tight hug.

Whatever arguments they’d had before about saving refugees seems to be forgotten — even Nina, whom Astoria loves in no small part because of her willingness to argue, moves to embrace her. She ends up with Wylan tucked under one arm, Inej fretting over the blossoming bruise on her cheek, Jesper frowning at the bloody state of her knuckles.

“Pekka Rollins was at my father’s house, he found us there — ”

” — an assassin, she said, called herself Dunyasha — ”

” — seems like Nina might be able to control dead matter — ”

“Where’s Kaz?” Astoria asks, smiling faintly, bringing both her hands to Inej’s shoulders and frowning at the state of her. “And what are you doing worrying about me, when someone’s done this to you?”

” — corpses were walking — ”

” — so Kaz threw the acid onto the floor — ”

” — you should have seen Matthias, commanding his own little Grisha army — ”

She meets Matthias’ eyes helplessly over the others’ heads. “I can’t see Kaz?” she says a little desperately, hoping to use his height to her advantage, and Matthias grins and points toward where Kaz is standing, keeping his distance from the others while they gather around her, evidently lost in thought. Even Kuwei has come closer to her, and she offers him the same tired smile she’s been wearing for the others, though she’s starting to feel overwhelmed.

” — Jesper handled the powders and — ”

” — the sight of my father’s face — ”

“BREKKER,” she shouts, cutting across the layered voices, and the others fall silent as Kaz lifts his head toward her in surprise. It’s rare Astoria raises her voice; she has always been of the belief that power comes with being able to command using a whisper, and it’s a skill she’s working hard to perfect, but needs must. Gently, she untangles herself from the others, moving around them to reach him. “We need to talk.”

He waits for her to approach, taking in her appearance without a word. She has to fight the urge to embrace him, and she thinks it’s the first time she’s ever, ever wanted to hug him. “It’s bad?” he asks, and she nods.

“Worse than we thought.” She takes a breath to tell him everything, but she’s interrupted by a rapping at the door; Kaz’s hand tightens around the head of his cane and he moves toward the door.

“It’s Specht.”

The others relax; she doesn’t. It’s not going to be good news.

She hates that she’s right; she doesn’t speak again until they’re all gathered in the clock tower, staring in horror at the Dregs marching with the parade of deputized gangsters. Astoria’s eyes immediately move to Kaz’s; he’s watching her, waiting for her report.

“I tried to tell you,” she says, and there’s an edge of unease to her voice that she rarely lets anyone hear. “Haskell, he’s — they’ve all turned on you. Haskell’s sided with Rollins and the Dime Lions. When I got there he was waiting for me, told me that my job was over and I could come back where I belong.”

“He thought you’d go with him?” Wylan asks quietly, and Astoria nods. Jesper winces.

“He told me to make my choice.”

“And?” asks Kaz, his voice as soft as Wylan’s, but it seems to echo in the room. Astoria turns to face him, chin raised defiantly.

“What do you mean, and? I’m here, aren’t I? I chose you lot.”

“Haskell gave you your first chance at safety in Ketterdam.”

“Yes, and you’re responsible for any safety that’s lasted.” She hasn’t forgotten the Ice Court, Kaz’s fingers making quick work of the locked chains that held her, the quiet rasp of his voice when he commanded not a word.

“So that’s how you got the bruise?” Matthias sounds so offended on her behalf, and she smiles ruefully, warmed by his kindness.

“Well, when I told him as much, he wasn’t particularly thrilled. And when he tried to restrain me, it didn’t go well.” Inej tucks herself against Astoria’s side, and Astoria wraps an arm around her shoulders tightly. “It looks like you lot are stuck with me.”

Only Kaz remains unmoved by this. She can see the gears turning in his head and she knows exactly where he’s going, and she hates that she’s become so like him these past years that she can practically smell the stupid on him. Self-sacrifice, in this case.

She wonders if he thought the same when she decided to turn herself in at the Ice Court. He meets her eyes again and she tries to argue but she can’t, and she hates that she can’t. When the others protest, he raises his eyebrows and jerks his chin towards her.

“You love to argue with me,” he says. “Did Haskell’s tantrum break you of the habit, weasel?”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” she says honestly. When the hell did she come to believe so strongly in Kaz Brekker? “And if you can’t, I’ll drag you out of there myself.”

He almost looks pleased by her endorsement, even when Jesper jumps in to argue it, when Inej protests.

four.

They’re gone. Inej has boarded her ship; Wylan and Jesper have settled into the emptied Van Eck estate; Nina is en route to Fjerda, Matthias’ body in tow. Funny, she thinks. She never would have imagined that the Crow Club could feel so empty or so quiet.

There are a thousand things she has tried to make sense of these past days; she is running low on patience and lower on compassion, distracted by her own irrational grief. Her heart aches to remember Matthias dying in that kind of pain and Nina left to mourn him, a revenant and a gravedigger all at once. The promise that Matthias would be buried in Fjerdan soil had comforted Astoria somewhat, though she’d made sure not to ask too many questions, not to allow herself the sharp and sweet agony of his loss. They were friendly; they weren’t particularly close. Astoria’s foolish affection, and the pain caused by it, is her own to bear. At least he’ll be buried in the faith, she thinks, but even that is a jab at an open wound.

Kaz pours her a silent drink and slides it across the desk; she catches it without thinking, folding a hand around the glass. It’s gin, and a decent bottle at that, given the smell. She’d helped him empty Per Haskell’s personal effects from his office and it feels stark and empty and strange, though she knows that he’ll make the space his own. She’s come to admire his persistent refusal to die. It makes her think there might be a chance she can learn it as well.

Astoria swirls the gin in the glass, staring vaguely at the moving liquid, before she lifts the glass in a halfhearted toast. “To Jan Van Eck. That was the most stressful few weeks of my life, but at least the bastard kept us on our toes. Keeps us young.”

Kaz smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he tilts his glass in her direction, and she taps the desk before she downs the drink in one go. It’s the sort of gin that deserves a bit of attention, but it’s been a long week. Month. Year. Kaz doesn’t hesitate when she holds the glass out for him to refill, and for a moment, they fall into a companionable silence.

She’s the fool to break it. The gin has made her a bit bold, and she crosses her legs and slouches just a bit, looking up at Kaz for a long moment before she speaks. “When this started,” she says, voice quiet, “you said you had information on my mother.”

All at once she thinks the air’s been sucked out of the room, and the look Kaz gives her is inscrutable. Is he uneasy with the threat of someone else leaving? Is he eager for her to take her information and go? That’s the problem, she thinks; Kaz never gets easier to read, even after years of fascinated study. As soon as she learns one set of expressions and reactions, he develops another, and over and over again she does the best she can to understand a man who will do anything to avoid just that.

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me what you learned?”

He considers her for a long moment, eyes sweeping across her. He’s taking the measure of her, the tension in her shoulders and the way that grief has written itself into the early lines of her face. His eyes settle, finally, on her hair, still shorter than either of them is used to, and he simply looks for a moment more before he answers.

“She’s in Elling,” he says finally. “Appeared there about a week and a half after you vanished with only what she could carry and under an assumed name. Noora Olzon. Healthy, no major injuries that anyone’s noticed, but apparently her nose healed crooked.”

She considers it in silence. The memories she has of her mother feel tainted by the things she has considered since arriving in Ketterdam; the sight of a mother shielding her children from danger here prompts a vicious sort of sorrow when Astoria remembers her own mother, almost in a state of shock, nodding in a panic as she was coached on her story. You had no idea I was a witch. I did this to you. Do you understand, Mama? You have to say it back to me. You have to make it sound real. Say it again. Say it again. You have to get it right. And Veronika, no doubt, had succeeded, if she still lives.

And it’s not that she wants her mother dead. Far from it. The news that her mother is alive, that her mother is well, makes her feel lighter than she has since she left Djerholm in the first place. It’s as if she’s healing from a long-lasting sickness; tomorrow, she knows, she will be brighter, more joyful. The knowledge that she hadn’t killed her mother will give her what she needs to begin to recover from the knowledge that if she was in the right place, at the right time, she could have saved Matthias.

A life for a life. Hateful, isn’t it? But there is joy in one less death on her conscience. Still, it feels so terribly... wrong. Don’t mothers protect their own? Don’t mothers want to see their babies grow up safe? Shouldn’t Veronika have taken her and run the moment she first showed signs of her power, instead of letting Astoria fester in hatred and fury for nearly a decade and a half before cowering as a girl of only nineteen fled into a wildnerness which would almost certainly kill her?

She is grateful for her mother’s survival and she is resentful of the circumstances of her own. She hasn’t had family for too long, now, and she’s started to forget what it felt like to have someone who valued your safety more than their own. Her eyes flicker back to Kaz’s, and she knows, she knows, that she’ll never find it here. She knows that she is only as valuable to him as whatever jobs she can run, and that what he needs is a lieutenant, not a friend, not a confidante, not a partner, not family.

Still. Kaz Brekker has become family. She hates herself for it, but it’s true. And there is something inside her that tells her that even if she wanted to leave, she couldn’t leave him now. After all, reminds a treacherous voice in her mind, he’s the one who came back for you in the Ice Court.

