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Chapter Text

HE cathedral is cavernous and echoing, markedly different from its grand appearance during the daytime service. The few lit candles lining the walls do little to stave off the midnight dark that reaches down from the vaulted heights, though with their flickering they make the murals dance. Saints’ bloodied hands reach out in benediction; angels’ wings glint with living gold.

The priest on duty rustles and sighs, shifting back and forth before settling once again into his murmured prayers. If such an effort, undertaken by many such priests over three long days, were not enough to raise the dead king’s soul to heaven, Viktor is not sure what would.

Whether Mstislav Nikiforov is deserving of heaven, Viktor is no one of any authority to say.

The cypress casket is almost plain, for someone who was anything but in his lifetime. The gold and silver inlay is understated, etched with winding prayers for preservation of the body. It is closed, so the king’s face cannot be seen, but Viktor’s mind overlays his last image of him atop the casket anyway; bloated, feverish, awash in an awful stench.

In the last hours of his life, with an uncanny strength that recalled his former vigor, he had opened his eyes and grasped at Viktor’s wrist. “Vanya,” he’d rasped, reaching out with his other shaking hand, pulling hard on Viktor’s hair and staring at its silver color as if in shock. “Vanya?” he’d repeated, tremulous, while the doctors and servants pretended not to hear.

They were the last words he’d ever spoken. Perhaps Viktor ought to be jealous, or angry, that his reward for days and weeks spent at his husband’s bedside, cleaning his body and cooling his brow, was a plea for someone else entirely. But it’s not as if he hadn’t known.

Viktor’s long hair, carefully tended, had been the envy of the royal court. It’s gone now, shorn in proper mourning, and his head feels light and empty. The flimsy white veil he wears adds barely any weight.

It flutters as he breathes out. His hands, clasped together gently, tighten. He closes his eyes.

Oh blessed one, mother of God, you who were born pure and lived in purity, who dwells eternal in the presence of the divine, I beg you to come to my aid; to grant me steadfastness in the face of uncertainty, to shelter me from harm, to guide me away from sin and darkness. In your great compassion, oh queen of heaven, grant me your light to show the way.

He hesitates.

Our life, our sweetness, pray for us sinners; intercede for us with the Almighty God, and ask of Him to grant that his soul, too, be raised into light.

Viktor is rightfully exhausted after all his duties have been done: the vigil over; the body interred; the grand funeral completed, up to and including the part where he flings himself down upon the casket and has to be bodily dragged away. He retires back to his quarters, from which he will soon be evicted, once the coronation happens and he officially takes up the title of prince dowager. For now, he sinks into the chair by his desk, removing his veil and crumpling it up between his hands. They will give him some time in seclusion, ostensibly to mourn; he needn’t go out in public at least until the coronation.

After some time, a quiet knock comes on the door. “Enter,” he calls out, breaking from his stupor.

It’s a maid, bearing a tray of tea and food. She’s not one of his: he doesn’t even recognize her face, though it’s true that over the past weeks he’s paid little attention to the mundane doings of the household staff.

“Your Grace,” she curtsies, “His Highness the Prince Rostislav has requested you eat.”

After three days of fasting, Viktor ought to be more hungry than he is. Despite his lack of appetite, he recognizes the necessity of it, and spares some grateful thought to his brother-in-law—the crown prince, soon to be monarch—for acknowledging Viktor’s presence. “Thank you,” he nods, and allows her to set the food upon the desk in front of him. It’s plain fare, kasha with milk; easily digestible.

There is a teapot, and a teacup, but there is also a small vial sitting beside them. Viktor frowns. He uncaps the vial, and wrinkles his nose; it smells strongly of mint, a flavor Viktor has no great fondness for.

“What is this?” he demands. The maid’s hands tangle with each other.

“Pennyroyal, Your Grace.”

“Pennyroyal,” he repeats, then nearly laughs in disbelief. “I’m not—I’ve never—” he trails off. What he’s never is well known, a favorite subject of courtly gossip both sympathetic and cruel. “At Prince Rostislav’s request,” he says with a twist of his lips.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid nearly whispers.

“Well, then,” he says, and downs the whole thing in one go, setting it back on the tray with a severe clack and a grimace. “Is it even worth it for me to eat the rest of this?” His stomach churns, whether from the taste or the anticipation.

She glances up at him, and he swears he can see sympathy in her gaze. “For strength, Your Grace.” You’ll need it, she doesn’t say.

The kasha turns out to be useless, since he’s barely halfway through before nausea begins to roil through his gut. Wordlessly, the maid fetches him an empty chamber pot just in time for him to regurgitate the undigested porridge. Pain seizes through his stomach, clawlike, and he curls into himself before abruptly falling into another round of heaving.

It’s an interminable length of time that he sits there, vomiting up bile and air and the taste of mint. The pain settles down into dull cramps before violently intensifying again, so much so that he cries out involuntarily, clutching at his belly. Tears that never came for his dead husband streak down his cheeks.

When he has gone for some five minutes without retching, the maid sets down the fouled pot and holds the teacup to his lips. “Drink, Your Grace,” she commands, so he does, gulping down the liquid and grimacing as his stomach protests. He clenches his jaw against the renewed urge to vomit, breathing deeply, eyes closed.

“You might be more comfortable lying down,” she offers, and he peels his eyes open to glare at this woman who has gone ahead and fed him poison. He doesn’t doubt it was on Rostislav’s orders indeed, nor does he truly believe that it’s meant to kill him—there are easier ways to do that—but he still feels inordinately resentful. Still, he staggers over to the bed, shaking off her wordless offer of assistance as he sheds layers from his sweaty, clammy skin.

