Zhenya Disir

[Zhenya]

2040
London

Hundreds of suspended lights filled the high ceiling, hanging like the heavens twinkled upon the grandeur of the gala below, and casting the room into warm twilight. The low sound of conversation hummed around her, accompanied by chiming glasses and the meandering notes of a piano player, its sleepy song slipping through the mingling patrons like a dream. Yulian had deposited her at the bar, then slipped anonymously into the crowd. He didn’t question their journey to London of course; that’s not what she paid him for.

Her fingers idled around the fluted champagne glass in her grip. The barman lingered, and she was too polite to ignore him completely, especially given the endearing flush to his cheeks when he plucked the courage to speak to her, but it was out among the patrons her gaze was periodically pulled, and to one gathering in particular.

Sören was dressed with far more sophistication than she had ever seen him whilst he had lived in her father’s home. The suit stitched something new of him; a blue like night sky, tailored well to his breadth and height. Zhenya had not thought him moneyed back then, but even at this distance she recognised the expense. His blonde hair was slicked back from his face, and his jaw was smooth and stronger than she remembered. He looked like a different man. He looked like a stranger.

She had thought that perhaps he might have noticed her by now, but his mild gaze never slipped across to where she sat, nor appeared to feel the touch of her attention. It disappointed her in those first moments, when she began to realise the way she had always imagined this was simply not going to unfold. But she had not chased the mystery of him for so many years just to let it fall away from her grasp now.

She smiled warmly at her barman before she descended from the stool.

“Gentlemen.” All eyes but Sören’s marked her approach into the heart of them -- she caught clips of conversation about artefacts and exhibits, hushed like an intake of breath -- and he was the very last to turn towards her voice. Recognition punctured his expression, but little else. He politely extricated himself from his gathering, pressed an arm to her elbow, and steered her away.

“You are not welcome here.”

It seemed this new veneer was only skin deep then; he was not so different, and it spurred a wry smirk to her lips. She felt Yulian’s attention hone in on the contact, but lightly gestured a hand to ward him away. The disparity of Sören’s height meant he held her at a ridiculous angle, and though his touch was light as feathers it must appear as if he’d dragged her away like a ruffian.

“You’re causing people to stare,” she said smoothly, and he grunted. His fingers retracted like she’d stung him.

“What do you want, Zhenya?”

"You're not even going to do me the smallest pleasure of looking at least a little surprised to discover I tracked you down?"

He stifled a sigh. She saw it battle in his expression; the annoyance warring with simple dismissal. It frustrated her a great deal, actually, the way his eyes slid over her as though she were oil to his water, never quite settling on her own gaze. She’d spent quite some time on her appearance tonight; the fall of her hair into an artful braid down her back, the curl of her dark lashes, not to mention the sweeping lines of her dress. It was wasted on him.

The silence stretched like he was waiting upon her retreat. His arms had in fact folded, a muscle twitching in his cheek; just like all those times he’d sat and brooded at the holoscreens while he tried to dig out the secrets that would save her life. A smile softened her lips, and on impulse a breath of seiðr caressed beneath his chin, like the curl of a finger. Predictably, that finally snared his attention. 

“We have a dinner reservation,” she told him. “I’ve travelled halfway across the Custody for you, Sören. Answers are the very least you owe me.”

---

She’d spent a great deal of time in the meticulous planning of this meeting, and she was disappointed with his stoicism. He even sat a little pushed back from the table like he was enduring the time before he may escape her company, his fingers toying with the edges of a napkin. Perhaps he was upset to have missed the auction. Zhenya sipped at her wine and studied him quietly. A tug of the power eventually teased the cloth from his grip, and he looked up at her flatly.

“Did the warnings mean nothing?”

“You already know what I am. And no one is looking.” She placed the glass back on the table between them, running her fingers down the stem. “I’ve had plenty of time to study it since you left, why shouldn’t I use it?”

“Ta sig vatten över huvudet,” he said roughly, knowing she did not speak the language. “Though I suppose it is your head, and no longer any concern of mine.”

“You came to London to help a girl,” she said, undeterred. Her arms folded delicately on the table. “The same way you helped me.”

She waited for him to ask how she knew; certainly it had not been easy, and she imagined fate’s kind hand tipped the balance in the end. Her father probably wouldn’t be amused to know how she had abused Pervaya’s systems and contacts tracing little more than ghosts, but fortunately he did not in fact know. He might find a few less professional favours at his disposal though, the next time he reached for the currency.

Sören looked at her for a long moment, and she was unsure what reaction to expect from him; he guarded his secrets so jealously that perhaps he would be angry she toyed with the lock. Callous as his attitude could be at times, she had never felt the bite of his temper, nor even much evidence that he had one. But all he said was: "I've given her the information she needs to survive."

"Information? You don't think that I am perhaps infinitely more qualified for the job?"

“Go home, Miss Disir.”

She placed her napkin on her plate and stood. Sören’s gaze already discovered interest somewhere else, and perhaps he assumed he had stoked her temper enough that she was storming out, but he was wrong. Zhenya was too driven by her passions to allow so fickle a thing as his infuriating manner to dissuade her, and she would give him no choice but to be swept up in her fearless current. She placed her hand on his wrist, gratified that for the first time that evening he seemed mildly surprised. He watched her grip slip lower to pull his hand into her own.