There will be no going to Elling. There will be no return to Fjerda. Instead, Astoria takes another slow drink of her gin, and she shrugs one shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, tone sincere, and she settles more comfortably into her chair. “It’s a relief to know that. I’m — I am so grateful for it.” The space suits him. She’d like to see him remain here. She’d like to see his success. She’d like to be a part of it. Astoria considers for a moment, then turns her face to him again. “So. It looks like it’s just you and me, now.” No more Crows; she never was one, anyway. Perhaps there’s more room for a weasel when he holds court. “Think you can learn to tolerate it?”

Kaz looks at her, then downs the rest of his drink with a sigh. “Absolutely not.”

She waits a beat, then asks, “Can I take your old office?”

A sigh. She thinks it almost sounds like a laugh. “If you must.”

five.

She’s covered in blood by the time she makes it to Kaz’s office, but that’s really nothing new. On any other night it would hardly matter, but she had been the one to urge a gentle hand in dealing with this latest threat — be patient. Let me handle this, Your Majesty, and we’ll have everything we need by the night’s end. The less desirable corners of Ketterdam have taken to calling him the King of Thieves, and a few have looped her in as his Queen; no doubt she is his favored lieutenant, and she has made herself known in her unflagging support of his endeavors, even when they end in a bit of bloodshed. It’s bled even into their — rather affectionate, Astoria likes to imagine — antagonism. When he’s annoyed by the ceaseless bother of the newer Dregs he scowls and mocks go ask your mother. When she’s being coy in considering an offer she smiles and says I’ll need to consult my better half.

And so it will be little use for her to stand in this meeting, blouse spattered with drying blood and torn in several places. So much for a gentle hand. Kaz’s lip curls in disgust at the sight of her, and he considers for a moment before he asks, “How much of that is yours?”

“Just a bit at the arm,” Astoria says. “Is it hopeless? Do I have time to run upstairs, or — ”

As if on cue, there’s a knock on his office door, and Kaz raises his eyebrows.

“Just a moment,” she calls, and Kaz sighs, and for a moment she can practically see it in his face: I should have left her in the Ice Court. She knows better than to take it personally, by now. He stands, moving to a cabinet against the wall, and after a moment he tosses her a folded shirt.

“Borrow this. Make yourself presentable. Who was it?”

The window is covered by a wooden screen, but the warm glow of the gaslamps outside filters in regardless. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, curls forced into obedience only by her incessant adjustment of the moisture in the air around her head. There’s a smear of blood drying on her cheek that she’s forgotten about entirely. She is a far cry from the girl who came to Per Haskell in this very office all those years ago, her confidence a flimsy mask as she presented him with a proposal.

She is even a far cry from the girl who agreed to return to Fjerda, the girl who mourned in the aftermath. The past few years with the Dregs have made her a ruthless thing, and she is proud of it; there is something to be said for refusing to be ruled by her better angels, not when it means sacrificing the power she holds to ensure she can never be hurt again.

( She doesn’t see Kaz’s dark eyes as they settle on the blood on her face, the way it follows the high line of her cheekbone, nor does she see those eyes as they move to her curls gathered over one newly bared shoulder, her clavicle, the shape of the corset that saved her life. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have believed it if she’d seen it. )

“Black Tips,” she laughs. “You’d think they’d have learned by now.”

“Toss it here,” he commands, and Astoria throws the ruined shirt in his direction so he can shove it in the little bin beneath his desk. “Give me the details later, but for now, are you hurt?” Just as she’s about to be flattered, he continues, “You do not have the option of passing out in the middle of this because you were too stupid to stop a wound from bleeding.”

“Just a little cut,” she promises, “and I’ve already closed it the best I can.” She shrugs the shirt over her shoulders; it’s a bit long, but it fits better than she might have guessed it would. “I tried the steel boning for this one. Worked like a charm.”

“I’m thrilled,” he drawls, “that your underclothes have taken an interest in your safety.”

“How do I look? Alright?”

Kaz’s eyes flicker across her frame for the briefest moment before he nods. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he softened for a moment — but she does know better, and Kaz is never soft. “Face,” he says, and he reaches into his jacket to withdraw a handkerchief for her to take.

The shirt feels all too comfortable on her frame. It’s strange, wearing Kaz’s clothes ( again — she still remembers the jacket he’d loaned her at Haskell’s request ), but she can’t bring herself to mind. Astoria gathers the handkerchief and wipes her face until she’s found the blood; there is another, more insistent, knock on the door as she folds the handkerchief and tucks it away in her sleeve.

“Get this under control,” Kaz murmurs, “or we do this my way,” and Astoria nods, crossing the office to the door as she tucks her borrowed shirt into the waistband of her skirt. When she reaches the door, she’s smiling warmly, gesturing for their guest to step inside.

“Thought I was meeting with you,” the man says, looking at Kaz accusingly, and Astoria’s smile doesn’t falter.

“Some things,” she sighs, rather sweetly, “require the presence of the lady of the house. Take a seat, please, let me make you some tea...”

She plays her part to perfection, the gentle balance to Kaz’s quiet intensity. For every infinitesimal raise of his eyebrows or narrowing of his eyes she is expressive, engaging, endearing. It’s her face, she knows; she’s lovely, delicate, doll-like, even with her hair tumbling across her shoulders and Kaz’s shirt wrapped around her, the very image of a naive young lady in far over her head. And when she takes their guest’s coat from his shoulders to hang from the hook on the back of the door, he doesn’t think she’s picking his pockets or feeling the lining for any weapons to be concerned with, any more than he suspects that she’s slipped a handful of counterfeit bills where the legitimate notes had been.

Kaz sees it, like he always does. It had been her idea — subtlety is needed when an enemy threatens to bring in the stadwatch, less out of any real fear of legitimate backlash than the desire to prevent a mess before it’s made. He’ll spend his money gambling elsewhere, like he always does, and he’ll be picked up and tossed out, left with broken fingers and a damaged reputation. He’d seemed almost proud of it.

He seems almost proud of this, too, watching the way she works — how she leans forward, eager, as their guest speaks; how she lets out a delicate, ringing laugh at a joke, lip caught between her teeth and cheeks flushing. ( It’s easy enough to inspire a blush, she’s found; she thinks about Kaz’s rare compliments to her work, and that always does it. ) And that’s all he needs, a pretty girl to play the part of a rapt audience. He lets slip names. Dates. Times. Even Kaz’s presence behind her as she leans against the edge of his desk isn’t enough to draw attention away from her, and the man forgets quickly enough that it’s Kaz he came here to see.

They get what they want, without handling it Kaz’s way. She doesn’t say it but they both know it’s the case — she usually gets what she wants when he lets her take the reins.

( Astoria clumsily bandages her own arm before retiring for the night. She stays awake just long enough to peel off her clothes and toss them aside, and on a whim, she pulls Kaz’s shirt back on before she climbs into bed, tucking her arm under the pillow below her head. The fabric smells a bit dusty, like it’s spent too long in the cabinet, and a bit like the bottle of gin he only takes out when it’s the two of them alone in that office, and like the soap he prefers. She sleeps better than she imagines she would. )

( This time, when she looks at the borrowed clothing in the morning, she doesn’t give it back. He doesn’t ask. )

...and one.

They don’t talk about it much. She imagines it’s because they don’t have much to say. And there are a thousand things that they don’t talk about — who he was before he became Kaz Brekker, why Inej doesn’t return to Ketterdam so often as they’d imagined she would and he won’t say her name when she’s at sea, the R tattooed on his arm. She doesn’t ask; he will tell her if he wants, and she doubts that he ever will, and it makes no difference to her. They are not who they were before they came here. The histories given to them matter less than the histories they built.

( When they do talk about it, it’s brief. I still hold your indenture, he’d pointed out once, and I don’t use that leverage for something like this, before anything had tangibly changed. She’d scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, and answered, I don’t care. Do what you want with it. You know I’m not going anywhere, and I know exactly the man you are. If I thought you were using it as leverage right now, I’d have killed you before you opened your mouth. He’d seemed satisfied with that, amused by her violence. )

Like most things between them it builds, almost tortuous in how slowly it grows. She saw him without his gloves first in the Ice Court and had averted her eyes, as if to try and limit the degree of his exposure. The first time he takes his gloves off in front of her, willingly, she lets her eyes fall to the shape of his hands, the length of his fingers, with an attentiveness she doesn’t bother to hide; he has a reason for everything he does, and who is she to question it? He won’t touch her when she’s come in from the rain, her skin slick and cold, and she doesn’t ask why. For a time he preferred she not face him, and she hadn’t asked then, either. And it built, slowly, almost painfully so, first his gloved hands against her skin and then his bare fingers twisting in her hair.

( The first time he brought her to tears he’d cupped his gloved hand under her chin and dragged his thumb below her eyes. He said nothing for a long moment, simply looking her over, then asked, Are you hurt? She had smiled at that, at the softness of the leather against her cheek, and shaken her head. Not in any way I don’t like. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll tell you if it ever is. And he’d nodded, brushed the backs of his fingers over one cheek, the tenderness in the gesture enough that it made her ache. The second time he brought her to tears he seemed proud of it, just as she’d hoped. Stop crying, he’d said, this time brushing the tears away with his bare fingers, and she’d looked up at him with something akin to adoration when she told him to kiss her ass. )

If anyone else has noticed a change between them, they don’t mention it; even Wylan and Jesper, who they see often, don’t seem to notice, and she doesn’t intend to be the one to bring it up. Astoria has grown comfortable in the silence that they share, in the things that they don’t say, in the pressure of his hand around her neck and her unflinching pleasure in the knowledge that he could crush her throat if he so chose, in the way his hands will sometimes linger, always a little longer than they did the time before.