He shivers, and seizes, and dreams: the maid’s face replaced by his mother’s, her hands replaced by his husband’s. The dead king holds him with rotting fingers and croons love songs into his ear. Jealous Ivan Gorchakov reaches into his womb and pulls, cruel and deliberate, and from out of him drags only the bloodless silk of his mourning veil, which settles over his body, over his mouth and nose, choking him. The dandies of the court, faceless and formless, gather round his bed and whisper and titter.

Viktor dreams for days, and on the fourth morning, he wakes: exhausted, hungry, filthy.

Prince Rostislav is sitting by his bedside. Viktor instinctively clutches the bed coverings closer.

“We are brothers, are we not?” Rostislav says, “There is no impropriety.”

“My lord,” Viktor responds, his voice rough and dry as a crow’s, and does not let go of the sheets.

Rostislav sighs and resettles himself, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. “I am sorry,” he says, and even manages a good approximation of apologetic. “It was an unfortunate necessity.”

As is usual, Viktor bites back his reply— yes, a true necessity for the barren prince, who might otherwise have replicated the wonder of a miraculous conception— and merely nods. “Of course, my lord.”

The slightest downward twitch of his lips betrays Rostislav’s discontentment. “I think,” he says, “That you would be more at ease away from the court for some time. Don’t you?”

Viktor’s hand clenches; he relaxes it swiftly. Away from the court could mean his natal family’s holdings, or instead the sort of nunnery intended to keep young nobles chaste and demure; some time could mean a few months, or instead forever. “If it is as you wish, your majesty.”

“I’m not crowned yet,” Rostislav corrects him. “You’ll stay for the coronation. After, I’ve arranged for your travel to St. Stepan’s Convent.”

St. Stepan’s? Not the Monastery of Our Lady, a day’s ride out from the city, where most people of his status might go; or even the Convent of the Annunciation, further afield but with no less exalted guests. Viktor’s not even sure where St. Stepan’s is.

“It’s small,” Rostislav acknowledges, “Quiet. Two weeks’ journey, to the southwest.”

“I see,” Viktor says. A place where he will be relegated for a long time, then; or indeed a very short one, when even some mishap along the way will be scarcely noted. He wonders if his natal family objected. Unlikely. They’ve fallen out of favor, the moreso in light of his personal failings.

“It isn’t permanent, if you would wish to return someday.”

“Of course.”

Rostislav nods, taking a long moment to regard Viktor. He has sharp, brilliantly green eyes: unusual, for a Nikiforov, and the subject of many rumors regarding his actual parentage that likely will do little to stabilize his transition into power. “Well then, brother,” he says at last, “Rest.”

He rises to leave, but before he reaches the door he turns, looks at Viktor appraisingly. “If I were not married, I would have taken you for my own,” he says, as if that were something Viktor would want.

“An infertile omega?” Viktor cringes immediately; he ought not to give into such impulses. He ought to have learned not to speak his mind.

Rostislav shakes his head, laughing quietly. “I think you and I both know you were not the infertile one in your marriage,” he says, “God rest his soul, my brother never did appreciate what he had,” and sweeps out the door like a king.

It’s not that Mstislav had been cruel.

Viktor was chosen for two reasons. The first, because he was a beautiful young man, with light hair and light eyes, a pleasing natural scent, and a certain practiced grace to his movements. The second, to convince his influential uncle to support the king’s latest eastward expansion. He’d been naive and sheltered, only a year out from his first season, and a good decade younger than Mstislav himself. His four omega siblings—all older than both himself and his one alpha sister, the great hope of the family—had each given their spouses children within a single year.

The wedding had been timed perfectly, so that he’d fallen into heat nearly as soon as they had retired to the king’s quarters. Mstislav had been attentive, that time and all the others: never leaving him to suffer alone; always stroking his hair, his nape, his flanks through the inevitable pain of coupling; ensuring he ate and drank. Whatever sense of shame Viktor felt during the ordeal was wholly internal, the rational part of his mind that cringed even as he presented himself and begged like a whore.

It had been vastly superior to his first, which was accompanied by a celebration for his family and days of shivering self-loathing for himself, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of sin.

(How terribly unfair, he had thought at the time, that they should all suffer Eve’s punishment, and in doing so be tempted further to depravity.)

So Mstislav had done his husbandly duties, and kept Viktor in comfort besides, year after year. And year after year, Viktor had left his heat without a pregnancy to show for it; and when he was not in season, Mstislav had little enough to do with him. But he was not expected to, by Viktor or anyone else.

The weeks-long journey ought to give him plenty of time to reflect, but Viktor’s mind is blank as the miles roll along. His carriage is small but comfortable enough. His guards are professional and remote. He has little to bring with him. So few of his possessions were his own, after all.

The sky is grey and the air is unseasonably cold as they draw closer to the convent, like a foreshadowing of the long winter that lies ahead. He twitches aside the curtain of the carriage, just enough to see through the small window to the rolling hills and fallow fields beyond, not yet sown with winter wheat. A few stooped figures pick their way through the gleanings. Viktor watches them until the carriage turns the bend and they fall out of sight. He closes the curtain again, and sits back, body numb and mind empty.

The convent itself, when at last they reach it, is a drab grey structure that hardly stands out against the drab grey sky; better fortified than the ones closer to the capital, and Viktor is reminded of their relative proximity to the southern border and its barbarian hordes. As it is, they roll uncontested through the open doors of the gatehouse. Viktor’s guard helps him out of the carriage, and he steps out onto packed grey earth. Before him stands an older man, a beta by his scent—likely the ordained abbot of the place—with long brown hair and a drab grey habit.

The man smiles, widely, and bows his head in a nod between equals. “Prince Viktor,” the man says, “I am Celestino Cialdini, and I am pleased to welcome you home. God willing, your journey was not too taxing?”

