❝ Anitchka, Anitchka, will you not invite me in? ❞
In which a girl is indebted to a wintry demon for saving her life, and the gold from her fingertips is a magic whose price she must repay tenfold. Unless she guesses his name first.
| loosely based...
|| content warning: depiction of homophobia trigger warning: abuse ||
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SHE WATCHES HIS MOVEMENTS carefully, the fire trailing a warm path over his shadowed features. They're close, too close, enough for Anitchka to find herself in the depth of his eyes. She considers stepping away, but his discomfort almost pleases her. Finally, she knows something about the myth of the Collector, and it is not based on tales and rumours. "So, tell me, tell me why you do what you do."
"I should be going," he manages, gaze roving over the ceiling instead.
Another flash of lightning whips through the fringe of dark clouds, seemingly parting them. The tapestries behind him, she notices, are stitched in stories. Anitchka is unfamiliar with their symbols but she recognises the elements of winter and folklore portrayed in its thread work. "I'd much rather you didn't," she blurts, "We've got the whole night, haven't we, Count?"
"Alright," he offers, spreading his arms in a grand gesture that is riddled with mockery, "What would Anna like to hear?" He draws the elegant chairs forward with a crook of his finger, proceeding to lounge against it. "Please, I insist, we do have the night to ourselves. Now, now, Anitchka, I will tell you all there is, but will you answer this: who told you?"
She sits begrudgingly. "You're acting . . . different."
Yet, what truly could be odd about someone who wears faces that are many and never quite his. Worse still, she has attributed a persona to him. His lips curl as though he has read her mind, and for a horrified moment, she thinks he has. "I don't believe you figured it by yourself."
Anitchka raises an eyebrow. "You've been lying to me all along, Count. Perhaps it is time that you answer me."
"I never claimed to be the only Collector."
That is when her bravado finds itself fumbling. She steels herself though, wading through this territory – one where she will seek out all there is, take what the land of the dead has to offer, and then emerge free from her debt. "Well, you didn't mention those before you either."
She watches as the night grows darker, the storm rising and unleashing its fury. It is colder, although it might have something to do with the man before her, and in response, he lights a slew of candles to hoard the warmth. "Your hamlet is of the opinion that there's been a single Collector all this while?"
"Of course," Anitchka points, "You wear several faces, how was one to know there were different bones behind them?" She holds her breath. "We had a saying in the village: Tsars change, but the Collector remains."
"What makes you believe that Tsars always change?" His expression is serious, fingers laced as the wintry chill and the fire intermingle. She clutches at the lace of her dress, running away from her words once more. He holds the weight of her silence over her head. "There have been Tsars, many of them, but Anitchka, Anitchka, you don't believe that the common folk truly know who sits on that cold throne in the capital."