( She woke once with his hand in her hair, carding idly through the curls as he considered one of the thousand things always on his mind. She’d rolled over and propped herself up on one elbow, smiling despite herself when he looked down at her, surprised to find her awake. I thought you’d be gone by now, she teased, and his hand fell, only for a moment, to brush across her still-bare shoulder. Years of knowing one another, of seeing each at the other’s worst, of understanding in intimate and painstaking detail all the horrible vulnerabilities they carried and chosing to remain in spite of it, and that’s the gesture to suggest a closeness she couldn’t have guessed at when they’d first met. Yes, he’d mused, his tone far away, as if he hadn’t realized yet that he was speaking aloud. So did I. )

He’s typically dressed while she’s still lounging comfortably in nothing more than a robe, and this is no exception; she’s stretched her legs across his clothed thighs and he has a hand cupped against her calf, papers resting on her bare legs in his lap as he reads. She likes him best like this, the sharp angles of his face hollowed out by the flickering shadows from the candles that light her room, stretched out like a lazy cat, some scheme developing in the evening’s silence, when he’s testing his limits. She never initiates contact but always responds eagerly, encouraging without demanding, and she almost thinks he appreciates it.

“This,” he says, and he slides one of the papers from her shins to her thighs so she can see it, “is where we need to get in. Lucassen keeps the key on him at all times, but if you can distract him long enough to lift it, then it’ll work.”

“I’d have to be very distracting,” she murmurs. “Do we know what he likes?”

“Piety, abstinence, and the word of Ghezen. He’s practically a monk.”

“Then what the hell is he doing in Ketterdam?” His hand flexes against her calf, and when she looks up at him, he’s wearing that crooked smirk. “Well, I’ll do my best, and if we don’t know what he likes, I’ll — figure something out. When do I look my best? At prayer? I could play the penitent worshipper, men love to comfort a pretty girl crying — ”

His eyes flicker towards her face for only a moment, and even in so short a frame she can see him take in the swell of her reddened lower lip and the tear tracks still visible on her face and her hair tangled from his hands. “You look your best now,” he sighs, voice a monotone, “but that’s out of the question. Try the penitent worshipper. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. Report back tomorrow night — I’ll be with Jesper and Wylan at the estate, not sure when I’ll be back. They said Nina’s due in for a spell. They’ve put together an entirely Ravkan menu.” She pretends not to be charmed by his small-talk, and he pretends not to notice. And then, glancing at her sideways, he adds, “Wylan wanted me to remind you that there’s room at the table.”

It’s a lot to hear at once but she tries to sort it out — his possessiveness is always unexpected, always a delight. Nina’s arrival is a surprise; she visits rarely, by circumstance more than choice. And Wylan’s invitation is nothing new. Kaz being the one to deliver it is.

“You all have so little time together,” she says, the same excuse she gives every time. “I hate to interfere.”

“Not interfering if you’re invited,” he points out dryly. “Do what you want. But that’s where I’ll be, after you’ve made contact with Lucassen.”

And she might swing by, just this once. Just for a moment.

Just because he’s the one who asked.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( kaz brekker )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#iii. ain’t it warming you‚ the world gone up in flames? ( kaz x astoria )#nsfw;#(but it's mostly implications tbh anyway)#(here we go)#(this is where i live i guess)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@clpdwings said: five times of not getting along and one time they did for kaz! ( five times | accepting )

one.

The first time she meets Kaz Brekker, really meets him, she’s sporting a bite mark on her neck that he will not stop staring at.

Per Haskell sits at his desk, repeating the intelligence she’d brought back with her, and Kaz is listening, she knows, but he’s staring so intently at the bruise on her throat, almost as if he’s counting the individual teeth left visible in the mark, that she feels naked. It’s a strange sort of self-consciousness, one she rarely feels these days, a hangover from an adolescence spent in Fjerda. Astoria rubs a mindless hand over the mark, forcing her eyes back to Per Haskell.

He’s finished by now, and is looking at Kaz expectantly. The Barrel has taken some getting used to; Ketterdam is so alien to her, with its constant noise and bustle, tourists and students littering the streets, merchants and buskers in a constant battle for attention. The city is never quiet, not properly quiet. Djerholm had been bustling, but not like this, didn’t smell so obviously of piss and liquor and sweat when she walked down the streets — which were wider, much less crowded. She couldn’t hear the sounds of jingling coins in a fool’s pockets and rutting in back alleys and fistfights every few blocks.

She loves it.

The men are different, too. No one holds a door open for her unless they’re trying to impress her; no one rushes to gather something heavy from her arms and carry it for her; when she wears something cut low, no one bothers to avert their eyes. And Kaz is the strangest of them all: dressed like some unholy mimicry of a merchant, the cut of his clothes always sharp, something at once unremarkable enough to escape notice and flattering enough to distract the eye. She had been attracted to him for about five minutes after the first she saw him, until she saw that venomous glare, and then she’d been too uneasy to think of it again.

And now his eyes are on her neck, not with any sort of interest or desire but as if he’s estimating just how much force would be needed to break the skin and rip her throat out with his teeth should the need ever arise. It isn’t the potential for violence in him that frightens her so much as it is that she doubts he would be bothered by it, unless he spilled her blood on that pristine collar.

Kaz drags his gaze to Per Haskell, considering for a long moment before he says, “And we can trust her?”

“I spent eight months with him,” Astoria says, hand moving to her neck again. “He’s said plenty.”

“Yes,” Kaz drawls, “men say plenty when they’re trying to keep a woman in their bed, but that doesn’t mean it’s always true. Especially if that woman is openly affiliated with his rivals. Unless you think you’re the first pretty little fool too clever to be caught?”

“And men tell the truth when they’re flattered into believing that they’ve become the new center of a pretty little fool’s world.” Per Haskell had warned her about this, that Kaz could be infuriating, that Kaz would find her insecurities and vulnerabilities in a moment’s time and that he would poke and poke and poke just to see how far she could be pushed. She had smiled and said that she’d be on the lookout for it, but even now with it staring her in the face, she can’t help but rise to the bait.

Kaz gives her a withering look that feels almost like a slap across the face. “And what makes you think that he wasn’t trying to draw you in in the same way?”

“That’s exactly what he’s trying to do. But I’m doing it better, and we know because it’s my intel that saved you almost a million kruge this year alone, and everything I’ve told him has been calculated into that. Acceptable losses.”

He looks back to Per Haskell for confirmation, and Per Haskell nods. “You have your spider,” he says, “and I have mine.”

The comparison seems almost to offend Kaz, who looks Astoria over with a lip curled in distaste. Finally, he stands, one hand on his cane, the other held out for the papers on Per Haskell’s desk.

“Then if it’s good intel, we’ll handle it.”

“Yes, you will.” It’s a firm command, as if a reminder — the Dregs are my crew, boy, not yours. Astoria nearly shivers at that, but Kaz doesn’t react except to fold the papers and tuck them into his jacket.

Kaz spares a last glance toward her, eyes flickering down to her right forearm. “She has the crow and cup?” he asks Per Haskell.

“Yes,” Astoria snaps, “and you can speak to her directly.”

Beside her, Per Haskell shakes his head, amused by the bickering. He stands, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing lightly.

“Take Astoria with you — she’s useful in close quarters.”

“I don’t think we’ll need her on her back for this one.”

“He preferred me on top,” Astoria offers sweetly, though she’s glaring daggers, and Per Haskell only laughs.

“She’s Grisha. Good in a fight. Take her, just in case, and make sure Elzinger can see that bite. He’ll have a hell of a time explaining all of this to Geels.”

Kaz’s eyes fall on Astoria again, and he sighs, gesturing toward the door. Per Haskell taps her lightly on the back, an indication for her to do as she’s told — and, like a good little soldier, she obeys.

two.

She needs to practice her pickpocketing.

She’s functional, but occasionally clumsy, more reliant upon misleading a mark than nimble fingers. Per Haskell had pointed her to Kaz, much to both’s dismay, no doubt in an attempt to make them learn to work together. She’d sulked outside Per Haskell’s office when he’d told Kaz, and caught snippets of the conversation whenever Haskell moved too close to the door. ...useful for more than just securing shipments. I have another TIdemaker I can send to Novyi Zem, but you should learn to... if you like her or not, but I don’t want to waste an asset... your spider can only do so much at once and I have a perfectly useful one.

Per Haskell had opened the door at that, bringing an end to the discussion, and Kaz wasted no time in leaving the office. She could read the disdain in every line of his face, and it had almost amused her that the great Kaz Brekker had deigned to reveal his thoughts, all on her behalf. He’d stopped, looked at her, and then jerked his head irritably, gesturing for her to follow. She’d cast a despairing look at Per Haskell, who’d clapped her on the shoulder.

“Do what you’re told, girl,” he said, though there was no real heat in his voice, and Astoria obeyed before he could get angry with her.

Which is why she’s with Kaz now, trying to pay attention to what he’s telling her and failing miserably, caught up in the oppressive heat of Ketterdam’s so-called spring and her own self-indulgent misery. She’s managed to pick Jesper’s pockets, only because Jesper was being kind, and a few strangers; no one’s caught her as she’s done it, but Kaz has been able to point out every movement, every gesture, no matter how crowded the space between them or how far away he stands.