Home. The reality of it at last slams into Viktor like a winter storm. He feels brittle and cold, but remembers himself and shakes his head. “My thanks,” he replies, and is surprised to find his voice hoarse and halting, “The journey was well. I am honored to be invited into your community.”

Celestino nods, and his smile acquires a softer edge. “You are still grieving, of course. I hope that you can be comforted that this is a place of contemplation and peace, and that you may take what time you need.” He turns to the foremost of Viktor’s guard. “Welcome to you as well; though I cannot allow you into the cloister itself, we have guest quarters that I hope will suffice before you return to the capital. As for you, Viktor, we have a room set aside for you and what things you may have. In a moment one of the brothers will lead you there.”

Viktor follows the summoned brother—a quiet young man, halfway to scowling—wordlessly through the halls, and barely sees the few people whom they pass. The convent is indeed fairly small: they reach his cell quickly. It is a small room with a bed just large enough for a single person; a single set of drawers, containing those grey robes and miscellaneous necessary items; a table with an unlit lamp; a window that lets in the grey sunlight.

The brother leaves him with a nod, stating only, “I will come fetch you for the evening prayer, if you so wish.”

When he has gone, Viktor takes the few steps required to reach the window, and looks out. The view is towards the interior of the cloister, where a tall, wide tree reaches high above the colonnade’s arches. Its leaves flutter in the wind, a few breaking off to drift down gently to the ground. Sections of neatly tended garden, green and bright, fill the space around it. Around the covered walkway paces a single robed figure, hurried steps belying his circular route. To Viktor’s right, the church itself rises above the rest of the buildings; before him, the sun has begun to droop lower in the sky.

Maybe Rostislav is right. Maybe what he needs is a small, quiet place, as bare and grey as his spirit.

Oh holy virgin, god-bearer, in your infinite mercy, grant me hope.

Chapter Text

Viktor is not a monastic; he is not even professed to chastity and devotion, except inasmuch as he has no spouse. As such, he has no obligation to attend the daily prayers, nor to take part in the daily chores, nor in fact to do anything at all.

As prince consort, he had not been idle, though many in similar positions to his are carefully sheltered. The fashion of the day is to shut them up in private quarters, accessible only by spouse and servants, and let them spend their time in embroidery and prayer, full to bursting with child whenever possible. Mstislav, though, had some romantic notions as to the customs of the princes of the old territories, whose spouses aided them in everything from religious rites to politics to warfare. Though Viktor was hardly the image of the warrior dam, fierce in defense of their country and their children, he was permitted to have a hand in running the household.

Of course, there were frequently murmurs that overtaxing Viktor's mind played some part in his infertility, but Mstislav had rarely paid attention to rumors or gossip, and less often chose to alter his behavior based on either. And if Viktor were to be cynical: the more occupied he was with provisioning, the less likely he would be to seek out his husband for company.

Ironically, Viktor talks to Mstislav more now than he ever did when the man was alive. He remarks on the weather, or the content of the daily prayers, or the taste of the thin wine that Mstislav would never have himself stooped to drink. He speculates on the goings-on at the borders—the recently pacified east, the end of the war for which Viktor was married; the barbarians in the south, periodically fended off by the youngest royal prince. He tells him that the royal purse is no doubt better shepherded by Rostislav, conservative and careful as he is.

Mstislav never answers. Either he is happy in heaven, or instead he preferentially haunts Ivan—Vanya—in death as he did in life.

"I'm not offended," Viktor tells him, as he stares out the window watching the leaves turn color and runs three fingers along the mate-mark scar by his neck. "You never asked, but I didn't care." He should have, probably, should have railed against it. Maybe he never believed that, in the end, Mstislav would have chosen another alpha over him; maybe that explains it. But he was never jealous of Ivan.

(Ivan was jealous of him, but he never did anything about it. He knew just as Viktor did that no alpha could ever be a consort to Mstislav, just as no omega would ever be his confidante).

Viktor talks to Mstislav because no one at the convent ever really talks to him. Theoretically, the brothers and sisters, consorts of God, are supposed to spend much of their days in silence—not so different from the sheltered consorts of earthly kings—broken only for necessities and prayer. Practically, they seem to speak to each other whenever they want. Viktor, though, is given a wide berth: a respectful distance. He attends the prayers, most of them at least, just to feel the presence of other people around him. At dinner, he eats alone, half-listening to the readings of the day. When he walks the covered path around the central garden, nobody else comes near.

Illustratively, once, a brother—young, as many of them are, with dark hair cut as short as Viktor's and dark, worried eyes—entered the courtyard, and upon seeing Viktor there, immediately left.

Viktor spends less time walking after that. Instead, he looks out his window and watches that same monk pace in endless circles around the garden.

It takes hardly a week before he is tired of this state of affairs.

"Father," Viktor greets Celestino, who hides his surprise quickly and favors Viktor with a broad smile.

"Viktor! What can I do for you?" he asks, folding ink-stained fingers over atop his desk. "I hope you are comfortable?"

"Yes, quite comfortable," Viktor says, "My thanks for your ongoing hospitality, of course."

"I'm glad to hear it. Is there anything else you require?"

For all his conviction in coming here, Viktor still hesitates. "My apologies, Father, but I am not used to being so idle. Is there anything I can do here to assist?"

"Ah," Celestino says, eyebrows slightly quirked. He regards Viktor speculatively, almost skeptically. "You are under no obligation to do so. The quiet contemplation of the divine is as valuable a vocation as any earthly labor."

As valuable? The priests Viktor has met, many at larger monasteries, would have professed that the former was far more important.

"And yet if I can be of service, I would be quite willing to do so."

"Hmm," Celestino answers with a mild frown. "Well…" he glances to the side, eyes passing over the materials on his desk. "The sowing will begin soon, and in that everyone in the convent and village takes part. You are of course welcome to help. And, oh!" He smiles his broad smile again, glancing at something behind Viktor. "How do you feel about bees?"