“What are you doing? People will think--”

“--And that will be so very terrible, I know. Just come on.”

The suite was not quite at the top floor, but it boasted magnificent views. Shadows chased the furnishings for a moment before the room’s sensors picked up their presence, and soft light blossomed within. Sören’s reluctance to be here was quite palpable, and she chose to ignore it as he made himself a gargoyle of the threshold. “You think I’ve been idle for three years, content with the scraps you gave me? Or that not dying from it was the extent of my ambitions?”

She smiled briefly at him as she passed, eyes coy. Her gown whispered around her, baring fleeting glimpses of her slender legs between the gauzy panels. She might have endeavoured to make herself more comfortable now they were in her own rooms, but perhaps she was too vain to slip free of the heels that would make the fabric pool messily on the ground. It was a beautiful dress.

“Five threads,” she said, sure he must know at least that much from his own studies. For so long as they had worked to free her from the creeping cloy of Sickness, they had never had the chance to discuss the power itself. Not before he left. She shifted the bracelet on her arm; her interface with Pervaya, and specifically Yulian’s protections tonight. An early prototype, it was simple in adornment, though not ugly; just a plain silver band but for a small engraving. He was unlikely to notice the rune she had stolen from his tattoo. In any case it was the small burn against her porcelain skin she showed him. “I learned them all quite thoroughly.” Her brow arched, and she laughed; it was a rich, pleasant sound, effused with her enthusiasm for the task. This light, this seiðr; it invigorated and fascinated her as nothing else had.

“There is nothing I can or will teach you, Zhenya,” he said levelly. “Your journey is wasted.”

“I didn’t come for teaching, you giant bore.” Air pulled at his fingers, the front of his suit jacket, light and teasing. “Must I encourage you the whole way in, Sören?”

By the set of his expression it seemed likely.

She retreated to a dresser, beckoned him with the hook of her actual finger this time as she claimed an object from its surface. It fit comfortable in her palm, a carved box coloured pale, luminous as starlight where it met her grasp. “Let me show you something instead.” 

Her heart beginning to beat a little faster, Zhenya sat on the stuffed couch, back straight and legs crossed, waiting patiently for him to surrender to the lure. The box resonated to her senses, faint as an echo, but perhaps it needed the touch to garner the same from him. She finally patted the space beside her with a warm smile, until curiosity appeared to get the better of him, he unfurled his arms, and somewhat warily did as bid. She watched him the whole way, wondering what thoughts might plague him to cause a frown like that. Admittedly men were not usually so recalcitrant when she invited them to her side.

“Hold this,” she said. She leaned close, her own hand cupping the palm he gingerly held out as she placed the box into his grip. She studied him a moment, but did not expect to see anything shift in his expression, even if he did feel something calling to him. Then she turned her attention back to the fold of their hands. His were strangely cool. “Take hold of your power. Try the strand that feels like wind or air or force, it’s the easiest by far to begin. You used to call it inquiry, I think? I’ll show you as best I can, but I can’t see your threads and you wouldn’t be able to see mine.” She glanced up at his face again, but he was looking at the object now with a curious intensity that sent a thrill through her. The fingers of her other hand trailed the engravings on its closest face. “Push it in here, but gently. Try to follow the flow of it. You’ll feel it if you’re slow.”

Then she waited, a little fluttering in her chest. She didn’t know if it would work the same way for him, after all.

Her hands pulled away, exultant, when she felt the familiar hum of it. Its markings shifted like nothing natural, unfurling somehow, and then the music began to trickle out. Sometimes there was also light, or more hypnotic movement across its surface, depending on the threads used, and how and where. This song was ethereal; wordless, sounding like a blend of strings. Zhenya’s smile was bright as the risen sun for its charm, and for their success.

“Förförisk,” breathed Sören, and she didn’t know what the word meant, but she didn’t need to with the way he said it. Pleasure flushed. When she looked up, his eyes were already on her. “I don’t know what it is, or who made it. I’ve never heard that music either. It plays other strange things, and I’ve found not a reference to the pieces. I spent a long time looking for you, you know. Auction houses and galleries. I acquired it along the way. It’s quite beautiful a thing itself, of course, but I felt something from it.” The words spilled, eager to absorb his reaction in turn.

“I have never seen anything quite like it,” he admitted. His throat sounded dry.

He looked back down at it, stood, twisting it over in his hand. The other still fisted at his side, knuckles white. Zhenya rose too, tugged her lip between her teeth as she watched the scholarly concentration of him, revelling in a thirst as powerful as her own. She’d had no one else to share this with. But when she paused him with a touch on his arm, it was to capture the tight ball of his other hand. With gentle persuasion she lifted it and unfurled his fist, running her thumb along the shape of the jagged wound that had been there three years ago; old now, just a pale scar. “You still use the runes?” she asked. He’d never told her, but she’d noticed the gesture occasionally; enough to connect the pieces and wonder. “I don’t think you should need to do this, you know.”

She heard him grumble low in his throat, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

“And how do you know all this?”

A slow smile spread, warming her entire being. 

And of course, she did not answer.

[[Translations, for anyone curious: in the first one he accuses of being in over her head, and in the second it means fascinating/alluring/seductive]]