Not immediately, anyway.
Satisfaction swelled the moment his amber eyes turned towards her with the need for answers; she enjoyed that brief flame of power, no question. But she was not minded for secrets, and it was his collusion she desired, not his frustration; for what she really wanted was for Sören to look at her and finally see an equal.
His business with the Northbrooks and their daughter had concluded, and Zhenya could not be too long away from her responsibilities in Moscow. A few scant days passed before he announced his attention to move on. She was afraid he might once again choose to disappear into the ether, and that if he did she might not be able to find him again, forewarned now as he was with how determined her nature could be when her interest caught aflame. He looked at her sometimes with such deep consideration that he must be weighing that balance, but if he refused her details that involved the more shadowy aspects of his life, the lure to her proved too strong to stay away completely.
As the months began to trickle by, Zhenya journeyed to meet him when both their schedules permitted. His travels were extensive across the Custody’s face, and on occasion beyond, though she did not follow him outside its borders. He rarely called, and if he did the conversation was terse and to his own end: questions sprayed like bullets. She preferred to see him in person.
Their meetings strung together like pearls on a necklace for her; brief moments of Other amidst the pursuits of her ordinary existence, otherwise spent working dutifully towards one day leading the family business.
She discovered an inquisitive charm hid within the shadows of his more stoic nature, and she was emboldened to glimpse it, knowing the gift not something lightly shared with others. He spoke of no family despite her gentle probing, but no man could truly be so rootless -- she found it a particularly haunting sadness, though he seemed quite inured to it by the flat look he gave her when she said as such. Though mostly their research comprised the power, in his lighter moods he quoted of literature and poetry, or spoke of history and mythology, not quite with the energised passions of her own, but more akin to thrusting his arms into the fire to retrieve something of value. It proved a brittle intensity at times, for on occasion his attention would catch the edge of her fond smile and sizzle abruptly to coolness.
Perhaps most surprising to her was that the man liked stories. When she did coax him to share anything real of his life, that was what he wove -- the tallest tales imaginable, and such beautifully eloquent lies as to sear the soul. Though she long suspected that buried within them lay the hidden treasure of truth; a puzzle as fascinating as the music box. Among the myriad pieces he spoke of a mute child who read the wings of birds and divined truth; of a queer young woman who painted new realities into the world with a palette of her own blood; and of forgotten kings and their beautiful princes, sculptured from the ashes of an ancient kingdom.
“And what story do you tell of me?” she would tease, but usually he only grunted that he did not tell such stories to anyone else, for she was the only one foolish enough to listen.
It had been clear from the beginning that her mastery in the intervening years had grown to surpass his own, a disparity that honed his edge to competitiveness until they found more even a footing. Zhenya intuited her discoveries in ways that made him frown and unpick her reasoning with questions whenever she shared anything new, but he was able to unearth the most esoteric knowledge to aid the foundations of their learning, like the entire world around them charmed to his curiosity. How he did that he would never say, and frustrated by the silences such questions engendered she began to choose simply not to ask.
Today the edge of Sören’s mood was like the eerie light of a promised storm, fraught with restlessness. Outside the weather was not much better, though it was a languid rain unencumbered by anything but the sweetness of Spring. Perhaps that was just the essence of Paris; Zhenya’s was a romantic soul, after all, and the Louvre might have been magical with anyone else; or even him, had the frown not been quite so armoured to his face. She slipped her arm through his, unperturbed by his prickly shell. He was well dressed today, perhaps because he was known professionally to the staff here; she understood him to cultivate a plethora of identities, the name he had first given her among them. Not that she particularly minded when he played the vagabond, either.
Seiðr filled her gently, explored as any other sense amongst the exhibits they passed. Nothing called to her the way the music box did, of course; such a rarity she had never seen before or since. It’s not what she was seeking anyhow; rather, steeped by such rich history she wanted to enjoy it with fullness, discovering deeper than eye alone. Sören remained mostly silent beside her, though occasionally she courted his attention to something or other with a tug of the power, seeking either reaction or interest. It was something of a game, perhaps because she knew her frivolous use of it annoyed him -- yet he indulged without ever reacting in kind, despite that the playfulness was kindly meant.
“Do you think there is a way for us to work together?” she leaned in and asked after some long stretch of quiet, unusual even for him. It was a question she had been running curiously through her mind for a while, though she had planned to have a better understanding of how before she broached it with him. Or at least a suggestion for how they might begin to test the possibility. Offering it out now ought to have sunk deep ripples of interest into his expression, snaring his focus to her upturned gaze. Instead it only skimmed the surface.