Viktor turns slightly to find a brother—the somber man who had first escorted him to his rooms—standing in the doorway.

"Brother Seung-Gil could use some company, I think," Celestino says. To this, Seung-Gil shows very little change in emotion, although since he is already frowning it could be hard to tell.

Viktor does not know how he feels about bees, given that he has had little contact with them beyond the occasional glimpse in a garden. Regardless, he pastes on a smile. "I would love to help," he says, body angled so as to include Seung-Gil in the offer.

Seung-Gil shrugs. "I will show you the hives," he says, "The harvest is done for the year, but I must see to the health of the colonies, and pack the hollows with straw if need be. We will go tomorrow, after the first hour."

"That's settled, then!" Celestino says brightly, so Viktor smiles and nods and retreats back to his cell until the next service.

He meets Seung-Gil by the doors of the church after the first morning prayer. The brother looks him up and down with a scowl. "We will be climbing," he says at last, "And walking through the forest. You ought to have worn appropriate clothes."

Viktor does not have any other clothes, besides an identical set of grey robes, but he does not protest this fact. Instead, he attempts to apologize, but Seung-Gil shakes his head before he can and says dismissively, "It is immaterial; merely that you will not see the hives up close. I doubt you would have liked to anyway. I hope you can carry a load, at least."

He is handed a basket full of straw, the kind carried on his back. It does not seem particularly heavy when they begin, but by the time they have traipsed along the hills up towards the distant forest Viktor is already tired. The trail through the woods is easily seen at first, but as the sun rises higher in the sky and the remnants of summer heat begin to seep through the canopy Viktor is reduced to watching Seung-Gil’s sure feet. His own begin to falter, and vines and branches clutch at his clothing; he is terribly relieved when Seung-Gil finally stops, pointing to a tree that to Viktor looks the same as all the others.

“Here,” he says, “There are the handholds, and up there is the hive.” Deftly, he knots a rope around himself, and around the great trunk of the tree; Viktor watches, catching his breath, as he makes his way upward with the native familiarity of a squirrel. Some minutes later, at a place several times the height of a tall man, he stops, letting the rope hold him handless to the tree, and gently opens a little door. A high buzzing gets louder, and Viktor stares in horror as the bees begin to swarm around Seung-Gil, who seems unfazed and soon closes the door. He returns to the ground as quickly as he went up.

“The hollows which have healthy colonies, we needn’t disturb excessively,” he explains; “The straw is for the empty ones, for additional warmth, to encourage a settlement. Then there is little to do over the winter. Come.”

Viktor’s feet are already sore, and he begins to fall behind as Seung-Gil continues onward. After the fourth or fifth tree—most of them empty ones in which Seung-Gil places a layer of straw—the chafing heat along his soles begins to blossom into pain, and he winces as they start forward again. Seung-Gil watches this with a deepening frown.

“Stop,” he says, and Viktor is not imagining the irritation in his voice. “Lift up your foot.”

Viktor cannot keep the flush from his face as Seung-Gil inspects his feet. The brother huffs. “Foolish,” he mutters, and shakes his head sharply. “You will not make it the rest of the way,” he declares. “We will go back.”

“I can keep going,” Viktor protests, and Seung-Gil fixes him with that stare of his.

“No,” he says, “I will go out again tomorrow. You will do nobody any good if I have to carry you back.”

He takes the basket from Viktor’s back, and Viktor holds back tears of frustration and relief as they make their way back through the forest, down the hills, and to the monastery. Seung-Gil delivers him to the infirmary, where another brother potters around in the otherwise empty room.

“He has injured himself,” Seung-Gil explains. He eyes Viktor. “I think mine is not the task for you,” he says bluntly, “I will tell the father I require no aid. You are not obligated to, anyway; you are merely a guest.”

Viktor sinks down onto a bed in shame. The brother clucks his tongue. “Seung-Gil is not much accustomed to company,” he explains, “And he is not a man of diplomacy or soft speech. Don’t take his words to heart! I am Cao, the herbalist here. Let me see this injury?”

Viktor shows him his feet, which have become redder, with patches of raised and swollen skin. “This is normal enough for those unused to rough travel,” Cao says. “They will heal and become tougher than before!”

Cao makes quick work of Viktor’s feet, cleaning them with thin red wine, applying a thick poultice and wrapping them firmly. When done, he gives Viktor a pat on the shin and a bright smile. “All done! Now you ought to rest, so you may heal. If you see excess redness, or swelling, you must come back to me. And pray, of course.”

“Will that work?” Viktor asks, perhaps too cynically, memories of swarms of hovering priests fresh in his mind. For the soul, no doubt; for the body, he has seen no evidence.

Cao grins from one side of his mouth. “It cannot hurt, Your Grace. Though some believe it may be the very height of arrogance to think that God’s will can be swayed by our own selfish desires, still others emphasize the personal relationship between us and our Father. Or at the very least the saints in heaven. Regardless,” he adds pragmatically, “I have found that sometimes prayer takes ones mind off of physical pain.”

“I see,” Viktor nods. “Thank you.” He glances back at the door through which Seung-Gil left. “He is angry,” he notes, clenching his jaw.

“Seung-Gil?” Cao shakes his head. “No; if he were angry, he would have told you. He simply has little time for people he perceives as—ah, well. Don’t worry about him. Now go! Rest! Off with you!”

Viktor goes.

Viktor's feet heal before the sowing, for which he is grateful. His failure to keep up with Seung-Gil shadows him with a reputation as fragile, delicate; he hopes he can at least redeem himself with this apparently communal task.