And if she must deal with him, then she will, at least, annoy him. Astoria toys with her own gloves — lace, covering her fingers and only part of her hand, the height of Ketterdam’s most recent shift in fashion and bought with, yes, pickpocketed money, thank you very much — and she lets out a hum. “Do you dislike all of Per Haskell’s indentures, or am I lucky?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Ooh, is it Grisha you have a problem with? That would be foolish, for you, to carry on a prejudice like that, especially when you know how valuable we are.”

Still nothing, though he’s starting to look as though he’s considering throwing her off the edge of the harbor when they get there.

“See, with all your judgment about Elzinger, I figured it was one of two things. First, that you want to fuck me yourself, and were bitter that you weren’t, but that was easy enough to rule out. Would have been very funny to me, though, if that’s all it was. Typical, nonsensical jealousy would have been beneath you.”

“How flattering,” he says dryly, but she pushes forward as though she doesn’t hear him.

“Second, you wish you’d thought of it yourself. Isolating Elzinger as a weak link and exploiting it by any means necessary. But I did it first, and it made you look slow on the uptake, and it gave Per Haskell a chance to catch up to you a bit.”

“You’ve found me out,” he drawls, monotonous. “I only wish it had been me to spread my legs for Elzinger, and now our love can never be.”

“Prude.”

“Heartbroken.”

Saints’ asses, he’s funny. She never would have guessed. Astoria lets out another little hum, and she folds her hands together primly, the very image of a respectable lady with her lace gloves and the high neck of her blouse and the careful curl of her hair. “There’s really no reason we shouldn’t get along.”

“Did you join the Dregs looking for friends, little runaway?”

“Absolutely. At night I go home to the Slat and I weep because not enough of you like me.”

“I think,” he says, and the worst part of it is that he says it so casually, as though he’s observing something unimportant and not peeling back every layer of armor she’s tried to build around herself, “you joined so that someone would be able to identify your body when you got yourself killed. You’re reckless. You’re half-suicidal. You want there to be consequences to someone else killing you, hence the indenture agreement — ” So he’s seen it. She’s not sure how to feel about that. ” — but you’re desperate to die for something. It makes you a liability. Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.”

He points to a couple, Ravkan tourists chattering excitedly, and he looks back at Astoria as though he hasn’t just torn up every last secret she’s ever kept.

“Them. Do it right, this time.”

They do it again, and again, until Kaz is satisfied enough to leave her be.

It’s not safe to walk the West Stave alone at night but she does it anyway; her anger at Kaz is enough to push her forward, though she can’t quite articulate why it infuriates her so much, to be laid bare before him in this way. She’d studied the Dregs before approaching them, and had chosen them specifically; she could have had it easy, with Pekka Rollins — no need to change her hair — and even the Black Tips or the Razorgulls would have taken her and found a good use for her.

But she’d chosen the Dregs for a reason — she’d chosen the Dregs in no small part because Kaz’s name was on everyone’s lips. Dirtyhands. Bastard of the Barrel. A monster, a demon, a creature out of nightmare. The sort of man you want willing to protect you. And there’s something horribly shameful about being seen without any sympathy, though she’s starting to wonder if she deserves any sympathy, or if he’s right.

Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.

She feels Elzinger’s hand on her shoulder. The night is humid and sticky and she almost feels as though she’s swimming; there’s no jacket protecting her, only the layer of her shirt to cut through, and then his knife is in her, and deep, piercing into her body just below her right kidney. He pulls the knife out; her ears are ringing, there’s something warm rushing down her back and she recognizes it only vaguely as her own blood, and he says something she can’t quite catch, and he hears Kaz Brekker.

Learn how to survive this place or do us all a favor and stop wasting our time.

She twists her right arm to press her hand over the wound, and with a twitch of her fingers the blood begins to slow and clot. She reaches out with her left arm until she’s grabbed Elzinger’s face, and she pulls him close enough to kiss.

Learn how to survive this place.

She grins when she feels the flesh blister beneath her hands, and she tips her head to the side, and she squeezes as tightly as she can. “Sweetheart,” she murmurs. “make sure you mean it when you kill a woman,” and she releases his face only when he screams, catching his wrist with her bloodstained hand when he moves to stab her again.

When she releases him she shoves him back, watching with satisfaction as he raises his shaking hands to his face to feel the extent of his burns. Just a little bit, not enough to kill, but certainly enough to leave a mark. She’s not sure what boiling only a little blood only a little bit does to a body, but she’s intrigued to find out. She’ll have to keep an eye on him. Astoria peels off her bloodied gloves and drops them in Elzinger’s lap, and she leaves him there without another word.

Survive, says Kaz, and for a moment she wishes he could see her.

three.

“Matthias tells me you told him not to come for me.”

“I did.”

“But you knew he’d come for me anyway.”

He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know whether to thank him or scream.

“Damn it, Brekker.”

“You’re too eager to die.”

“It’s not about dying.”

“Dress it up however you want, call it selflessness and loyalty and love, but you’re still useless dead.”

It’s the closest she thinks he’ll ever come to anything resembling a kind word to her, and she’s horrified to find that she’s moved by it. Her voice sounds unsteady, almost wet, when she speaks.

“I know. I know that.” What else is there to say? She’s working on it? She’d thought she’d moved past it, but here she is, trying to sort through why she’s so shocked to have lived through Fjerda, when she’d promised herself once that Fjerda would never have the privilege of taking her life?

“It’s enough. Come back to Ketterdam willing to survive or don’t bother coming back.”

She’s never hated anyone more in her life. She would be lost without him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He lets out a snort, turning his back to her. “Apologize to Helvar,” he says as he walks away. “He’s the one who had to come get you.”

( But, she thinks, maybe Kaz would have come for her, too. )

four.

How did he handle things?

“Very well, sir. Better than I might have expected. He was calm and levelheaded throughout.” ( She doesn’t mention the dangerous panic on the Ferolind, when they thought they would lose Inej. ) “He kept to the plan without hesitation, and when he had to improvise, he did it effectively.” ( She doesn’t mention how often the plan fell through and they had to come up with something new on the spot, or how dangerous it was for her, in particular. ) “He works well leading a team. He was very receptive to our concerns.” ( She doesn’t mention the Ferolind. )

Did he have any trouble with one of mine going with him?

“Not at all. He was understandably cautious to introduce a new element into a functional team’s dynamic, but he understood the necessity of having someone there to represent your interests.” ( She doesn’t mention that the functional team is an inner circle that extends beyond Kaz’s precious Wraith, that the functional team could easily topple Per Haskell’s control of the Dregs, or that she’d help them. ) “There was no trouble beyond the initial adjustment period, and even that was mild.” ( She doesn’t mention that Kaz threatened to throw her overboard. )

Kaz is waiting for her when she’s finished with Per Haskell, and he greets her with a huff of humorless laughter. “Do you have to practice lying like that, or does it come naturally?”

“Every morning I wake up, I brush my hair, I lace myself up, and I tell myself ten lies in the mirror until it feels natural. Were you waiting for Per Haskell?”

“No. You. Walk.”

And she does — less because she likes following Kaz’s orders than because she can’t think of a good reason not to. They’re silent until they get out to the floor of the Crow Club, through the patrons and out into the humid night air. When they’re a fair distance from the door, he holds a folded piece of paper between his index and middle fingers for her to take.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t give over more shares while Rollins has any, but once we have them back, a percentage will go to you, as part of your take.”

Astoria looks up at him sharply, taking the paper; when her eyes fall to it she sees that it’s a contract, legalese she barely understands, but there it is, a percentage ( however small ), set aside for her to purchase, once the shares have been bought back from Pekka Rollins. Slowly, her lips curl up in a smile, and when she looks back up at Kaz, she’s sure she looks as pleased as she feels.

“Thank you,” she says, because it’ll be better received than I could kiss you right on that terrible mouth of yours, you glorious little bastard. He lets out a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, though he seems a little wary, as if he can hear the unspoken words in her tone.

“Don’t thank me. We had an agreement, and you carried out your part reliably enough.”

“Careful, Brekker, or I’ll think you’re starting to like me.”

He snorts, raising his eyebrows. “Perish the thought. I’ll need you tonight — we’re sorting out a plan, and I want you there in case Nina isn’t able to do her job.”

Nina. Sweet, vibrant Nina, whose battle with parem seems to have drained the life right out of her; she barely eats, she barely laughs, she barely flirts. ( Astoria has been trying to forget the way Nina lashed out at them all on the Ferolind, in the throes of her withdrawal; she’d brushed off the insults aimed at her, but had heard enough of what was said to the others. There’s some fight in her, at least, and Astoria is grateful for that much. )

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, but yes, of course. I’ll be able to help however you need.” And she pauses, frowning. “Do you think she won’t be able to handle it?”

“I’d rather be prepared than overconfident.”

“Fair enough — but won’t it undermine her confidence, if she knows you have someone there to take over if she’s unsteady?”

“I don’t particularly care about her confidence. I care about the job’s success. If she wants to sort out her feelings, she’s welcome to find a parent or a priest.” Kaz’s expression is inscrutable, as always, though there’s a mocking edge to his voice now, and it makes Astoria clutch the paper harder. So much for starting to like me; he looks at me like I’m a troublesome child he can’t shake. “There’s no winning with you, is there? First you’re sore that you’re not a real part of the team, and now you’re tripping over yourself trying to spare everyone’s feelings when you’re offered the chance.”

“She sacrificed a lot for us, Kaz. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be a little concerned about her.”

