If Mahan Could See Us Now

"You haven't offended Sir, not by any means." You try to ameliorate the apparent wounding of his pride, distressed by the truly pained look on his face. Either he is actually hurt or he is a much better actor than you have considered giving him credit for, "I'm simply a little distracted."

"Distracted? My dear, what could possibly have you in your own head on such a wonderful night?" His smile is back, warm and inviting and wide. He scans around the room and laughs, "I suppose I did have to rescue you, didn't I?"

You can't say that you're particularly happy with the description of what happened as a rescue. The Otrusian might have been acting a cad, whatever he was saying, but you could have walked away at any time. You didn't need some great lunk stepping in and feeling all sorts of macho for you.

That wouldn't be a fair thing to say to him though, now would it. You curse the chiding voice in the back of your head and put the thoughts of Sasha and her whereabouts to one side.

"Yes, and I am grateful for that. But I was mostly wondering about where my travelling companion has gotten to."

"Oh! Yes, I interrupted you, you'd said that you hadn't been travelling alone." He seems truly sincere. Now you begin to worry about his intentions, another layer of unwanted anxiety. Is he simply excited to meet someone from the homeland, or is there an ulterior motive?

"I have a companion, a woman named Sasha. I thought she was going to be here when I got back, but-"

"I'm sure she's around here somewhere." He looks you in the eye as he interrupts, that same smile still plastered across his face, "You don't need to worry at a party like this, there's always some gang of reprobates making sure that everyone is having a good time."

You think of the Otrusian and the diplomatic niceties that could have been unravelled by that incident. You don't know how much experience Sasha has of engagements like this but she had seemed distressed when you first arrived. You don't want her getting upset or starting a fight. Perhaps a gang of drunken revellers would not be the best company for her.

But you cannot appear too concerned. She is just a friend to these people, just someone who happens to be touring Europa with you. They cannot guess how much she means to you.

Putting on a casual tone, you smile back at the intense Gallian officer.

"I'm sure you're right." Gesturing at his uniform, you decide to redirect the conversation. "You asked me how I cam to be here, Sir, and I answered to the fullest. But what of yourself? You cannot brush me off, how does a Stolrussian end up a senior officer in a uniform but our own?"

"Oh, come now, that's not a story for polite-"

"Oh Sir, but I insist!" Feigning his own attempts at jocularity is hard enough and you wonder if he will notice how put on this conversation is. "Do not be coy with me, there must be a marvellous story behind a man such as yourself."

"I insist there is not." He says, smile now gone from his face.

"And yet, here you stand in that marvellous uniform."

He looks you up and down, eyes clearly taking in the wide rictus grin, the medal pinned to your chest, and the stump where your amputated leg once stood.

"You have clearly seen war, my dear, and not that of the comfortable or the removed. You have fought. I have also fought, with a sword in my hand and a horse beneath me. I fought for a Queen I didn't know against a King I didn't know against men and women who seemed no different than you or I. I spent time on distant battlefields as well as near and won my own medals for my wounds and for my gallantry, if you could call it that."

You want to say something, but know that it would do nothing but interrupt his flow. The way in which his demeanour has shifted is incredible, the bright and easy personality washed away by a grim faced discussion of war.

"When I came home from that time away… It was as if I had never been away. The men and women who lived on my street had the gall to ask me where I'd been and how I'd enjoyed it. They could not seem to understand that there was something very wrong with expecting me to just step back into their lives as if I hadn't seen the things I had seen."

There is something very true to those words, and terrifying too. Does every soldier feel like you? Do they all feel the urge to turn their backs on their homes, at least for a little while?

"The people that I had grown amongst did not understand me. And then it became clear that my masters did not want me. They had used me up in conflict, and they threw me away like so much detritus without showing any interest in my fate. I was not wanted, my commission was bought from me, so I left Stoli and wandered. I'm sure you can understand that urge, can't you?"

He looks at you and there is something in his eyes that shows more of himself than you have seen at any point during the evenings conversation. You nod, rather than vocalising an answer. There is some part of his story which is very familiar, at least.

"Of course, I found much more than I had expected, as so many do when they decide to reach beyond that which they have been raised to. I found an understanding of why my nation looks the way it does, and yours as well. Why our nation will never succeed." he spits the idea of the union as if it was ash in his mouth, "I was offered a place where I would feel wanted, and not serve the whims of the unelected. That, my dear, is why you find me now, here, in this uniform. Because I am accepted."

His words strike to your core. The emotion, the feeling with which they are delivered is powerful and cutting, but it does not hide the truth behind them. He is a traitor to Varnmark and a traitor to his Queen. That is enough for you.