“Incompatible streams of power. You feel like a shiver. I am beyond your comprehension.”
“Yes,” she agreed dryly. “It sometimes feels you are.” He glanced at her, brows narrowed, and she pushed on. “Theorise with me, Sören. Like the shape of puzzle pieces. Men and women do work quite well together, sometimes.”
But he was distracted that day. She followed his gaze to the funerary monument currently draining the flame of his attention, and she could not say if it were the piece itself or something else that was clearly bothering him. The effigy of the knight was laid upon a slab borne by a number of dark-robed monks, their faces hidden. The Order of the Golden Fleece. Her gaze skimmed the rest, but such heights of Christian chivalry did not seem the sort of thing to catch his attention. Still, she was surprised when his tense muscles presently extricated from her grip, and he left her standing there.
When she found him again he was sheltering in one of the arches facing the entrance courtyard, watching the snaking lines of people waiting to pass the threshold into the museum. Rain slapped the pavement with ferocious abandon. A cigarette plucked irritably between his fingers and he did not turn towards her presence. Sören rarely smoked -- in fact he insisted it was not his preferred habit, despite the rear of it whenever she knew frustration simmered like poison in his veins. She was not fond of the smell, nor the way it cloyed. Neither did she like this prelude to his mood, for it did not have the usual feel of his vexation. It seemed somehow more potent; enough to quiet her from her usual response of shrugging his tantrums off.
Zhenya glanced out, disinclined to get wet by venturing further beyond the scant shelter. She used the power liberally in all aspects of her life, but she did not want to invite undue attention either, and neither of them had something so sensible as an umbrella. “Are you in trouble? Though I’m quite sure you could afford Pervaya’s services on your own, I would arrange it anyhow if you needed it. The warnings did stick, Sören.” She reached to touch his arm, surprised at how vehemently she meant it.
His muscles tightened, which was not an unusual reaction in itself, but she let her hand slip free anyway. Her arms folded against herself instead, though it was not cold.
“Not that kind of trouble, Zhen,” he said eventually. His moods were a slow moving beast. Sometimes it seemed he felt nothing at all, though she knew that was unfair; he took time to process, and such vulnerabilities were never left to another’s witness. Hers included. So it did not surprise her this time when he stubbed his smoke on the wall behind, and stalked out into the rain. This time she did not follow.
Satisfaction swelled the moment his amber eyes turned towards her with the need for answers; she enjoyed that brief flame of power, no question. But she was not minded for secrets, and it was his collusion she desired, not his frustration; for what she really wanted was for Sören to look at her and finally see an equal.
His business with the Northbrooks and their daughter had concluded, and Zhenya could not be too long away from her responsibilities in Moscow. A few scant days passed before he announced his attention to move on. She was afraid he might once again choose to disappear into the ether, and that if he did she might not be able to find him again, forewarned now as he was with how determined her nature could be when her interest caught aflame. He looked at her sometimes with such deep consideration that he must be weighing that balance, but if he refused her details that involved the more shadowy aspects of his life, the lure to her proved too strong to stay away completely.
As the months began to trickle by, Zhenya journeyed to meet him when both their schedules permitted. His travels were extensive across the Custody’s face, and on occasion beyond, though she did not follow him outside its borders. He rarely called, and if he did the conversation was terse and to his own end: questions sprayed like bullets. She preferred to see him in person.
Their meetings strung together like pearls on a necklace for her; brief moments of Other amidst the pursuits of her ordinary existence, otherwise spent working dutifully towards one day leading the family business.
She discovered an inquisitive charm hid within the shadows of his more stoic nature, and she was emboldened to glimpse it, knowing the gift not something lightly shared with others. He spoke of no family despite her gentle probing, but no man could truly be so rootless -- she found it a particularly haunting sadness, though he seemed quite inured to it by the flat look he gave her when she said as such. Though mostly their research comprised the power, in his lighter moods he quoted of literature and poetry, or spoke of history and mythology, not quite with the energised passions of her own, but more akin to thrusting his arms into the fire to retrieve something of value. It proved a brittle intensity at times, for on occasion his attention would catch the edge of her fond smile and sizzle abruptly to coolness.
Perhaps most surprising to her was that the man liked stories. When she did coax him to share anything real of his life, that was what he wove -- the tallest tales imaginable, and such beautifully eloquent lies as to sear the soul. Though she long suspected that buried within them lay the hidden treasure of truth; a puzzle as fascinating as the music box. Among the myriad pieces he spoke of a mute child who read the wings of birds and divined truth; of a queer young woman who painted new realities into the world with a palette of her own blood; and of forgotten kings and their beautiful princes, sculptured from the ashes of an ancient kingdom.
