Chapter Text
“Arms up. Arms down.”
Careful, delicate hands circle her waist with a measuring tape, stretching and pulling until she can barely breathe, her muscles spasming from the effort.
The court seamstress puts a few more pins, slightly lifting the hem of her dress and making her feel like she might bleed to death from the countless pins if she even does as much as breathe the wrong way.
The lacy sleeves reaching past her wrists are heavy and scratchy, making her skin feel like it’s on fire. Dazai is a master at acting like everything is alright though.
That’s her job as a woman, after all — or at least that’s what her father tells her.
Her handmaid gasps, gracefully covering her mouth in a show of exaggerated emotion. Dazai’s eyes quickly flutter to her with no particular interest but with a natural reflex.
The blonde, short woman brings a hand to her heart, looking up at Dazai with such an emotions-filled expression that it gets on her nerves.
She’s never bothered to remember her name; she must have said it a million times but Dazai always tunes her out. Her voice is annoying, too high, and too reverent like she actually believes Dazai’s blood to be as gold as the Gods’.
She gulps. “Princess… You’re beautiful.”
She blinks a few times, stoic. Then, the seamstress bows to her and beckons her towards the big mirror behind her with a carefully polite gesture of her hand.
Dazai turns around, takes a few steps further, and descends from the pedestal she is standing on. She stops right in front of the mirror, taking in her appearance.
Her long hair has been pinned back with two pearl barrettes, showcasing her forehead, with her curls reaching around her lower back. The sleeves reach past her wrists, partially hiding her hands; the bodice hugs her chest gracefully and it’s embellished with small pearls twirling around in eye-catching designs; the corset is pulled tight, highlighting her waist; the ballroom skirt starts from her waistline, opening in an ample girth, lace covering it all and surpassing the hemline of the white silk by a few centimeters.
She looks objectively beautiful, the sparkling clean white brimming with light against her pale skin and dark hair, making her look almost outworldly, as pure as she’s never been.
But it’s wrong. It feels wrong. It’s all wrong.
Because this is not just any dress, another piece of fabric with no meaning that her handmaiden will choose for her in the morning, a sign of power.
This is her wedding dress. This is the white that is supposed to bless her union underneath the hundreds of eyes that will be staring at her like wolves waiting for the new piece of meat.
This is a prison uniform. Just… prettier.
This is the dress she’s supposed to wear in two weeks, when she’ll marry the high-profile man her family chose for her when she couldn’t even speak, when the world seemed so big and full of possibilities and not a constricting cage that threatens to suffocate her alive.
The older, foreign man that she’s been assigned to for political reasons, to strengthen a nearly useless bond, like she’s no more than a piece of meat to exchange for favors. She is, in a way.
Suddenly, she feels nauseous and the gag reflex kicks in, although she’s choking on air.
But then again, Dazai is a master at acting like everything is delightful.
She gives a soft smile that doesn’t reach her eyes to the women looking at her. The words feel stuck in her throat, but she reaches for them with a hand and drags them out anyway, bloody and scratchy, “Everything’s perfect.”
The blonde handmaid claps her hands in delight, ushering her to twirl to showcase the exquisite fabric flowing around like a goddess’ tunic. To Dazai, the dress just feels like pretentious shackles.
They clap but the sound comes ovatted to her ears like someone has stuffed cotton into her ears and her mouth — maybe she has, to run away as far as possible. Her eyes drift past everyone, everything, to skies more blue and air more sweet.
The truth is Dazai Osamu, princess of the kingdom, yearns. She yearns for traveling and exploring, she longs for everything she’s never known. She yearns to be seen and heard, under the empty appearance of beauty, and to express her opinions loudly and to be shamelessly herself. She yearns for adrenaline-filled adventures around the globe, over kingdoms and unruly lands. She yearns to search for the meaning that has fallen from her grasp since she was twelve. She yearns for cold plains and deserts, for mountains and lakes, and flowers stretching themselves over a green canvas. She yearns for the wild and weird and the impossible. She yearns for freedom.
