Neither the topic at hand nor Zoya's chosen moment to initiate discussion are entirely a surprise. Nikolai knows Zoya well enough to be certain she wouldn't simply let the matter pass without comment. It had only been a matter of when, and of course, she had decided upon a moment when she held a clear advantage.
That does not, however, mean Nikolai is willing to make it easy for her.
"This kind of talk isn't conducive to sweet dreams, Zoya," he tells her, tone easy and bright in spite of their evening ritual. "Consider, a discussion over breakfast—tea, toast, eggs, surely a better setting for scolding me."
He flashes a smile up at her from where he's sat on the edge of the bed, making no movement yet to maneuver back onto the mattress and settle against the pillows. Maybe only for the pleasure of hearing Zoya order him into place.
"You don't want me to scold you when I'm hungry, Your Highness," she says drily. "The chances of regicide are much higher."
Another person might express concern for his well-being by sitting next to him on that soft bed, touching his shoulder, speaking in gentle tones. Zoya retreats a small distance, back straight, before going on.
"Ravka's king doesn't need to be personally testing every Saintsforsaken prototype that David puts in a good word for."
Ah, so the task of managing manacles and chains falls to him this evening.
Or partially to him. There's a limit to even his ingenuity, which he's prepared to magnanimously remind Zoya of when the moment comes.
(For a split second, untangling the lengths of heavy chain, Nikolai looks very tired. But surely, a trick of the light.)
"Ravka's king needs to be demonstrating faith in David's judgement, and the work of our people," he counters, amidst the tumbling clinks of metal as he sorts the chain out across his thighs. "If nothing else, we certainly know it can withstand a rough landing."
This is certainly not the right moment to point out he's had worse crashes. Instead, he flashes her a smile before turning to sling one manacle around the wrought iron loops of the headboard and begin the process of weaving the first length of chain into place.
Nikolai's smiles are like the fall of leaves when winter comes: plentiful, and useless.
They don't say anything about what's really going through his head, except in the most indirect of ways: he would always be smiling, always be pleasing people, if he had his way, and so when he's trying especially hard, he has to be feeling especially low. Now, his expression only tells her the obvious, the nightly anxieties about the monster inside of him, uncertainties for Ravka's future, the never-ending task of pulling their nation from the brink. What's more telling is the way his hands move on the chain, the shadows under his eyes, the lines of his shoulders and set to his spine as he turns from her.
"What a comfort that is," she says acidly. "If you'd broken your neck, at least we would've known you had faith in us. I'm sure that would've carried us through the next civil war."
The headboard is of custom-make, more expensive for the materials used to craft it. Iron that was heavier than it had any right to be, considering it was for nothing more than the king's bed. (There could be no chance taken on wood, liable to splinter in the night.) The chains slot and hook on the curling vibes. Nikolai pulls the lengths taut, then winds them around his hands, leaning back and suspending his weight for a moment as he glances over his shoulder at Zoya.
"Please. I have no intentions of dying of something as mundane as a broken neck."
His smile widens, chains creaking as he sways on them before letting go. When he kneels back, the pillows are left askew, coverlet rumpled.
"Consider: I survived," Nikolai coaxes. "And next time, I will let you approve the prototype before I try to crash it."
No, she thinks. He must imagine his death as full of spectacle, heroism and explosions, maybe a dramatic shipwreck or two. Or at least, that's what he'd say if she asked him; so she doesn't allow him the pleasure.
"Next time," she scoffs instead, "because of course there will be a next time."
How much time does Zoya spend being frustrated by him, by the risks to his life? But that's a natural thing. She's survived one war that tore this country apart; of course she'd have no desire to see another. Of course she'd prefer this fool — a canny one, a kind one — over a cruel or power-hungry fool on the throne. Any threats to him are threats to Ravka. She blows out a breath, annoyed, and moves towards the foot of the bed, starts with the work of threading another length of chain through its railing. Her work is none too gentle; clanking iron certainly doesn't need her to be.
"Are you going to lay down, or are you waiting for me to sing you a lullaby first?"
Nikolai could tell her otherwise, but it would be a lie. And why should he lie to Zoya? Zoya, who is privy to the worst of him, the monster scratching beneath his skin?
"Were lullabies on offer the entire time?" is a momentary stall, just a brief reprieve before he does turn again, easing down to the mattress.
They can't put this off. He has to sleep. And Zoya has to do whatever it is she does at night, whatever secret business she keeps to herself. Drawing out their little ritual benefits neither of them, and yet—
— and yet it's not unkindly when Zoya says, "I'm sure Tolya would be happy to recite some verses for you."