Of course, he has no experience with sowing, either, or farming in general. Oh, he knows in an academic sense what needs to be done to grow a field of wheat; in greater detail, he knows how much grain ought to be produced from such a field, and who owns what land, and furthermore what they owe to the crown. The monastery, though, owes no grain nor coin to the crown, and owns much of the land nearby, which they lease to the villagers for the most part.

A few of the brethren are truly cloistered, and do not leave the interior building, not even to walk within the broad defensive walls of the convent. The majority permit themselves to travel locally, however. Some have dealings with the village itself, taking grain to the millers to grind or trading for other material goods; others, like Seung-Gil, routinely work in the fields or the forest.

Viktor is introduced to a novitiate, a thin and bright-eyed boy by the name of Guang-Hong. A boy, but Viktor is suddenly struck by the thought that Guang-Hong, who seems so young, is yet older than Viktor himself was when he was married. From there his thoughts tend to what the poor boy must go through during his yearly heats, and he cringes. He hasn't even thought about it until now. It's no wonder that sworn virgins are thought holy.

The monastery and village pool their oxen together, and several of the sturdier villagers plow the fields before the sowing. The plowing is still going on, even when they gather to begin the first field, and Guang-Hong points a few of the plowers out to Viktor—"That's Takeshi, he's actually the miller but he's good with a plow; there's Emil, he's very friendly; that one's Leo."

Viktor is sure he isn't imagining the way Guang-Hong's eyes track to Leo at every chance. The villager is of a similar age, broad in the shoulders, sweaty in the sun; once or twice he flashes Guang-Hong a smile, even from a fair distance away.

Guang-Hong is a novitiate, Viktor reasons. He's made no lifelong commitment; it would not be unusual if he decides to leave the convent at the end of this apprenticeship. The nobility do it all the time, to provide their children with an education before marriage. In fact, a convent such as this one, with few—hardly any—members of high birth is itself unusual.

A cart trundles along the edge of the field, and sacks of grain are deposited at the end of each furrow. "Here!" Guang-Hong stands beside him, holding out a sack. "Take this; now you take it in handfuls, and scatter it evenly. Like this!"

Guang-Hong is sure, quick, and even-handed with the grain. He makes the process look easy. Viktor, on the other hand, finds himself alternately stingy or overenthusiastic, dumping out a whole handful in one spot. He bites his lip and concentrates, proceeding even more slowly than he had to begin with.

By the time he reaches the end of his furrow, messy and inexpert though it is, Guang-Hong has gone twice as far. He bounces over to Viktor. "It looks great," he praises, and Viktor casts a suspicious eye over the lumpy earth. "Really!" he cries. "It took me ages to figure it out."

"And how old were you?" Viktor sighs.

"Well…younger. But that doesn't matter! You're a prince. I'm sure you did much more exciting things when you were young. Wasn't it true that the king was in love with you at first scent?"

Viktor's face must show his surprise, because Guang-Hong looks suddenly abashed. "I'm sorry," he says, "I shouldn't have brought it up…it must be so difficult."

"It's fine," Viktor assures him, "It's not…I'm not sure he was. Is that what they say?"

"Well," Guang-Hong replies, "that he followed your scent, without knowing your face, through the halls of his palace; and because you were visiting, but had gone back home, had to track you through the whole city. And how in the tower of your sire's house you were combing your long silver hair, as bright and beautiful as starlight. And the king, who was bold and brave, fell in love and could not wait to be married, and whisked you away immediately."

Viktor's short silver hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat. "Oh," he says, at a loss, then sees Guang-Hong's eager expression, and decides not to comment on the genuine impossibility of tracking anyone through the whole city by scent alone. "Well, he did come to my sire's house, and found me there in a tower. And he certainly whisked me away. And he was brave; I never saw him fight, but he loved to battle."

The boy's eyes shine. "It must be amazing, to have been part of that. Knights and princes! Eternal love!" He sighs. "Of course we are all graced with the eternal love of God. But it's not quite the same."

Viktor smiles despite himself. "No, not quite."

The sowing is punctuated by retreats back to the church, to engage in prayer before returning once again to work. By the end of the day, Viktor has improved, but his work is still childish and slow next to the efforts of the others. Nevertheless, he looks back on it with something resembling pride. And where the sowers go, the harrowers soon follow, turning up the earth to cover the seeds and protect them from the hungry birds that greedily eye the grain: whatever poor work he does is thus soon covered.

Guang-Hong is friendly during the work, and yet Viktor still finds himself alone at dinnertime; the several novitiates group together at a table of their own. The work has made him hungry, though, and tired, and surprisingly serene.

In his cell that night he stares up at the ceiling and laughs at himself. How far he has come! From dominion, however indirect, of the whole kingdom and her tributaries, to dominion over a tiny strip of brown, quiescent land.

Chapter Text

The sowing is soon enough done, and Viktor is returned to a life of unwilling leisure. Whatever goodwill he might have gained for himself is not enough. Guang-Hong, for one, goes back to being politely distant, though Viktor knows now that the boy likely thinks he is just being polite. 

Shortly before the first winter storms begin to roll in, the convent receives visitors. It has guest quarters, since it serves also as a waypoint for travellers from time to time. The town itself is large enough to sustain a small inn, but there are only a few rooms and as far as Viktor knows the place serves mainly as a place for the townsfolk to relax.

He barely registers that anyone has come, since he spends his time entirely within the cloister, but another of the novices is sent to fetch him. He follows the boy to a small room, outside of which Father Cialdini is standing. “Viktor! You have a visitor.”

It isn’t Rostislav—it’s someone much better. Viktor enters the room tentatively, and can’t help but smile when he sees its sole occupant, who rises from his chair to greet him with a bold embrace and two quick kisses to the cheek.