She doesn’t even registers the two women carefully removing the dress, removing piece by piece until she’s left in nothing but her undergarments and usual bandages. She lets them move her around like she’s a lifeless doll.
“Princess?”
A tap on the shoulder brings her to a reality she doesn’t wanna belong to. She blinks and turns to stare at her handmaid, who’s looking up at her with a dark blue dress of dubious provenance on her hands.
“We need to get you ready. Your betrothed should be arriving briefly.”
Her eyes fall on the dress, lifelessly looking at the piece of fabric staring back at her with humorless intensity.
Maybe she should’ve moved and bled out when she had the chance.
Dazai doesn’t like to have her hair up; she doesn’t like to have it long, actually: it’s bothersome, a tiring process every morning and every bath day, and it makes her look too feminine. But it’s another one of the infinite rules she’s supposed to follow: long hair is a sign of regality, the ability to have such long, healthy hair, and it's another method of seduction her father has bestowed upon her.
The last time she cut her hair she couldn’t write her name properly yet.
As of now, it’s tied into a low, tight ponytail, four little braids circling around the knot to give it a raffinate appearance.
The makeup on her eyes is pasty, a blue cream to bring out her eyes, they said, and it makes them feel heavy. All too annoying, just like the sticky reddish lipstick on her lips.
She’s sitting between her mother and her father on a little green sofá, so carefully appointed that it might as well be one of the majestic paintings adorning the hallways. They’re waiting for her betrothed’s carriage to arrive.
His father brings a long, ebony hair strand behind his own ear, crossing his legs elegantly. He oozes self-assurance and confidence from the way he carries himself to his sharp eyes.
Mori Ougai is an intelligent man, after all — a genius one, even. He made his way up to the throne from an underdog position, an unfortunate branch of the family that was considered long gone from any power game, between numerous contenders unreasonably resigning from their positions and some mysterious deaths. The truth is that Mori was able to spin an intricate web of promises and threats that was his stairs to greatness, to becoming the king of his own nation — the pinnacle of power.
Dazai is impressed, really, but out of everything the true characteristic that she inherited from her father is his intelligence, maybe even a sharper one than his. Too much intelligence, even. That’s why she knows she would make an incredible ruler, someone who could even surpass her father, one day.
(Not that it’s what she wants. No one cares about that.)
All wasted on being someone’s trophy wife. She’s aware the little corners of her falsely self-appagating luxury are her personal prison as well, a restraint resting on her back and leaving her unable to even pretend an ounce more of power.
Her father does too, of course. She’s just another piece in his lifelong chess match against God, another card to use and throw away when no longer useful.
Mori doesn’t move his gaze as he taps against his own leg, recalling her attention. “Osamu, I’m expecting you to act properly, like a good wife would. No jabs, no undermining of his confidence, no mind battles. Just be a proper woman. We need this alliance.”
She breathes out. She feels hollow, emptied out of her contents, and left drying against the cruel wind of a cold winter — is that what it means to be a woman?
She nods. “I understand, father.”
His eyebrows twitch subtly hearing the way she almost spits out his appellative like it’s a mouthful of poison.
He turns to her. “I am expecting you to be on your best behavior, do you understand?”
Dazai hates her father watching her, feeling his cold, violet-ish eyes studying her every twitch, opening her up like a curator to be examined. She sighs.
“I will. Do I even have any other choice?”
He chuckles, covering his mouth with his hand in an act of elegance that doesn’t belong to him. That’s enough of an answer.
“And stand straight, will you?”
She does straighten her spine, throwing a meaningless glance at her mother. Brown eyes, so much like her own, stare back.
As empty as well.
Her mother is pretty: not incredibly pretty, like the beauty she owns and wears naturally, but enough to be praised by commoners. She’s the daughter of a noble on the outskirts of the kingdom, one that brought Mori more connections than he could’ve even dreamed of. Mori doesn’t love her, she doesn’t love him, and she doesn’t love Dazai: she looks too much like her for that, from her hair to her foot shape.
She’s little to nothing more than a piece of furniture.
A maid makes her way into the room, bowing briefly at them, before announcing, “The carriage has arrived.”