Nor when she steps closer to him, enclosing the shackles around each of his bare ankles, making sure the locks are secure. She works with a minimum of fuss, all efficiency, and doesn't linger with her touch.
As she does, she goes on, "I'll come to wake you early. Jellen Radmakker wants to discuss loan terms with you over breakfast." She wrinkles her nose, manages to make it look haughty. "Because it's never too early in the morning for the Kerch to talk about money. It's uncouth."
One shackled ankle jangles, jittery movement perhaps easily mistaken for impatience. The metal is cold, and it's heavy. It's uncomfortable. But it's better than waking naked in a field, with something else's blood in his mouth.
"What about our breakfast plans?" he questions, none of the discomfort of apprehension reaching his voice. Mock-plaintive, eyes wide as Zoya latches the second manacle closed. "I'd far rather be scolded over my coffee by you than flatter Jellen Radmakker."
And he would have to flatter Jellen Radmakker, enough so that Ravka wasn't bled dry before the country had a chance to recover. This too is not something Nikolai can delay.
"Will you join us?" is the better question, more serious than the flippant complaints Nikolai had led with.
She doesn't look up until she's done with the second shackle, fingers lingering on the cool metal, a slight brush against his skin.
"Do you want me to?" A stupid question, of course. He wouldn't ask otherwise. Then, "Your general sitting by your side may send the wrong message."
And it would, of course, send a message. They don't know Radmakker's stance on Grisha, but there's no denying the role Zoya occupies in Ravka's military. They may look like they're attempting a misguided show of force, a poor nation baring its claws at its creditor. But on the other hand, Zoya is a beautiful woman; and Radmakker wouldn't be the first powerful man to let his guard slip in her presence. Any small inroad is all the opportunity Nikolai needs to wheedle clemency out of Kerch.
Zoya is not charming, unless she wants to be. She is not much of a negotiator either, if Nikolai is honest. But she is (a comfort) shrewd and clever, and perhaps Radmakker should bear a reminder back to his fellows that Ravka is poor but not weak.
And beyond that, there is some sense in keeping Radmakker outnumbered. Who wouldn't be nudged off balance, just a little, by Zoya?
Her fingers feel warmer than they should in contrast to the shackle.
"You don't think it would be nice to remind him that we're not so helpless?" Nikolai returns, with an easy levity in spite of the topic, the debt, the maneuvering he's going to have to do. "So long as you don't scare him out of the room, I think it might be beneficial for our discussion."
She arches an eyebrow rather than say no promises aloud. Merchant Council though he may be, she doubts Radmakker has seen anything of real war or danger — or power — while spending his days cosseted in Ketterdam. Maybe he is due a little intimidation, a little taste of Ravka's might.
Besides, she's capable of restraining herself. She just chooses not to, much of the time.
"I'll be there," she says, "so long as I get as much of the good tea for my trouble as I want."
"I always keep the good tea aside for you," Nikolai promises, expression very earnest. He'd folded his hands over his belly out of habit, for lack of anything better to do, but the lull in conversation prompts him to unlace his fingers, reach up towards the looping iron of the headboard.
Why make Zoya prompt him a second time? They both know what must be done.
To fill the silence, he prompts: "Is it too late for the lullaby?"
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no subject
That does not, however, mean Nikolai is willing to make it easy for her.
"This kind of talk isn't conducive to sweet dreams, Zoya," he tells her, tone easy and bright in spite of their evening ritual. "Consider, a discussion over breakfast—tea, toast, eggs, surely a better setting for scolding me."
He flashes a smile up at her from where he's sat on the edge of the bed, making no movement yet to maneuver back onto the mattress and settle against the pillows. Maybe only for the pleasure of hearing Zoya order him into place.
no subject
"You don't want me to scold you when I'm hungry, Your Highness," she says drily. "The chances of regicide are much higher."
Another person might express concern for his well-being by sitting next to him on that soft bed, touching his shoulder, speaking in gentle tones. Zoya retreats a small distance, back straight, before going on.
"Ravka's king doesn't need to be personally testing every Saintsforsaken prototype that David puts in a good word for."
no subject
Or partially to him. There's a limit to even his ingenuity, which he's prepared to magnanimously remind Zoya of when the moment comes.
(For a split second, untangling the lengths of heavy chain, Nikolai looks very tired. But surely, a trick of the light.)
"Ravka's king needs to be demonstrating faith in David's judgement, and the work of our people," he counters, amidst the tumbling clinks of metal as he sorts the chain out across his thighs. "If nothing else, we certainly know it can withstand a rough landing."