And he dares to speak of acceptance to you. Him, who if he knew the truth of your relationship would likely be the first to put his finely polished boot-heel upon your neck and call for your imprisonment, if not death. You were mistaken, when you thought that you had something in common with this man who has decided to be so kind tonight. He is the sort of man who would have watched you die on the shores of Polyapavlosk for the sake of his forlorn ideal, you can already tell.

"Do you know." You say, quietly, looking past him and out across the ballroom, your empty glass as good as forgotten in your hand, "That it is thoughts like that that have lead to me wearing this medal."

You say it without emotion and without anger but nonetheless the man takes a step back, eyes widening.

"My dear, I did not mean to cause offence-"

"That is the second time you have said that tonight. I believed it the first. This time, I am not so certain. You approached me, sir, the only other native of my homeland in this room I imagine, and it was only a little effort to have you tell me those things. If you did not do this on purpose, then you are perhaps one of the most careless men I have ever met."

"My dear-"

"And will you please stop calling me that. I have a name and had you known it then perhaps none of this would have come to pass. I am Valentina Mikhailova, and you shall remember it Sir."

It is difficult to sweep gracefully from a room when you having but one leg and have imbibed more than your fair share of sharp, sparkling wine, but nonetheless you manage well enough to lose yourself into the crowd before he can come up with any witty response to shout after your retreating back.

There is only one way you're going to be able to find comfort and solace in this, and the thought of Sasha weighs heavily as you attempt to find your way out of the ballroom and pack to some sort of peace. You ask two porters if they've seen her with no luck when you finally strike upon the only idea that's actually going to work. You ask for the Lady Magdeburg.

You are led to a side room and asked to wait outside while the footman quietly slips through the door. It is only a moment before he is back and beckoning you inside.

Inside is… well, it's hedonism, that's perfectly true. The Lady and two men, both unknown to you, are sprawled on a couch in various states of undress and disarray though even the most cursory examination would lead you to assume they've just completed coitus. A woman is fed strawberries by an effete, fae looking person with the most delicate touch. And at the back of the room, half hidden by a haze of cigarillo smoke, is Sasha and a besuited woman, both fully dressed and acting like nothing around them exists at all.

What do you need?
[ ] I need to go home.
[ ] I need to talk.
[ ] I need you.
[ ] I need… to join you?

You take the first few steps into the dimly lit room, smelling the intense smoke drive itself into your nostrils with every breath. Feeling suddenly lightheaded you have to take a moment the catch your balance before proceeding. The cigarillo byproduct is sweet, cloying, like nothing else you've ever smelled. The continental Europans apparently have a strange taste in smokes, accustomed as you are to the simple and acrid stink of tobacco, the sudden head-rush of nicotine, none of which is floating in the air of this lascivious parlour.

"Miss Valentina…" A voice croons, long and soft. You turn to see a smiling Lady Magdeburg, her head resting on one of the nude mens chests, gazing at you as if you are both very close and far away from her. She raises a hand in some approximation of a greeting and smiles very widely. She seems tired, or perhaps distant in some other way, as if her mind is further away than her body. Her eyes look past you, not at you. It is disconcerting, to say the least. "Come over here, Miss, take the weight from your…" she looks down, smiles to herself, "foot."

"I'm sorry, my Lady, but I have to see Sasha,"

"Oh, the Duchess can wait, can't she?" Hilda reaches behind herself, patting the lap of the man who is partially curled around her. He twitches awake, but only for long enough to curl against her and for the blanket covering him to slip just enough for you to know he is not just somewhat undressed, but entirely. "There are so many things to try, and don't you just want to let it all slip away?" She blinks ever so slowly, her smile almost that of a simpleton.

"I'm sorry." is all you can manage in response. She seems so out of it, you doubt she will even remember the conversation tomorrow, but nonetheless you are sorry. Her husband, at least, has been very kind and it does seem that she has taken care of Sasha. At least she seems comfortable enough, deep in conversation with another woman.

You walk towards them, more comfortable now, though your mind is a rapid fire swirl of nonsense and confusion. The woman, the Lady, the smoke, the proximity, the naked man, all of these carousel their way through your brain and, again, there is some reference to an unknown past. You have no idea what it means but now a person other than her has used it in reference to the woman you love and do you not deserve the right to understand? You have never pried, never pushed, never fought to know of what came before you knew her. She has made too many implications of the pain of it all for you to do that. She has already confronted you once, long ago in a dark and grimy armoury corridor, and you have not wanted to risk such repercussions to your question. But now it is becoming too much. You must ask, and weather whatever her response may be.

"Sasha," You say to catch her attention as you sidle up to her. She reaches a hand up without looking, inviting you close, but you choose not to take it. She is listening intently to the woman next to her, transfixed, but you must have her attention. You simply must.

"Sasha, Darling." using the word as a blunt implement to tear her from whatever spell she is under, effective as you have been so careful for so long. Finally she looks up at you with a confused look and then grins widely, reaching out to grab your hand and pull you to her. She wraps and arm around your waist even from where she is sitting.