Simultaneously they all stand up in a sign of empty respect for people they don’t even know. They wait for what seem to be endless minutes before the gold-adorned doors are opened wide, two court knights standing upright on the two sides.
She breathes and blinks slowly. Three figures walk in, slowly, without uttering a word; it’s an interesting showcase of the power they have and pretend to have, to observe and make them observe how the royals of the hosting country wait for them.
Then, his father bows as a greeting, she and her mother following suit. It’s brief, just a bit more than leaning down their heads, but it’s a subtle message: they are on the same ground here.
In the same way, the three men do the same. Then the middle one looks up at her with violet eyes and she despises the way they remind her of her father’s.
He smiles charmingly, taking her hand and leaving a brief, dry kiss on it. A greeting to his betrothed.
How could she even have any doubt? From the pompous clothes, with intricate lines and shiny, expensive fabric, to the elegant and handsome appearance, to the way his eyes squint at her in a knowing glint, recalling the many tales of the amazingly intelligent young royal, everything screams a name at her.
The tzar of the Russian Empire.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
“The tales about your beauty precede you, but I fear they don’t do you justice in the slightest,” he says, not leaving her hand from his grasp. She doesn’t move, doesn’t complain.
She smiles, faking flattery. How boring, really.
Her eyes flicker briefly to the two figures on the side, two white-haired men standing just a bit behind as a sign of respect. While one is dressed in normal attire, the other seems to be some kind of jester.
“Your Majesty, it is an honor to host you for the time being,” Mori says, successfully capturing his attention.
He turns to him, shaking his hand. “Your Highness, I should be the one to say that. To repay you for your kindness I have, in fact, brought gifts — other than the engagement one, of course.”
He flickers his wrist to the man on his right. Dazai’s eyes fly over to him, properly assessing him since he first entered. Dressed in an anonymous suit, his long, white hair is eye-catching, as well as the bandages around his head.
He takes a few steps back and snaps his finger curtly. For a few seconds, nothing seems to happen. Then, a long lineup of white-dressed servers flood into the room, neatly heading toward them.
The first leans down on one knee, looking at the ground, and lifts a prestigious-looking box. It has gold embellishments all over in an intricate pattern and a red gem on top. Just one of those must be worth more than a farmer’s entire lifespan’s earnings. He opens it with a click, showcasing its content. It’s a simple but elegant set of tea cups, white with gold embellishments.
Then, the second follow: a pair of emerald earrings.
Then, the third: magenta silk fabric with a typical Russian pattern.
A body cream infused with vanilla and pure honey.
A chess set of pure marble, with a particular care for every single piece.
An extremely old book, written in a dead language she doesn’t even recognize.
Jewels, so much it almost makes her feel impressed. Necklaces, rings, earrings, bracelets, and so much more. It keeps coming and coming in what Dazai counts to be twenty-seven gifts.
Then, as the last valet closes the box and heads toward the line formed a bit back, Fyodor takes a step further.
“And now, if I may…”
The box between his hand is visibly of a higher quality than the others, shiny like the iced lake in the peak of winter and carefully embellished with gold threads of little gems of red nuances.
Her mother gasps as Dazai’s eyes fall on the inside. Resting on red velvet, a fine hair comb reflects the light of the window. The delicate light gold mixes perfectly with the purple embellishments of little flowers and intricate patterns that adorn it.
“This haircomb has been passed down in my family for generations and it’s now yours, as an engagement gift.”
It’s so carefully constructed that even Dazai feels weirdly attracted to it.
“Your incredible generosity has been received and we thank you infinitely for the precious gifts you have given us,” her father cuts in before she can say a word.
She blinks and turns towards him. She isn’t as dumb as to think the presents Fyodor has brought them are a pure selfless gesture. This is a demonstration of power, a silent threat to their autonomy — Mori’s kingdom has flourished under his command but it still can’t stand the mere comparison against Fyodor’s empire, one of the most powerful and greatest of all, and this is nothing more than reinforcing that knowledge. She’s aware of this.
Still, seeing his father almost rattled is amazing.