This is certainly not the right moment to point out he's had worse crashes. Instead, he flashes her a smile before turning to sling one manacle around the wrought iron loops of the headboard and begin the process of weaving the first length of chain into place.
no subject
They don't say anything about what's really going through his head, except in the most indirect of ways: he would always be smiling, always be pleasing people, if he had his way, and so when he's trying especially hard, he has to be feeling especially low. Now, his expression only tells her the obvious, the nightly anxieties about the monster inside of him, uncertainties for Ravka's future, the never-ending task of pulling their nation from the brink. What's more telling is the way his hands move on the chain, the shadows under his eyes, the lines of his shoulders and set to his spine as he turns from her.
"What a comfort that is," she says acidly. "If you'd broken your neck, at least we would've known you had faith in us. I'm sure that would've carried us through the next civil war."
no subject
"Please. I have no intentions of dying of something as mundane as a broken neck."
His smile widens, chains creaking as he sways on them before letting go. When he kneels back, the pillows are left askew, coverlet rumpled.
"Consider: I survived," Nikolai coaxes. "And next time, I will let you approve the prototype before I try to crash it."
no subject
"Next time," she scoffs instead, "because of course there will be a next time."
How much time does Zoya spend being frustrated by him, by the risks to his life? But that's a natural thing. She's survived one war that tore this country apart; of course she'd have no desire to see another. Of course she'd prefer this fool — a canny one, a kind one — over a cruel or power-hungry fool on the throne. Any threats to him are threats to Ravka. She blows out a breath, annoyed, and moves towards the foot of the bed, starts with the work of threading another length of chain through its railing. Her work is none too gentle; clanking iron certainly doesn't need her to be.
"Are you going to lay down, or are you waiting for me to sing you a lullaby first?"
no subject
Nikolai could tell her otherwise, but it would be a lie. And why should he lie to Zoya? Zoya, who is privy to the worst of him, the monster scratching beneath his skin?
"Were lullabies on offer the entire time?" is a momentary stall, just a brief reprieve before he does turn again, easing down to the mattress.
They can't put this off. He has to sleep. And Zoya has to do whatever it is she does at night, whatever secret business she keeps to herself. Drawing out their little ritual benefits neither of them, and yet—
no subject
Nor when she steps closer to him, enclosing the shackles around each of his bare ankles, making sure the locks are secure. She works with a minimum of fuss, all efficiency, and doesn't linger with her touch.
As she does, she goes on, "I'll come to wake you early. Jellen Radmakker wants to discuss loan terms with you over breakfast." She wrinkles her nose, manages to make it look haughty. "Because it's never too early in the morning for the Kerch to talk about money. It's uncouth."
no subject
"What about our breakfast plans?" he questions, none of the discomfort of apprehension reaching his voice. Mock-plaintive, eyes wide as Zoya latches the second manacle closed. "I'd far rather be scolded over my coffee by you than flatter Jellen Radmakker."
And he would have to flatter Jellen Radmakker, enough so that Ravka wasn't bled dry before the country had a chance to recover. This too is not something Nikolai can delay.
"Will you join us?" is the better question, more serious than the flippant complaints Nikolai had led with.
no subject
"Do you want me to?" A stupid question, of course. He wouldn't ask otherwise. Then, "Your general sitting by your side may send the wrong message."
And it would, of course, send a message. They don't know Radmakker's stance on Grisha, but there's no denying the role Zoya occupies in Ravka's military. They may look like they're attempting a misguided show of force, a poor nation baring its claws at its creditor. But on the other hand, Zoya is a beautiful woman; and Radmakker wouldn't be the first powerful man to let his guard slip in her presence. Any small inroad is all the opportunity Nikolai needs to wheedle clemency out of Kerch.
no subject
And beyond that, there is some sense in keeping Radmakker outnumbered. Who wouldn't be nudged off balance, just a little, by Zoya?
Her fingers feel warmer than they should in contrast to the shackle.
"You don't think it would be nice to remind him that we're not so helpless?" Nikolai returns, with an easy levity in spite of the topic, the debt, the maneuvering he's going to have to do. "So long as you don't scare him out of the room, I think it might be beneficial for our discussion."
no subject
Besides, she's capable of restraining herself. She just chooses not to, much of the time.
"I'll be there," she says, "so long as I get as much of the good tea for my trouble as I want."
no subject
Why make Zoya prompt him a second time? They both know what must be done.
To fill the silence, he prompts: "Is it too late for the lullaby?"
no subject
"I don't know any."