“And what story do you tell of me?” she would tease, but usually he only grunted that he did not tell such stories to anyone else, for she was the only one foolish enough to listen.
It had been clear from the beginning that her mastery in the intervening years had grown to surpass his own, a disparity that honed his edge to competitiveness until they found more even a footing. Zhenya intuited her discoveries in ways that made him frown and unpick her reasoning with questions whenever she shared anything new, but he was able to unearth the most esoteric knowledge to aid the foundations of their learning, like the entire world around them charmed to his curiosity. How he did that he would never say, and frustrated by the silences such questions engendered she began to choose simply not to ask.
Today the edge of Sören’s mood was like the eerie light of a promised storm, fraught with restlessness. Outside the weather was not much better, though it was a languid rain unencumbered by anything but the sweetness of Spring. Perhaps that was just the essence of Paris; Zhenya’s was a romantic soul, after all, and the Louvre might have been magical with anyone else; or even him, had the frown not been quite so armoured to his face. She slipped her arm through his, unperturbed by his prickly shell. He was well dressed today, perhaps because he was known professionally to the staff here; she understood him to cultivate a plethora of identities, the name he had first given her among them. Not that she particularly minded when he played the vagabond, either.
Seiðr filled her gently, explored as any other sense amongst the exhibits they passed. Nothing called to her the way the music box did, of course; such a rarity she had never seen before or since. It’s not what she was seeking anyhow; rather, steeped by such rich history she wanted to enjoy it with fullness, discovering deeper than eye alone. Sören remained mostly silent beside her, though occasionally she courted his attention to something or other with a tug of the power, seeking either reaction or interest. It was something of a game, perhaps because she knew her frivolous use of it annoyed him -- yet he indulged without ever reacting in kind, despite that the playfulness was kindly meant.
“Do you think there is a way for us to work together?” she leaned in and asked after some long stretch of quiet, unusual even for him. It was a question she had been running curiously through her mind for a while, though she had planned to have a better understanding of how before she broached it with him. Or at least a suggestion for how they might begin to test the possibility. Offering it out now ought to have sunk deep ripples of interest into his expression, snaring his focus to her upturned gaze. Instead it only skimmed the surface.
“Incompatible streams of power. You feel like a shiver. I am beyond your comprehension.”
“Yes,” she agreed dryly. “It sometimes feels you are.” He glanced at her, brows narrowed, and she pushed on. “Theorise with me, Sören. Like the shape of puzzle pieces. Men and women do work quite well together, sometimes.”
But he was distracted that day. She followed his gaze to the funerary monument currently draining the flame of his attention, and she could not say if it were the piece itself or something else that was clearly bothering him. The effigy of the knight was laid upon a slab borne by a number of dark-robed monks, their faces hidden. The Order of the Golden Fleece. Her gaze skimmed the rest, but such heights of Christian chivalry did not seem the sort of thing to catch his attention. Still, she was surprised when his tense muscles presently extricated from her grip, and he left her standing there.
When she found him again he was sheltering in one of the arches facing the entrance courtyard, watching the snaking lines of people waiting to pass the threshold into the museum. Rain slapped the pavement with ferocious abandon. A cigarette plucked irritably between his fingers and he did not turn towards her presence. Sören rarely smoked -- in fact he insisted it was not his preferred habit, despite the rear of it whenever she knew frustration simmered like poison in his veins. She was not fond of the smell, nor the way it cloyed. Neither did she like this prelude to his mood, for it did not have the usual feel of his vexation. It seemed somehow more potent; enough to quiet her from her usual response of shrugging his tantrums off.
Zhenya glanced out, disinclined to get wet by venturing further beyond the scant shelter. She used the power liberally in all aspects of her life, but she did not want to invite undue attention either, and neither of them had something so sensible as an umbrella. “Are you in trouble? Though I’m quite sure you could afford Pervaya’s services on your own, I would arrange it anyhow if you needed it. The warnings did stick, Sören.” She reached to touch his arm, surprised at how vehemently she meant it.
His muscles tightened, which was not an unusual reaction in itself, but she let her hand slip free anyway. Her arms folded against herself instead, though it was not cold.
“Not that kind of trouble, Zhen,” he said eventually. His moods were a slow moving beast. Sometimes it seemed he felt nothing at all, though she knew that was unfair; he took time to process, and such vulnerabilities were never left to another’s witness. Hers included. So it did not surprise her this time when he stubbed his smoke on the wall behind, and stalked out into the rain. This time she did not follow.