Mori orders the servants to take the gifts somewhere else, in an empty room a few minutes away. Then, he turns to the guests.
“Shall I offer you tea?”
“We’d be delighted, of course,” Fyodor answers, sitting tidally on the opposite sofa. Mori sends a maid to fetch the necessities, as he strikes up a conversation.
They talk about nothing in particular — how was the trip, weather, pleasantries — and Dazai barely registers them, just enough to be aware if interpelled.
When her servant sets the tea cups in front of them, she reaches for it with an automatic gesture, elegantly taking a sip.
She hates tea. She hates the tea her father has always sent the servants to prepare for her, with minimum sugar and maximum leaves. Nevertheless, she’s used to it by now so she takes a sip without as small a twitch.
“So, princess… What do you like to do in your free time?” Fyodor finally asks, between a cordial sip of his drink.
She grips the ceramic cup between her fingers, the burning feeling a pleasant anchorage. “I indulge in reading and weaving, my lord.”
“I see…” he says, tapping a finger on his cup, “I do say I consider reading a guilty pleasure as well. Anything you fancy particularly?”
Her gaze falls on the still surface of the pristine cup, observing the translucent reflection of her pale self staring back at her with lightless eyes. She does like reading: she reads of free women, of adventures set further than the wall of a castle, further than the golden cage her blood set her in; she reads of the first flight of the swallows over kingdoms and planes; she reads of snowy plains and mountains hugging motioning lakes, of limitless fields of strelitzias and nerines stretching over green canvas; she reads of wildness, of freedom, of everything she longs for. But saying such would be a deep insult to the oath she unwillingly took when she couldn’t yet speak.
“No, your Majesty. I enjoy reading of courts and simple novels about the peasant lives, as to feel closer to my people,” she ultimately answers, her voice carefully leveled in the way that has been taught to her.
Her betrothed doesn’t rush, doesn’t fret over his own answer. He takes his time staring at her from his long eyelashes, a symptom of an unruly climate and the indomitable human spirit. He observes her, takes in every curve of her untelling expression, and skims over her carefully constructed mask, like he’s trying to dig under the thick layer of powder, of lip stain, of her performance.
You won’t find anything, she’d like to say, everything under this has been suffocated long ago.
“I see. Do you not visit the people?” he asks, an amused glint in his eyes. It resembles the calculating gaze her father would often give her as he sets another one of his clever traps to keep her shackled. It makes nausea bubble up her throat.
“Is it custom for you to visit the peasants?” she bites back.
She can feel Mori glaring at her but he hides his disappointment behind his cup as he brings it to his lips. Knowing him, he’s waiting before uttering a single word, curiously waiting for the Tzar’s next move.
His lips break into a soft curl, a small smile that vaguely resembles a reptilian sneer before attacking. “I guess not, milady.” Then, he places the cup on the small table between them. “Would you give me the pleasure of a stroll around the royal gardens?”
She blinks, a short-lived surprise making her eyes open further. It is, after all, improper for an unwed man to spend time alone with a princess, even if it’s her own betrothed— another court, more close-minded, and he could’ve been thrown out for such a request. The very essence of forcing the king to refuse is shameful.
She silently searches for her father’s approval but a carefully blank face stares back at her, calculating eyes following her. So that’s how he wants to play it?
She gets up, dusting off her spotless dress. “Of course, my lord.”
“Ivan,” he called, “make sure to set us in before I come back.”
Then, with Dazai leading the way around the palace, they soon find themselves on the threshold of the royal garden. A brilliant green paints the ample plot of soil with narrow marble-white paths in a neat grid. Dots of colors decorate the grass, flowers blooming shyly in the first days of spring: buttercups, pink petunias, cyclamen, and orange lilies. In the center, a fountain stands out, pristine white; four stone fishes surround the upper tier, exuding water. All around it, it’s surrounded by a vast wood, tall trees looming over her.
“How beautiful,” he muses, eyes roaming hungrily over the landscape. “We rarely have the opportunity to see flowers in my palace.”
“How sad. Why is that?”