Sudislav Nikiforov is practically the mirror image of his eldest brother, but much younger, just shy of Viktor’s age. Where Mstislav was fearless and Rostislav is calculating, Sudislav is warm and ebullient. “Vitya!” he exclaims upon releasing him. “You look well,” he says, “I am glad. I was afraid you’d be withering away here, like these crusty old monks. Come, sit, sit.”

He ushers Viktor to a seat at the table, and pours him a cup of sweet red wine. “I am sorry I wasn’t able to see you at the coronation,” he says, “We only just returned from the border. Rostya is recalling soldiers, for the winter, he says, but I fear he won’t have us return. Well, he’s right that the border is secure, anyway; but we have a chance of wiping out those barbarians for good, Vitya! Let me tell you…”

Sudislav launches into tales of his exploits, which involve quite a lot of heroism and horse-raiders fleeing for their lives. Viktor drowns in it. He hasn’t had a conversation this exciting since long before he came to the monastery, and Sudislav doesn’t act like he’s too delicate to hear it. The wine warms its way into his cheeks, and his smile doesn’t fade.

“Anyway,” Sudislav concludes, “We’ll be staying for only a little while, I think—well, Rostya wants us back, but with the winter storms coming up…” he shrugs and winks. “And this town is so charming! Not,” he adds, “the only thing here that’s charming, either.” He flashes Viktor a rakish grin.

Viktor huffs out a laugh, used to Sudislav’s harmless flirtations.

“But tell me, Vitya, what are you up to here?” His visage softens. “I know it must have been hard for you…”

“Ah,” Viktor replies. “The monks here are very kind. It is pleasant. Peaceful.”

Sudislav’s eyes narrow, and he faintly smirks. “Oh, Vitya. You’re bored out of your skull.” He shakes his head. “What a waste! Well, I’ll have to see if Rostya can be convinced to bring you back to court, hmm? Or simply bring you back myself. What would you say to that, hmm?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Viktor admits. “But you needn’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“Vitya,” Sudislav says, “You are worth the trouble, my friend.” He pats Viktor’s hand. “Look at you, all dressed up like a penitent. You ought to be clothed in silks again, and jewels to match your beauty. And Rostya…well, maybe there are some things he won’t be able to say no to.”

The first thing that Viktor notices about Kenjirou is that his hair is too long.

Viktor's hair is short because he is in mourning, and as a widow he's more or less expected to keep it that way unless he remarries. The omega brethren keep theirs short as a sign of their humility, their devotion to God, and their rejection of earthly considerations. (Father Celestino does not seem to bother.) Kenjirou's, though, brushes down past his nape, to the point where he keeps it tied back.

The second thing that Viktor notices about Kenjirou is that he has both the demeanor and the subtlety of a puppy dog. As bright and friendly as Guang-Hong was, Kenjirou is twice that: he bounces back and forth between one thought and another, and yet at the same time keeps glancing sideways at Viktor, as if he'll bite.

"I'm the youngest of seven," he chatters, "Six omegas and a beta. I mean, we're not so particular like the nobles are—" and here, for instance, he freezes for a guilty moment "—but six is a lot, and Father Celestino said I might have the aptitude, and it seemed the right thing to do. And it's not so far from my village."

The Monastery of Our Lady, Viktor is sure, has rules against speaking. This he knows because Christophe had complained about them in his letters whenever he could, and rejoiced a great deal when the offer of marriage came, even though it was to a foreign alpha. St. Stepan's seems to have none.

"I could already read and write a bit, you know, my dam has to keep the books proper, but I got here and Brother Yuuri—he's so smart—gave me a real education, you know, so I know a little Latin now too, like I'm some proper—" he pauses again "—well, so I can understand the words better now."

Kenjirou is not a big person, but he lifts a nearly full barrel like it weighs hardly anything. "Anyway, since my dam is a brewer, I apprenticed in to Sister Kanako when I came here, but she's." A shadow casts across his features. "Gone to God. So it's just been me! Except Sister Kanako couldn't do any of the physical work, anyway, so it's really just been me doing it since I came here. Except she really knew when to take it off the heat, and how hot to make the malt, and I just did what she said to. We can buy from the village brewer, too, but we don't have much money to do that and it's cheaper to just buy the yeast."

He pokes at a boiling vat with a long stick. "I'm not as good at it as she was. Or my dam. But I'll get there! Anyway, this will boil for a while longer, and then we'll cool it. And then we pour off the wort, and  add the yeast, and then we let it ferment. And hope it all goes well! See, it's not too complicated, except you have to get the temperatures right. It's harder in the summer, so it's a good thing it's getting cooler out!"

Viktor has, so far, not actually done anything but stood there as Kenjirou lifted and carried and poured and set the fire going. This is Celestino's second attempt at giving Viktor a job; it's gone much better than the first, he supposes, as nobody's yet been injured and Kenjirou doesn't seem to mind.

"We buy our wine," he adds, "Since we don't have grapes. This is enough for me!"

It also seems that Viktor doesn't need to speak much. Kenjirou's nervous energy is enough to keep the stream of words flowing, with only the occasional nod from him in response. He is vaguely aware that this probably does nothing to save his image as a fragile noble snob.

"Have you met everyone?" Kenjirou natters on. "I guess there's not that many people so you must have. There used to be more, I guess, but not since I've been here. And there's only a few of the novices. Phichit says it's because of the barbarians, that nobody wants to come down here, but he also says they're going to come over the walls and eat us, and they haven't gotten this far north in ages. I think he's wrong, but I guess he talks to all the guests that come by so he probably knows more about it than I do."

"I don't think they eat people," Viktor offers. (They would, as far as he's aware, happily come over the walls and either kidnap or murder everyone inside; but he's inclined to trust Sudislav's evaluation of the situation, and reasons that they're fairly safe.)