"Valentina!" She positively coos, ice clinking in her glass, "This is the Grafin Metzog. She has been telling me many wondrous things about Dyskelande." The woman nods almost sagely, as if she has imparted some great wisdom which she has no intention, you feel, of sharing beyond the ears of your dearest.

Suddenly, and without reason, the anger bubbles in your gut.

"And there's so many of us here, right here in this country," she says, not even looking at you but back at this supposedly noble woman in a suit who has captured so much of her attention, "Like us, like me."

She is so excited. It is a shame to burst that bubble. There is almost a feeling of guilt in you as you shut her down.

"Sasha, I need to speak to you, urgently" She stops and looks up at you, the smile dropping ever so slightly, "Alone, if that might be possible," You finish, with a pointed look at her company.

"Oh… Grafina-" She stops, pauses for a moment and suddenly she is speaking the local language for which you have no talent and your frustration is only growing, "Grafina, may I ask you to give us a moment. This is my… she is my love, you see."

Whatever she has said, the noble woman's eyes grow and she smiles a smile you feel is not often seen on a face such as hers but which is all the more handsome for it.

"By all means, dear girl, by all means. I won't be far, if you'd like to speak more." She stands, apparently something of her words being a goodbye, "Adieu, mamzel Valentina."

You are uncomfortable with the bow you receive but you cannot help but drop into an ungainly curtsy as you were taught back at the academy. The Grafin wanders away slowly, first to the drinks cabinet and then to another sofa, alongside the prostrate girl and the effete, uh… none of the words that come to mind aptly describe them, so person must do.

You slide onto the sofa next to Sasha and sit quietly for a moment with your hands in your lap. She takes them into hers, pulling until you turn to her. Everything about her screams disquiet and discomfort, worry suddenly etched on the otherwise statuesque features that make up her face.

"My dear, sweet Koshka, what is it? I had not meant to cause you any distress." she is the second person you have heard that from tonight and it's no better despite who it's coming from.

"My dear Sasha, tonight I have done nothing but be steeped in confusion and pressure by a variety of people who I have never met before. Some of them I did not even share a language with and even when I found someone also capable of Kevian, he turned out to be such an insufferable prig that I could bear to be around the party any more!" You realise that the volume of your voice has risen but not only does nobody seem to have noticed but you couldn't care less if they did, "I am so glad for you, Liybimaya, that you have enjoyed your night in fine company. I am so glad to discover second hand that you speak languages beyond that which we share and that you have a more complex past than you have ever made out. Who are you, Sasha Ivanova, and why do I not know?"

The silence, not just between you, but across the entire room, is heavy and thick. You have brought the tension into the room with you and you do not regret it one bit. Sasha looks at you like she has been struck, but the expression slowly fades. As it does, finally the feelings come flooding back in. Regret. Pain. Shock.

"I wanted to be with you so badly. I wanted you by my side, as you have been so much recently. I missed you." You say. An attempt to soften the blow of what you have said but nonetheless the truth. "I missed you."

The first tears fall from her eyes and your heart cracks.

"I have not been honest with you about my past, dear one, because I am not able to be honest with myself. My past is locked away, because my family would not hold with it if it were any other way, and they have a much greater reach than perhaps you can imagine. I am neither penniless soldier, nor simply an officer from the academy, that is true and perhaps you have come to realise that. When I served with the lancers, it was with commission bought and my own stable of horses, not the nags which the king offers to those who cannot bring their own. Perhaps there are assumption that you can make from that."

"Sasha, I am not accusing-"

"No, my love, if you want my story you will have what I can tell of it," her voice is sombre, a hand held up between you. Your own hands are unheld, forgotten in your lap. "When I made the decision to pursue the person I am today, it was not only to the distaste of our state but to my family as well. I am fortunate enough that I can live without prosecution because of them - my family would in no way appreciate the attention that would bring - but I was cashiered and my commission bought out. Until I met you, I had been living out a very quiet, and very discreet life. You, sweet one, are the change in all of that."

She pauses, taking a moment to wipe her ears and have a sip of her drink.

"Tonight has brought up a great deal of stress for me as well, Koshka, thought I will admit that it has mostly been my past and not my future. Perhaps you would permit me to deal with that before you come to me with your suggestions that all I have done is enjoy the evening."

You have to fight not to recoil. Her words are like barbed blades slicing through your skin, so painfully and so viciously accurate that you wish you could take back everything you have said.

A response is necessary, even if finding the words will be difficult.
[ ] I'm sorry… but just who are you? (Pry dangerously)
[ ] I'm sorry, my love. Lets go home.
[ ] I'm sorry. Can we enjoy the rest of the night together?
[ ] Write in (GM veto reserved)