They take a few steps as he leans down to pick up an orange lily, twirling it between his thumb and his index finger. “Temperatures are way harsher than here, princess. Our time window only allows the fastest of plants to blossom in time before the cold swipes them away.”
She nods in understanding. To be truthful, she had known the answer before he even said anything, but stroking a man’s ego is like fanning a flame: let it waste air.
“A few do appear in the warmest cracks of winter,” he says, “such as daffodils and violas, but I’ve never been the biggest fan of flowers, in all honesty. I much prefer the beauty of eternal architecture.”
“I understand. Flowers are transient, after all.” She can’t help but glance at the orange flower now lying half-ripped a few steps back. She unwillingly marvels at the cruelty of ripping a flower from its life source for no apparent reason other than the dramacity of a sentence. She doesn’t feel anything, but she lowers her eyes. “Does Your Majesty enjoy architecture?”
“I do,” he confirms, nodding. “You will clearly see that once we reach the palace: I’ve been building innovative facilities all over it. It has taken a lovely appearance if you ask me. Maybe a more curated garden would help.”
“Maybe,” she mindlessly agrees.
“Do you like flowers, princess?”
Her eyebrows furrow in thought. Does she? It’s been a while since anyone asked if she enjoyed something, more than she can remember. Flowers are objectively beautiful, they bloom uncaringly of what is around them, whether a camp of similar or one of unknown, but they are also frail, constricted in the cage of their own biology. Fyodor is right: they are fickle.
“I guess they are lovely,” she says, “but nothing worth sweating over.”
“I see. Well – if you’d like, of course – feel free to ask the gardeners to grow some for you at my palace. No one will complain about a pop of color.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her gaze following a couple of swallows flying high above and higher.
“Why don’t you and I sit down?” he offers, a motion of his hand indicating the pavilion between the nooks of the garden. A simple but elegant wooden gazebo with three white chairs and a small table, a set of cards and a chessboard on it.
She nods, climbing the few steps that elevate the structure, followed by Fyodor. He chivalrously moves the chair to let her sit first and then he takes a seat in front of her.
She inwardly sighs in relief as her shoes were not made with the purpose of walking in mind, her little toe pulsing in pain from his constricted space.
His fingers hover over a pawn as he looks up at her. “Do you play?” he asks, although the way he says it makes her think he already knows the answer. It irritates her, the way he thinks he’s got her all figured out.
“Although my abilities must be nowhere near yours, I do.”
She’s played this game before. When she was eleven — when the world was already turning gray from its crack but she was still retaining some of her innocence — a lord from a nearby kingdom visited them.
It was a courtesy visit, one dictated more from the vicious need to see the king that usurped the throne struggling, but Mori is so clever that such a need was never fulfilled. The palace was shining, the kingdom rich and prospering, and the family on the best of terms.
Still, when the topic came up and she admitted to being in the process of learning the art of chess, the lord challenged her to a duel under the claim of teaching her; she didn’t need much to understand it was the only satisfaction he could muster, the coin he could throw in the well of his pride. Of course, she beat him. Viciously, may she add. She didn’t think much of it, to be fair: she only did what her father did as well – establish their superiority. But apparently, one’s pride can be trampled over and over only when it can be hidden. Such an offense, in front of his wife and his kids, wasn’t acceptable. They lost his promise of commerce and, although it didn’t make a dent in the kingdom, Mori was furious. She still remembers the two weeks she spent closed in her quarters, her books taken and her maids silent.
So, she knows the game. Win by letting win.
She opens as well, as Fyodor observes her with a careful gaze. “You’re interesting, Dazai.”
She blinks in surprise, whiplashed from hearing her name.
“Am I?”
He moves a piece. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?” she asks. “We haven’t yet gotten to properly know each other.”
He humorlessly chuckles. “Do you think I haven’t done research on my betrothed?”
She searches his face for any indication of favor or concern but comes up empty-handed in front of a blank canvas. Unsettling.
She’s not surprised though. Had she cared enough about her fate and had she been given the resources, she might have done the same.
She moves a piece. “Foolish of me to think the opposite. Were you satisfied with what you’ve found, my lord?”
“What do you think I’ve found?” he asks after his turn.