Kenjirou stops talking for a full ten seconds, eyes gone wide, before he runs full tilt into another sentence. "Guang-Hong says that if the barbarians come we can take them, anyway."

The wort boils for an hour or more. The cellar—not the kitchen proper, but nearby—grows hot and humid in the meantime. Kenjirou doesn't even seem to notice.

"It's done!" he proclaims, showing Viktor the scum that's risen to the surface. "Now you take that off, like this, so it's clear. And then we'll put this in the troughs and it will cool off."

Kenjirou, it turns out, can carry a vat alone, and pour it off as well. Viktor can barely lift the thing.

"It's okay!" Kenjirou tells him, and—rather than share the burden—proceeds to pour off each of the vats while Viktor continues to watch. "And now we leave it for the night, and hope it doesn't go off. And that's all!"

"Thank you," Viktor says, and Kenjirou freezes again. "For showing me?"

"Ah, hah, of course you're welcome! Anyway, I guess you can come down here whenever you want!"

For the next few days, Viktor wanders down to the cellar; but every time he tries to help, he's either dreadfully incapable of it or Kenjirou brushes him off without even seeming to notice. He's left standing around, watching: entertained by the chatter, he supposes, if nothing else.

He hopes that Sudislav will ask for him again. It's not proper for Viktor to ask himself.

"Your Grace," Cao greets him that morning right after the first hour. "I'm glad to see you've healed right up!"

Viktor nods. "I only have you to thank," he says politely.

"Not only me," Cao smiles. "Your Grace, I wondered if I might steal you away from young Kenjirou for the day."

Viktor glances around; the brewer has already disappeared. "I don't think he'd mind," he says carefully. "But I should tell him."

"Of course, of course!" Cao agrees. "Shall I meet you in the infirmary, then?"

As predicted, Kenjirou does not seem to mind at all, given how quickly he agrees. Viktor fends off a momentary ache of rejection, and makes his way outside. The infirmary is a separate building from the cloister, across the way from the guesthouse where Sudislav and some number of his knights are staying. Viktor's eyes linger on said guesthouse for rather too long before he turns to enter the infirmary.

Inside, Cao is tending to a young girl, whose dam frets back and forth around the bedside. "Don't I tell you to stay away from the mill when it's running? You could have been badly injured."

The girl pouts. "I'm okay, mama."

"Your sisters could have gotten badly injured," the woman points out. "Don't you care about your sisters?"

"Yes, ma—" the girl's eyes go wide as she sees Viktor enter, and her mother turns around to end up with a gaping mouth herself. She immediately drops into a bow.

"Good morning, Your Grace," she murmurs, and without changing pose cuffs her daughter lightly. "Show some respect."

"Good morning," Viktor says awkwardly. "Ah, brother…?"

Cao smiles up at him. "If you'll give me a moment! We had some expected unexpected guests." He pats the young girl on her shoulder. "It's only a bad bruise, Yuuko; she'll be right as rain in a week. But stay away from large animals," he tells the girl sternly, and she quickly nods. "At least until you're a little bigger yourself."

"Thank you," the woman—Yuuko—sighs, distracted from Viktor by the health of her child. "I'm so sorry for the bother."

"Not a bother at all," Cao says. "I trust Takeshi is well?"

"Oh, yes." She frowns at her child. "If feeling quite guilty this morning."

"'M sorry," says the little girl. "I just wanted to get a closer look."

Yuuko sighs and takes her daughter up in her arms. "I know, darling. We should get back and let papa know you're perfectly all right, hmm?"

"Mmhmm." She flings her arms around her mother's shoulders and buries her nose in Yuuko's neck.

"You're getting too big to carry," Yuuko tells her, "Soon you'll be able to help papa out more. But you need to be patient…" she throws Cao one more tired smile, and skirts around Viktor to reach the door with another abbreviated bow.

"Expected unexpected?" Viktor asks, when she's left.

"No visitors here are entirely expected," Cao says, "But neither is it unexpected to receive some. Yuuko has triplets, you see, and at least one of them is always getting into some trouble."

"Triplets?" Viktor is almost jealous, then horrified.

"A natural phenomenon, if rare. Yuuko is certainly no candidate for adultery." His expression has gone subtly hard.

"I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

Cao’s frown morphs into a smile. "Ah, I apologize. Sometimes I spend altogether too much time fighting off superstitions. The poor woman had a difficult birth; but she got three healthy alphas out of it, and now is hardly the worse for wear. The blessed Virgin, no doubt, was smiling down upon her."

"No doubt," Viktor agrees.

"Anyway!" The herbalist rises from his low stool. "Father Celestino tells me you were looking for something to work on."

"Yes, I have been attempting to."

"Well, I have many little chores around here, which should not be too taxing. If you're willing? If you'd prefer to continue to assist Kenjirou, of course, I shouldn't keep you."

"No," Viktor says quickly, "I don't think I've been much help."

"Well, then! Come through here, to the pantry." They proceed towards the back, between the six beds laid out in rows. "The people here are very independent," Cao tells him. "You shouldn't consider it a slight to yourself, when they are not used to working with other people. Here!" He sweeps out a hand. "I need bandages torn, and plants ground, and so forth. We have a garden outside, and I dry the herbs for later use when I can. How does that seem?"

"If you show me how, I'll do it," Viktor says.

Almost daily, some townsperson comes to the infirmary with some complaint, and Cao treats them with the same good humor he always seems to have. Viktor hardly interacts with them—when he emerges from the small storeroom, they clam up and stare. Instead, he sorts through unfamiliar plants, grinds leaves into thick pastes, tears up pieces of old cloth.

It's pleasant work, for a while, until he ruins it.

That day, he pays little attention to the plant he is handed until he's already placed it into the mortar and begun to grind it. Immediately a distinct, sharp smell of off-mint reaches his nose, and he freezes.