“Mm. The same concern you felt, I’m sure, when you told her to, what was it? Find a way to watch that tongue or I’ll cut it out?”

“That was different.” But her cheeks are hot with shame; she hadn’t been proud of the threat, but it had happened all the same, when the craving for parem doused Nina’s tongue in poison.

“Yes, how could I forget? You were defending your drüskelle’s honor.”

“It’s — ”

“I don’t care. You want in? Earn it. This is how you earn it. Mind your manners, don’t ask stupid questions, and do as you’re told. Be at the Black Veil tonight, by midnight.” The Black Veil?

He turns his back to her and walks away without another word, and Astoria scowls after him — but she grips the contract tighter in her hands, and she makes no plans to argue.

five.

“On one condition.”

Astoria’s eyes flicker towards Nina in surprise; it’s rare someone’s fool enough to try and negotiate with Kaz. It’s not something she’s often willing to try, and she’s the biggest fool of them all.

Kaz drags his gaze to Nina and arches one eyebrow in that infuriating way of his. “This is not a negotiation.”

“Everything is a negotiation with you, Brekker. You probably bartered your way out of the womb. If I’m going to do this, I want us to get the rest of the Grisha out of the city.”

“Forget it. I’m not running a charity for refugees.”

“Then I’m out.”

“Fine. You’re out.” And Astoria knows what’s coming next, Kaz’s dark eyes flickering towards her, ignoring the look of anger on Nina’s face, the way she opens her mouth to argue.

At Astoria’s side, Matthias stiffens, as if anticipating a fight, and Astoria folds a hand carefully over his and squeezes gently.

She hesitates, and then, before he can ask, she clears her throat. “I can do it.” She’s not half so skilled as Nina when it comes to calming the blood, but she can make do. And more than that, there’s a fury building in her at the thought of being chased out of another home, of being hunted again. She knows Kaz well enough by now to know that he can expect to rely on her anger; it is the only thing she has left of her mother, of the girl in the snow, a family heirloom she keeps close to her heart. Nina whips her head around, her expression caught somewhere between anger and betrayal, but Astoria doesn’t look away from Kaz.

“Fine. A distressed Fjerdan, new to the city, looking for work in the warehouse district.”

“Astoria,” Nina warns, and Astoria tears her gaze away from Kaz to look coldly at Nina.

“I’m tired of running, Nina. Aren’t you? How long until someone else comes looking to kill us?” Astoria’s jaw clenches without her noticing, and Matthias turns his hand up under hers to lace their fingers together and squeeze back, as if to try and calm her. She’s just a little too far gone. “How many of those refugees are going to end up Second Army conscripts? Save a few Grisha just to throw them at military conflict, where they’ll, what, die in a nice coat, carrying out a foreign king’s commands?” Carrying on the ever-present war with Fjerda? She’ll rail against her homeland until she draws her last breath, but it makes her no less protective.

“That’s not what it’s about. It’s about saving lives.” Nina’s voice sounds almost dangerous, and Astoria leans forward, Matthias gripping her hand even tighter as she does.

“Enough.” Kaz’s voice cuts clearly through the argument, and he turns his cold eyes on Nina. “You’ll still get your share of the money for your work on the Ice Court job, but I don’t need you on this crew.”

“No,” said Inej quietly. “But you need me.”

And that’s enough to quell the dissent, Inej’s interference and the strength of her unwavering gaze. Nina turns deliberately from Astoria, whose jaw has yet to unclench, and Matthias releases Astoria’s hand in favor of winding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, as if to comfort. She doesn’t escape the way Kaz’s eyes flicker up to them, or the twist of his lips at the sight of Astoria’s continued anger.

“Do you think this makes me a Crow, now?” she murmurs dryly to Matthias in Fjerdan, voice soft enough not to be overheard amidst the conversation, and Matthias lets out a humorless chuckle. “Being willing to turn my back on old friendships for the sake of the great Brekker masterplan?”

“I think that’s the initiation ritual,” Matthias mutters back, and it prompts a smile, at least, her clenched jaw relaxing.

It occurs to her how unbelievably stupid it is to want his approval — demjin, says a voice in her head that sounds like Matthias’, but there’s a fondness there that’s entirely Astoria. In another world, they might have been friends. Here, now, she’s not sure it’ll ever be possible, but the weight of what if hangs in the air around him.

Kaz steps out to get a breath of fresh air, and Astoria follows quietly; he looks as though he expected this, and she leans against the wall of a mausoleum, arms crossed over her chest.

“You couldn’t have known Nina would make that threat. You couldn’t have known about the kidnappings. But it feels like you were prepared for that all the same.”

“I’m prepared for most things.”

“I’m starting to see that.” Astoria hesitates, then — “Jesper’s leaving. Going back to Novyi Zem with his father. Wylan wants out. Nina’s going to want to leave too, if it’s not safe to stay. It’ll be her chance to go back to Ravka and the Second Army. Inej is going to pay off her indenture, isn’t she?”

“If you have questions about what Inej is doing, then you should ask Inej. Am I her keeper?”

Yes. Even she can see how he looks at her, when he thinks no one is looking. She can’t hear heartbeats but she can hear the movement of blood in the body, and it has much the same end result. “Why don’t you expect me to leave?”

“Where will you go? Back to Fjerda, with Helvar in tow? You’ll both be killed within a year. You wouldn’t last in Ravka, either. He’s not going to tolerate the Wandering Isle or Shu Han, when both are so dangerous for you. And you’d get bored in Novyi Zem.”

Damn him, but he’s right.

“No home but this one, pigeon. Where will you go?” he asks again, and Astoria uncrosses her arms, only to fist her hands in her skirt. “You’ll stay in Ketterdam, sell more years to Per Haskell. You might go back to Fjerda once or twice. Helvar loves a mission. But you’ll come back to Ketterdam every time, because you’ve put the Barrel in your blood.”

Why is he always right?

“And what if I’d had a conscience?”

He laughs at that, a sharp, almost feral bark. “Astoria,” he says, and she thinks that might be the first time he’s used her name, “when have you ever cared about someone else more than yourself?”

“The Ice Court.”

“Ah, that’s right. Your drüskelle makes you soft — and if I ever need to ask you to double-cross him, then I’ll worry. But you’d let every Grisha in this city burn if it meant your survival, and no amount of lovesick sacrifice will change that about you. Conscience gets you killed. You’re not that stupid.”

She hates how well he knows her. She hates how well he understands her, in ways no one else could — not Inej, whom she admires; not Jesper, who makes her laugh; not Nina, who hears her; not Wylan, who sees her. Not even Matthias, who loves her.

But Kaz Brekker understands her. Kaz Brekker sees through her. Kaz Brekker could crack open her skull and make a map of her brain, could split open her chest and make a map of her heart, with terrifying clarity. There’s the self-preservation. There’s the selfishness. There’s the ambition. There’s the greed. He’s right; the Barrel is in her blood now, feasting on the foundation of rage her mother had given her when she was just a girl.

She feels exposed. She feels furious. She wants to wrap her hands around his neck. She wants to run as far as she can. She wants to tell him that she is tired of life wearing a choke-chain, but that if anyone must be on the other end of it, she hopes it’s always him. What a mortifying intimacy to share with someone, she thinks, cheeks coloring in the dark, almost like a twisted sort of love. A brother she never imagined, the monster under her childhood bed come to teach her how to shoot straight and pick a man’s pocket.

He watches her impassively for a moment more before turning back toward the crypt. She has to try twice before she can manage to speak.

“I’ll stay,” she says, because of course she’ll stay. “And when the others go, I’ll still be here — but this has to go both ways. You have to be as willing to protect my interests as I am to protect yours.”

He turns back to face her, expression still painfully neutral, and then he says, as easily as if he were giving her directions through the West Stave, “I found your mother. Where she is, the name she’s using, how she’s been. Get us through this and I’ll tell you everything, and not a moment before.”

She lets out a sickly laugh, chokes on it, as he heads back into the mausoleum, and she remains leaned against the wall, fingers pressed to her lips and staring at the sky, until Matthias comes to fetch her.

Nina still won’t look at her. She finds she doesn’t mind it this time.

...and one.

She’s never been so pleased with a broken nose and a gash across her cheek, but there’s some undeniable relief in knowing that, for once, she and Kaz are on the same page.

He’s been watching her closely, and she’d initially chalked it up to his distrust. No doubt looking for any way in which she falters or fumbles. She wonders now if he’d been watching to see if she could do this, if she could be trusted to get them in. If she could handle this, in particular, this greatest fear. Kaz, in his drüskelle uniform, looks as fierce and terrifying as always, but Matthias will draw attention, and that is a danger. ( A danger to all of them, but a danger to him specifically, and it’s become clearer and clearer that she cannot, will not, tolerate such a thing. )

“Anyone have a handkerchief?” she asks pleasantly, and Matthias shakes his head and Kaz raises his eyebrows, and Astoria sighs, because this would be easier with something to muffle the sound. She supposes biting her lip bloody will have to do, and she takes in a deep breath before she wraps her right fist around the middle and ring finger of her left hand and yanks back as hard as she can. The crack of her bone is audible, and Matthias looks as though he might be sick, but Kaz almost looks impressed.

“Feeling theatrical?” he asks dryly, and Astoria, face white with pain and chest heaving, takes in a shaking breath.

“The drüskelle bind our hands so we can’t use our power,” she says, voice strained. “Particularly dangerous drüsje see their hands or fingers broken, so that even if we can manage something without all that gesturing, we’re not a threat. It’s an ever-honorable tradition of giving us a fair shot.”