She thinks about it. What could he find out about her? She doesn’t have any big secrets: her father keeps her out of business, probably in the event of her marriage and the possible decline of her never existing loyalty. Then, what is it? Is it her early teenhood, her decline in sanity? Is it her bitter longing for something more? Is it…
“I can’t say. I fear you will have to enlighten me,” she sets a test — a willing trap, if you will.
The way his eyes narrow and his lips pull slightly into a knowing smirk gives her the general point.
Her intelligence. Her abilities.
Now, their game of chess doesn’t look like a recreational activity.
She hesitates for less than a second before actually making a move, setting a dozen moves’ plan in action. He seems satisfied by it as he makes his own.
“I know what you can do, princess. I know part of the kingdom’s prosperity comes from the ideas you had when you were little, before the king trapped you inside this translucent cage of being a model princess.
He moves the queen, almost as if he had timed it.
“Is it because he didn’t see your potential? Because he was scared? Who knows.”
She does remember. There was a time, a limbo between being a child and being a woman, when her father used to listen to her opinions, when he would even consult her over small problems. She could come up with incredibly clever solutions that put the kingdom on the right track. They weren’t necessarily better days, but they were fuller. Then it stopped, slowed down before hitting the brakes. She knew, even then, that her father was scared: scared of what she could do if she put her mind to it.
The game goes on. “I see. What about it?”
He smiles, leans a bit forward like he’s telling a shameful secret. “I’m not like that.”
Her face doesn’t move, still as a summer pond.
“I’m not scared of power nor am I scared of you. When we’re married, your intelligence will be of use. You won’t have to hide yourself under the layer of empty beauty.” He moves a piece and looks straight at her. “You can reign by me, collaborate in my choices.”
The game continues rapidly.
A hummingbird flies on the table. Its feathers are a deep shade of forest green and its belly violet, a blur of magnificent colors, a rare one. It’s one of the birds her father likes to have around the garden, a symbol of his power. Its wings are routinely clipped in a way that doesn’t let it fly away. Its world is the garden.
“Of course, you’re still going to be my wife. You will have to respect me, stick by my side, and bear me a child, but together…”
He moves the final piece, effectively trapping her. It doesn’t come as a shock but it does leave a bitter taste on her tongue. She knows why she lost, the moves she made at the start brought her and her possibilities of winning down, but it doesn’t explain why it stings her fingers like the pieces were made of boiling lava.
“Together we can achieve greatness. We can bring our kingdom to the door of the West, unify the neighbors’ realms under our command, and reign over a prosperous nation.”
“It’s an ambitious plan,” she points out.
He shrugs, a secretive smile. “I’m an ambitious man, what can I say?”
As he leans further into the chair, he says, “This is the freedom I’m offering you. I don’t need to be the one to tell you that only a fool would refuse to be a part of it.”
“Now let’s go back princess, they must be waiting,” he says, not waiting for her answer as he gets up, offering her a hand to help her up.
He doesn’t need to wait for an answer. She doesn’t even have a choice in the first place whether to marry him or not — it’s basically written in stone — and he’s right: only a fool would refuse. This, the possibility of reigning, of having her voice heard, of the underlying respect that comes from it — the one most women are deprived of — is the biggest freedom that could be offered to a woman.
She should be relieved, ecstatic even, but as she gets up, the pupil-less eyes of the hummingbird stare at her from the space it’s resting on.
For a moment they stand there feeling the bitter likeness ringing through the space between them, an intangible red string linking the two of them. It’s a peculiar vibration starting from her lower stomach and spreading outwards, making her kind of nauseous. It’s as if they were one and the truth bubbles up her throat like an unwanted secret.
No. The truth is this is not enough. This is not the freedom she dreams of, the one plucking her heartstrings. They could give her the most lavish gardens to grow in, the fanciest of companies, the priciest luxuries, but she couldn’t fly. She couldn’t follow her fate, the gravitational pull towards the tide of the Earth. She could not open her wings and follow her heart.
From her clipped wings, Fyodor’s promise seems no more than a bigger, more golden cage.