Kaz listens with the mild interest of someone hearing a weather report, and he only says, “Shame we tailored your hair.”

Matthias almost moves to touch Astoria, but seems to think better of it, and he whirls on Kaz instead. “Do you often strike unarmed women?” he says, his voice nearly a snarl, and Kaz shrugs.

“Less a woman than a weasel,” he says, “and she did ask.”

Weasel. She hasn’t heard that one before. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Kaz was starting to like her. For his part, Matthias looks rather as though he wishes they’d left him in Hellgate, and he takes a few steps away from them and shakes his head as if trying to shake loose his knowledge of what’s to come.

And for a moment, they’re alone, Kaz watching as she tries to tangle her hair with one working hand. A better man might ask if she was sure, might encourage her to be patient until they find another way in. And perhaps there is another way in, but this saves them precious time. ( Hadn’t she realized it, on the Ferolind? Her role was, has been, will be, as a sacrifice. The six of them will make it out, Kaz and his precious Crows, but she thinks there’s some poetry to it. Dying here, as much on her own terms as anything can be. )

Her stomach is turning somersaults but she clears her throat and meets Kaz’s eyes. She wonders, stupidly, if he’ll miss her. She’ll miss him, him and his stupid haircut and his horrible smirk and his cruel hands in their leather gloves, for whatever time she has left. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, and she clears her throat to try again.

“Spare me the goodbyes,” Kaz sighs, and Astoria shakes her head.

“Don’t let him come back for me.”

Of all the things Kaz might have been expecting, that doesn’t seem to be on the list, though he only shows it with a raise of his eyebrows.

“It’ll waste time. And wherever they’re taking me, it’s going to be well-guarded, and very, very hard to reach. If he goes in, there’s a very good chance he won’t come back out. Do not let him come back for me. Tell him whatever you have to to make it happen, but — I think you owe me, just this once.” Astoria’s eyes flicker towards Matthias and she knows she softens when she sees him. “If I’m doing this, I need to know he gets out of this godforsaken country alive.”

She expects an outburst like on the Ferolind. She wonders, for a moment, if this is why he’d encouraged her to flirt with Matthias, but that seems a bit much, even for Kaz. When she looks back at him, though, he only nods.

“He’ll make it out,” Kaz says, and she doesn’t push for the words. The deal is the deal. She’s not Kerch anyway; it doesn’t mean much to her. Besides, just this once, she trusts Kaz Brekker to do the right thing.

Matthias returns, a look of grim determination on his face, and he looks towards Astoria. “I cannot change your mind?” he asks, and Astoria shakes her head.

“It’s time.” Kaz’s voice is clear and certain, and Astoria takes in a long, slow breath before she nods.

“It’s time,” she agrees, and she lets them guide her as she takes her last steps.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( kaz brekker )#(yes this is also a tag drop)#ii. i forgot softness because it did not serve me. ( kaz brekker )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#tw: suicidal ideation #(dialogue in number five between kaz - nina - inej taken directly from crooked kingdom)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@corpsewitchery | HENRY WHELAN ( plotted starter )

She’s not often in this part of town — but there are only a handful of people Kaz will send alone into Dime Lions territory, and she is one of them. It’s a matter of practicality rather than any real trust on his part — the simple truth is that anyone who knows what she is would be a fool to give her much trouble, and anyone who doesn’t know would have a mess on their hands. There’s a small purse of kruge tucked away in one of the inner pockets of her jacket, and she’s enjoying the afternoon.

( It doesn’t mean she’s going in without any reinforcement — if she’s not back in two hours she’s asked Matthias to please feel free to tear the city apart until she’s returned — but for the moment, Astoria enjoys the freedom to walk at her own pace. )

There are also only a handful of people willing to arrive at Pekka Rollins’ office in the Emerald Palace without an appointment, but she’s one of them, hands in her pockets and a bright smile on her face, and when one of Rollins’ lieutenants leads her into the office with a scowl, she gives him an elaborate bow before following. ( Part of what she does is ensure that the Dregs don’t seem worried. Kaz’s intensity has unsettled plenty of people over the years but it’s gotten worse of late, without Inej, and Astoria smooths things over where she can. If keeping Pekka Rollins from coming to the Crow Club helps, she’ll do it. )

Astoria knocks on the door and steps in when she’s been invited, and she lounges comfortably against the doorframe. “Morning, sir,” she says politely, even cheerfully, and a quick sweep of the office shows that he has company — a slender blonde girl, and a taller, gruffer man with red hair that reminds her of her own and a peculiar expression on his face. “Hope it’s not a bad time. I have a delivery for you.”

( She tells herself not to be too distracted by the other man, and the strange, impossible familiarity she feels looking at him. )

#corpsewitchery #corpsewitchery ( henry whelan )#thread: corpsewitchery001 #v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#(i'm so EXCITED)

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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@clpdwings said: five times of comparing matthias to the ice and one time he wasn't. ( five times | accepting )

one.

They stand with their backs to the door, Astoria’s shirt cast aside, her hair gathered over her left shoulder. Tidemaker and Heartrender stand together, and Nina’s hands glide across her companion’s tattooed skin — red lilies in bloom, beginning at her right shoulder and cascading over her back, the petals of the bottommost lily dipping just below the waistband of her skirt. It’s the sole burst of color on her skin — the other tattoos entirely black ink — and Nina marvels audibly.

“Must have hurt,” she hums, and Astoria laughs.

“Especially over my spine.”

“Why’d you get it?”

“To own my own body again. Nineteen years in Fjerda made it everything besides a body — weapon of war, tool of destruction, vessel of sin. Now, it’s a work of art.” Astoria looks fondly at the ink that curls tenderly over her shoulder, but there’s some sorrow in her eyes. “I hate to cover it, but the more attention we can avoid in the Ice Court, the better. And I figured, better to start sooner than later with this. Your hands will be full with all my hair.”

Nina laughs, that beautiful belly-laugh that warms Astoria to her core despite the chill in the air. “Thank you for that. Could we cut it, maybe?”

Astoria looks at the hair in question, deep red curls that fall to her elbows; she certainly has enough to send Matthias back with a belt made from her braided hair, and unbidden comes the image of Matthias binding her hands with her own cut hair. She clears her throat, lets out a little laugh that sounds rattling and dry in her throat, and she says, tentatively, “You’ll be tailoring Matthias too?”

“Mm. Black hair, I think. Brown eyes. He’s so tall, and he’ll draw attention whether or not we want him to, but those eyes have to go. They’re too — ”

Remarkable, Astoria thinks despite herself, and she nods at whatever Nina says. Poor Nina is exhausted — between caring for Inej and the discomfort of being on a ship again, it’s been a great deal to carry, and she chatters comfortably as she starts at Astoria’s shoulder and begins the work. Her eyes are trained on Astoria’s tattoos as she talks, filling Astoria in on gossip from the White Rose, while Astoria listens, a small smile on her face, her eyes flickering across the reflection of her face.

They’ll have to change her, too. Her hair will become brown, not unlike Nina’s, and her eyes will darken to a deep blue. She sees the movement in the mirror before she hears it, and poor Nina, tired and distracted, doesn’t hear the arrival of a new heartbeat — but Astoria stops to listen for the sound of water, and she hears it as it picks up and beats an erratic rhythm.

She sees him in the mirror, too, his eyes widening at the sight of her half-undressed, the pale skin of her back against the deep deep red of the lilies, and she feels something shift in her.

Astoria knows what she looks like, for all her jokes about her hair as the great draw. She knows that she has a graceful neck that begs to be marked, that the curve of her neck into her shoulders is like poetry. Elzinger used to tease that he could compose sonnets about the line of her spine along her bare back, which is now marked, beyond the tattoos, only by a puckered pink scar from the very same man’s knife. She can’t quite see where Matthias’ eyes are, only that they’re moving over her bare skin as if he’s in a daze.

For all her respect for his vow, she finds she wants to be watched. Astoria likes the thought of him looking at her, and so she keeps her eyes fixed on his reflection and she hooks the thumb of her left hand under the waistband of her skirt. Still watching him, she pulls it down enough to expose the last of the lilies, and at her left side, she pulls it down farther, exposing the second tattoo in its entirety.

She listens for the sound of his breath catching, but either Nina is speaking too loudly, or Matthias is all Fjerdan ice. His eyes move to the newly exposed skin before dragging up to her shoulder, along her hair, her eyes on his in the mirror.

Astoria smiles, then, and she rolls her lower lip between her teeth and bites down before releasing it again.

For his part, Matthias, his expression inscrutible, simply takes a step back and out of the room, closing the door silently behind him. Ice, she decides, a little disappointed, but what had she been hoping for? For him to leap across the room and crawl under her skirt?

Nina continues speaking beside her, unaware of their visit, and Astoria says nothing until she’s finished. When she dresses again and goes to leave, she finds Matthias on the other side of the door — had he stayed? Had he left and returned? — and when he sees her, he simply nods before stepping into the room. He won’t meet her eyes.

two.

She is ashamed to admit to any weakness, but especially now, and especially with him. The house beside them is unremarkable, painted a deep emerald green that looks almost blue when the sky is overcast; about a foot from the street, on the front wall, there is a smudge that came from a little hand and a great deal of mud that baked against the wall under the summer sun.

Veronika had laughed when she’d seen it, and had pressed a kiss to the top of Astoria’s hair and told her that now the house was theirs forever, and that this would always be home. She catches sight of that smudge and she feels the wind knocked out of her.

And the worst of it is that there’s no one else to turn to but him, a drüskelle desperate to don his cloak once more. Nina and Inej and Jesper and Wylan know next to nothing about her childhood, certainly not the street where she grew up, or the little gap between the stones in the street where her foot got caught every spring between the ages of six and fourteen. Her left ankle is still perpetually a little tender as a result of the annual twists. They don’t know that this is where her first love begged her to marry him and where she’d turned him down, because she couldn’t tell him the truth and she wouldn’t have that hanging over them. They don’t know that this is where she told her closest friend, the boy across the street, that she could make the water dance at her fingertips, or that this is where she saw the white of her own bone piercing through her skin and the deep red of her mother’s blood spattered across the floor before her vision went black, black, black.

Kaz knows most of this. And were Kaz anyone else she would turn to him for comfort, but Kaz is himself, is Dirtyhands, is the Bastard of the Barrel. Kaz won’t hold her hand and stroke her hair and comfort her weariness, nor will he look kindly on the way she’s struggling to breathe if she calls his name. The others are huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, and only Matthias walks near her.

�� She doesn’t think — she reaches for him, clutching the sleeve of his shirt almost desperately. He looks down at her, his eyes the wrong color but still a strange comfort all the same, and then his eyes follow hers to the house, and she sees the recognition in his face.

Matthias doesn’t say a word; instead, he shakes her free from his sleeve and winds his arm around her shoulders, knowing that if she is left to her own devices the urge to walk through that front door and look for any trace of herself, of her mother, of the life that they lived there, will be too strong to resist. His grip is strong and sustained, his hand curled around her upper arm just tightly enough to steer her. There is something so comforting about him like this, when he embodies home — solid as the ice, reliable as the snow in the winter.

In these moments she thinks she can understand how Nina fell in love with him a year before, and Astoria wonders, not for the first time, if she is in entirely over her head.

When they pass the house he releases her; she puts a step of distance between them, but not before murmuring a quiet thank you. She fixes her eyes on Jesper’s back, a few feet in front of them, and she doesn’t see the way he flexes his hand, gaze flickering to his fingers, then, all too quickly, to her face.

When she turns to look at him again, he’s staring straight ahead, and she tells herself that she doesn’t feel the disappointment settling in her stomach like a stone in the water.

three.

If she could apologize to him now, she would, but they must play their parts if they are to survive. Beside her, Kaz has her blood on his cane, and for the first time since they boarded the Ferolind she trusts him to do what’s right, not just for the Crows but for her.

( It means that he’ll leave her there. It means that he’ll do as she asked and do his best to prevent Matthias from following. This is her share of the take: keep him safe, do not let him throw himself headfirst into danger for her sake, do not compromise his well-being for her own. She casts a look over her shoulder at Kaz, who doesn’t say a word, but he offers the barest hint of a nod. The deal is the deal. He will trade her life for theirs, and he won’t look back, and if they’re lucky and Matthias is the man she feared, the man she hopes, he’ll leave her there, too. )

Astoria wears an expression of rage and defiance, blood drying around her mouth and under her nose, three of her fingers crooked and swelling, her hands bound behind her. Matthias’ hand is curled around her elbow and he guides her forward more gently than is necessary, and she wants to tell him to push her, to make her stumble, to insult her and shove her and make it look real.

More than that she wants to press close to him and let him taste her blood in her mouth and tell him that if they had more time, if they just had more time, she would have spent it with him. She will be the next in a line of women to leave him, and if she’s very lucky, he’ll forget her in a short while; she can be a memory for him to share with his good Fjerdan wife and his good Fjerdan children, the drüsje who heard songs in the water and thought the melody of his blood was the sweetest she’d heard, the witch audacious enough to spend her last thoughts on the shape of his mouth and the gentleness of his eyes and the power of his hands.

Instead, she says nothing, and she won’t turn to look at him, because if she turns to look at him she will weep, and she will beg, and she would rather he remember her like this. When the doors come into their field of vision, she clears her throat, and she feels Matthias’ hand tighten around her elbow.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a beat. “This is going to be unpleasant. But I’ll be fine.”

She is, it will, she won’t. She wants to wrap herself in his arms and close her eyes to the world and forget that this was ever a thought that crossed her mind, but if she doesn’t do this, they may not have the time to finish this, and get out. And she thinks of the others — Jesper’s debts paid and Inej free of her indenture and Wylan’s anger sated and Nina’s penance fulfilled and Kaz’s power grown and Matthias finally, finally coming home.

The doors open. She misses the details of the conversation, and she flinches away from him when he turns his eyes to her. Behind her, Matthias grips her arm even tighter, as if he means to pull her away from there himself — but then the drüskelle speaking to them grabs her and calls for another to help him escort her to a cell, and she screams.

It’s an awful scream, filled with a fear she couldn’t feign if she tried — desperate and primal in its terror, and she is nineteen years old she is eleven years old she is four years old she is crying now, thrashing against their hold, and when she looks back over her shoulder for one last glance at them, Kaz’s shoulders are hunched, just barely, and Matthias is cold, unmoving. Unforgiving as the Fjerdan ice. For a moment she feels real doubt — had he wanted this from the start? Had he craved the sight of her bloodied and thrown to his brothers for whatever bloody retribution they intended to exact?

When they hang her bound hands from a hook in her cell, she closes her eyes and she thinks of her mother, whom she loved, and her father, whom she never knew, and the first boy who said he loved her and asked her to be his wife, and the sight of Matthias’ smile that first night on the Ferolind, laughing at some shared and private joke, looking at her for a moment as though she might not be a monster but a miracle.

four.

The tailoring has been removed now and he looks like Matthias, like her Matthias, just as she looks like his Astoria, with her curls a shade or two darker than the lilies restored to her back. Matthias pays inordinate attention to her hair at times, watching it in wonder as he fists his hand in her curls and marveling at the strands that get caught in his fingers. She’s been doing the same with the color of his eyes, the impossibly distracting shade of ice whenever he looks at her. Even now, she’s distracted by it, as Matthias moves beneath her, one hand grasping desperately at the headboard, the other tight around her side.

Each step has been slow, taken only at Matthias’ guidance; she’d made it clear early on that it was up to him how quickly they moved, that she would respect whatever timetable he set for abandoning the vows of celibacy and abstinence, and he has surprised her less with his timeframe than with his intensity. Every time he touches her he does so with reverence; every inch of her is holy to him, and he makes it clear to her whenever given the opportunity.

The grip of his hands sometimes leaves bruises; he’d been apologetic at first before realizing that she preferred to have a few marks from him, that the purple imprint of her fingers on her sides was intoxicating. His hand falls from the headboard and settles on her hip, guiding her, and after a moment he sits upright and he winds his arms around her and he pulls her close as she rocks against him.

It occurs to her then that she has never been so close to another living soul. There’s something almost euphoric to it — to being seen, held, known. Astoria winds an arm around his back, grips his shoulder with surprising ferocity, as if she means to keep her hold on him indefinitely. ( She does. ) Her other hand slips into his hair, but here her grip is gentle. He has been an apt student, responsive to her suggestions, watching her every move with the dedication of a lifelong scholar, and she wonders if he takes to all new things with such enthusiasm, or if it’s the sort of enthusiasm that only comes with love for the subject.

He kisses her just before she comes and he smiles against her lips when she cries out, and he follows her soon after, his hands tightening at her sides. For a long moment, neither of them move, and Astoria watches him in silence. The blue of his eyes is distracting. Wonderful. Intoxicating. She could stay like this for hours, simply watching him, and be content. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his brow, over his shoulders and chest, and his hair is a mess of tangles from her ministrations.

“You are beautiful like this,” Astoria rasps when she can speak again, her voice hoarse but genuine. Her hands fall and instead she rests them lightly against his neck, and she kisses him slowly, carefully, as though she is afraid to break the spell between them.

Spent, Matthias gingerly lowers himself back to the bed, drawing her down with him. He is everything of home worth preserving — the ice in his eyes and the strength of his hands and the way he sounds like he’s praying when he comes undone. He is beautiful, he is holy, he is pure magic — if there is enchantment to be discovered between them it’s in the way he says her name. Astoria, always, drüsje, when he teases, and mine, mine, mine. Astoria carefully climbs off of him only to curl up against his chest, one of his waiting arms winding around her shoulders the moment she’s settled in. She rests her head over his heart and she listens for the movement of his blood beneath his skin and she hears the song in him the same way she heard it in the water below the ash tree, or in the open sea, or in the snow and ice of their homeland.

“I hear Djel in you,” she says quietly. He is an honorable man and breaking any oath, no matter how little it serves him, is not something done lightly. She knows what it is to leave their old lives behind for something different, something so antithetical to everything they were taught in their youth, and she knows that it troubles him sometimes that there is nowhere to worship here, that the only god anyone prays to besides Ghezen is their own kruge. She feels it, too, though she has become skilled in pretending otherwise. She looks up at him and she says it again. “When I listen to your heartbeat, I can hear Djel singing. You are so beautiful.”

Matthias looks at her for a moment before he rolls her onto her back and hovers over her, propped up on his elbows. “What does it sound like?” he asks quietly.

He’s too far, even just inches away, and Astoria lifts herself up just enough to meet him, to press her mouth tenderly to his. “It sounds like home.”

five.

The shares in the Crow Club come with Kaz’s warning that if she shirks her duties there or with the Dregs, she will regret it, and the caveat that as a shareholder, she will need to work in the club as well. And so she learns to deal, and she spends weeks at it before Kaz lets her take over one of the card tables, until she’s able to trick Jesper and Nina both while Kaz watches her shuffle.

Her costume changes as well — the higher necks she tends to prefer when leaving her room are traded in for something a bit more dramatic and plunging, but only on the nights when she deals. If her slender hands and sweet smile don’t attract attention, then her décolletage certainly will. Matthias laces her into the corsets, littering kisses along her bare neck and shoulder as he does, and he spends the first night she deals sitting at the bar to keep an eye on things. When a patron gets loud and indignant at a loss, he walks behind her and rests a hand on her shoulder, waiting for the patron to settle down, and later, when that same patron tries to corner her to apologize, Matthias watches, eyes narrowed, as she laughs.

“Careful now,” she says, the warning tone clear in her voice. “My husband is a possessive man.”

The patron lets out a drunken laugh and curls a hand around her arm, and then the offending hand is being held in Matthias’, the sound of cracking fingers loud enough to stop conversation at another table as everyone swivels around to watch.

“She was not exaggerating,” he says, releasing the patron, who cradles his injured hand against his chest and scurries toward the door. From across the room, she sees Kaz rolling his eyes at the intervention, though she knows Kaz is less annoyed by losing a handsy customer than he is by the way Astoria presses a kiss to Matthias’ cheek afterward.

( “You’re the one who encouraged me to flirt with him,” Astoria pointed out once, and Kaz had sighed so heavily she thought for a moment he was unwell.

“I regret it everyday. I never would have if I’d guessed you two would be so disgusting in public.” )

It’s the first and last time a patron tries anything similar, but Matthias spends time in the club with her when he can spare it, his fingers brushing along the back of her neck when he walks past. It keeps the patrons thinking she’s honest — too easily distracted to cheat, or catch them cheating — and it makes her smile every time he does it. It’s only once or twice a week, on a trial basis while they keep track of how much she brings in, but there’s a chance it will continue.

The rain that night is cold and heavy, and Astoria shivers a bit as she settles in at the table. Matthias isn’t with her tonight; he’s with Jesper, delivering a message. ( She had kissed Matthias goodbye warmly, and when she’d pulled away, Jesper offered his cheek expectantly and asked, “Where’s mine?” as she laughed. ) They hadn’t told her what they were looking for, and Astoria knew better than to press. Wylan is sitting at the bar, keeping her company, fidgeting with something she can’t identify, and Kaz is in his office.

There are no clocks, no windows, and so she keeps track of time by the drinks served and the men working behind the bar. She nurses her own gin for well over an hour, and it takes some time for her to worry. It’s only a job; they’ve done this a dozen times by now, and rarely, if ever, with incident. ( But there are still things that concern her. The Dregs’ victory does not mean that they are beyond anyone’s reach. )

She worries when Wylan, yawning, takes his leave of her. She worries when Jesper returns and Matthias does not, and when Jesper makes a point to avoid her as he moves through the club. Still, she focuses her attention on the cards, on the players and their clumsy hands and their eager faces. She smiles, and she shuffles, and she deals, and she doesn’t lose her composure even when she sees Kaz standing in a doorway, watching, unmoving.

When her shift ends she approaches him, and the only thing he says is, “There was trouble, and they were split up. We’re not sure where Matthias is.”

She doesn’t bother to change; she only grabs the long leather coat she wears in the rain from where she’d left it in behind the bar and she slips out of the Crow Club without another word, the low heel of her boots clicking, her hands shoved into her pockets and shoulders hunched and her hair dripping wet after only a few moments outside.

She knows every street of the Fifth Harbor inside out and backwards, just like she knows that it’s foolish for her to walk those streets alone, but she carries herself with a confidence she doesn’t quite feel and she cuts through the night as quickly as she can, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from drunken tourists. One falls into step beside her — a university student, she thinks, given his bearing and his obvious wealth — and he grins.

“This is a bad part of town for a pretty face,” he tells her, and the look she gives him is enough for him to stumble back as if pushed.

She’s out less than an hour, but long enough that she’s starting to feel hopeless, when she feels an icy hand brush along the back of her neck. Astoria whirls around, hands raised, only to let out a sigh of relief when she sees him — Matthias, shivering and soaked through, his face white from pain but wearing a smile nonetheless.

“What happened? Where have you been?”

“We were separated. I was injured. Nothing terrible,” he rushes to assure her, seeing her eyes widen, “but with this rain, I need to go slowly.”

She notices now that he’s favoring a leg, and she crouches down for a better look, her skirts soaking as she does. It looks like a break, his ankle bruised and swollen; there are a few scrapes on his hands and his knuckles are split and he’s sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek but otherwise, he looks whole.

She wants to ask who it was to touch him, whether or not any of them are nearby, if he’d mind terribly if she split their skulls open, but she’s too relieved to have him in front of her again to manage any of that. Instead, Astoria stands on her toes; his lips are cold, too, when she reaches them. When she settles back on her heels she takes his icy hands in hers and she warms them, and she moves around to wrap her arm around his waist, pulling his over her shoulders, on his injured side.

“Lean on me,” she says. “Try not to put weight on it. We’ll get you a medik, but first, let’s get you home.”

He shivers against her and she only pulls him closer. They begin their slow walk back to the Slat, the both of them soaked through and freezing when they arrive.

He falls asleep with his nose buried in her hair and his arm around her and his cold hands held lovingly in hers.

...and one.

They’d had no luck in Elling. Perhaps Veronika had gotten wind of Kaz’s agents looking for information, or perhaps she’d simply grown tired of the city, but by the time they reach it, she’s nowhere to be found, and neighbors report that a woman fitting her description vanished without warning one night weeks before.

There is some finality to it. She is alone in the world, now, except for the Dregs; the only family she knows is gone, determined not to be found, and Astoria doubts that she’ll be able to manage it. Matthias had wound his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her temple after she heard the news, but she had been less troubled than she might have imagined. She still has family.

That family is asleep now; they’ve taken shelter in a cave and huddled together, shivering, while they waited for a freak storm to pass. With them is the proof that their endeavor had been a success in part if not in whole: Matthias is curled up around a wolf he’d introduced as Trassel, who bared his teeth at Astoria at first before licking Matthias’ face and trying to climb into his lap. The laughter that echoed off the ice had been so bright, so warm, that her heart ached to hear it, and despite her discomfort Astoria has already begun to think of the isenulf as an extension of Matthias and, thus, as something she loves.

He looks younger in sleep, she realizes fondly. If he hadn’t fallen asleep beside a massive killing machine against which she had no defense, she would stroke his hair back, or curl up beside him; she can’t sleep, too uneasy with their company, and sits watch instead. She wonders if this will be the first night of many that she’s displaced by a wolf, but she supposes she can learn to live with it.

They should get a bigger bed, she thinks. Or, perhaps, find a place of their own, if there’s nothing bigger available at the Slat. There’s something almost comical about it, imagining playing house with Matthias while she’s huddling in a cave not unlike where she took refuge when she fled Fjerda in the first place. They’ll get a massive bed with room enough for the cats and Trassel both, and Matthias can sleep in the dead center, flanked by the great loves of his life. She’ll paint the front door emerald green and they’ll hang an ash bough over the hearth.

He wakes slowly, comfortably, and he stretches, reaching for her. He’s careful not to disturb the wolf beside him, who yawns and rolls onto his back, much more a needy pup than an insenulf in the moment. When he looks at Astoria he smiles, the dying fire reflecting in his eyes.

“You can continue to rest,” Astoria says gently. “The storm won’t stop anytime soon.”

“He won’t harm you.” Matthias’ voice is soft, and terribly sweet. “You can sleep too.”

“Who will tend the fire if I do that?”

“We are plenty warm here. You look exhausted.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I look radiant.”

“You are beautiful,” he promises, “but you look tired. Come.” He rolls onto his other side, Trassel settling against his back, and he gestures for Astoria to join him.

He is warm when she stretches out obediently beside him, her head tucked under his chin and her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, their cloaks through together over the both of them.

“I am sorry we could not find her,” he says finally, and Astoria shakes her head.

“Don’t be. She knows what she is doing. I’m glad we found him.” Beside Matthias, the wolf lets out a noise that sounds a bit like a snore. “You seem brighter than I’ve ever seen you before.”

And there’s that smile again, so beautiful it almost hurts to see.

“We may need more room than what we have at the Slat,” he murmurs, and Astoria laughs, nestling closer.

“We may,” she agrees, and her eyes feel heavy, and when he drops a kiss to the top of her head moments later, she’s already asleep.

She wakes hours later, warm in his grasp, a weight across their bodies. Trassel is asleep across the both of them, his massive head resting on Astoria’s hip, and she doesn’t move except to reach down and scratch gently behind his ears.

#clpdwings #clpdwings ( matthias helvar )#i. here's the truth from my red lips. ( answers )#v. i savor bitterness. it is born of experience. it is the privilege of one who has truly lived. ( grishaverse | ketterdam )#iii. until i wrap myself inside your arms i cannot rest. ( matthias x astoria )#nsfw;#(i thought this one was gonna be shorter and then it clocked in at...)#(5.2k lmao love u sorry 2 never have a reasonable length for anything i write)

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