Cao re-enters the backroom to find Viktor shaking, pestle clutched tightly in his fist, and gently peels his fingers off one by one. "Perhaps it is too early," he says, "for you to feel comfortable working with medicines." He means too early after Mstislav's death, Viktor supposes. He means well.

As soon as Viktor snaps out of it, he berates himself: a plant cannot hurt him. He paces around the courtyard, gritting his teeth against tears. He'll go back, and insist on being allowed to work again; this was only a temporary setback. Once he's calmed down, he'll go back.

He whirls around to return to the infirmary, and almost runs right into another monk, just entering the courtyard. The young man stops short.

It's the same one who ran away from him before: messy black hair, wide brown eyes, hands clenched tightly in his robes and fingers stained dark. The man opens his mouth, but no words come out, and he backs up a few paces before rushing away through the open door.

Viktor watches him go, suddenly tired, the conviction drained from him as quickly as the brother had fled.

Still, he trudges out of the cloister and down the gravel path to the infirmary. As he approaches, though, he hears quiet voices through the open door, and he slows his walk.

"It's childish," Seung-Gil is saying. "He must know we're paid for his upkeep. There's no need for him to insist on our attention also, however much he was used to it as a spoiled prince."

"There's no need for you to be cruel," Cao scolds. "People like to feel useful. He doesn't seem spoiled at all, merely unused to manual work."

"The very definition of spoiled. Come now, tell me you wouldn't be able to do everything he does for you, and in a fraction of the time."

A sigh, but no answer.

"It would be easier on all of us, anyway, if he could keep himself entertained."

"I hope you are not so harsh to the novices."

"They are young and have time to learn; he is a grown man…"

Viktor turns on his heel and walks away.

It's been made terribly clear that Viktor has no place here.

He stops attending even the daily prayers, and instead prays in solitude when he hears the bells ring. He requests that food be sent up to his cell. If he's to be seen as a spoiled, useless princeling, he might as well play the part.

He wishes he could have such correspondence as Christophe and he did, once, when the former was himself shut up in a convent. It will take months for the letters to travel all the way to a foreign country, even if he sends one with Sudislav, which he resolves to do.

He strikes the first two drafts, the first of which is too childish, full of whining complaints, and the second of which is dry and bare. They have not spoken in years, if he's to be honest. When would they have? But before he can second-guess himself too much, he writes out his third draft. He has nothing with which to seal it, so he reluctantly makes his way to Celestino's office to beg sealing wax of him.

Perhaps he imagines that the abbot regards him with a pitying look, but he's happy to lend the wax. As Viktor leans over the desk, the second page of the letter slips out of his grasp. 

Celestino returns it to him, but not before glancing down. "French?" he remarks. "Ah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry; I can't read the language myself, anyway."

Viktor shrugs. "It's common enough at court."

"Of course, of course."

To Viktor's great delight, he does not need to shame himself in asking for Sudislav to visit; the alpha does it of his own accord, scarcely a day later. Another embrace and two kisses later, he has taken the letter with a wink. "I'll send it out from the capital as soon as I can," he assures Viktor. "Giacometti—ah, that's the Regensburg omega, was it?"

"Kyburg," Viktor corrects him, "The Giacometti's are his cousin's family."

"Not quite so foreign for him, then, I suppose."

"He seems happy," Viktor says. "In all his letters."

Sudislav nods. "Well, he has himself a fine alpha, doesn't he? And children?"

"Yes, two," Viktor says, rather abruptly.

"I’m sorry," Sudislav frowns. "Vitya, I didn't mean to bring up…"

"My failings?" Viktor says, then shakes it off. "It's of no concern."

"No, no, it was rude of me. There's nothing wrong with you, anyway.” A faint smirk. “You weren't the sodomite, after all."

Viktor's brows raise. For all that Mstislav’s predilections were known, no one had called it out like that in front of him before.

"I'm sorry!" Sudislav says, "I'm really running my mouth today, aren't I? And around such a lovely omega. More fool I. Ah, I suppose I'm not looking forward to tangling with Rostya again." He grins wryly. "Siblings! Anyway, Vitya, I'll ask him to let you come back, I promise. You're no good to anyone out here with these provincials."

"That would be wonderful," Viktor says, and means it. "Truly."

"Then it's settled. We'll get you back, one way or another! And you can leave all this nonsense behind."

For the first time in weeks, Viktor goes to sleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

It’s on one of the last warm days of fall that Sara comes to the convent.

Her arrival is loud, so much so that even the more reticent monks poke their noses out from the cloister windows to see what is going on. She’s flanked by horsemen, the nearest of whom is as alike to her in features as Sudislav is to his eldest brother. Sara sits upon a horse herself, not side-saddle as a northern lady might, but astride the beast like a barbarian-dam.

Viktor is only slightly familiar with the history and fortunes of these southern petty nobles. He only recognizes the Crispino twins because of their characteristic pale eyes, and because—like many landowners in the area—they share heritage with the raiders themselves, to the disdain of those in the north. Nevertheless, they’re indubitably part of the kingdom, and Michele himself is known for a ferocious defense against those distant brethren.

Viktor is only there to witness this because he had taken it upon himself to visit the church, which sits attached to the cloister and proudly in direct view of the gatehouse. The clatter of hooves was enough to break the silence therein, and Viktor’s heart had momentarily leapt in the anticipation that Sudislav had already arrived to fetch him. He’d realized his mistake as soon as he left the church through a small side door, just in time to see Father Celestino come out to greet the newcomers.

“Father,” Michele bows respectfully after he dismounts, “I apologize for the intrusion; I had ought to send a man ahead, but the matter was an emergency…”

Sara snorts, and Michele cuts off with a tightened jaw before he begins again. “I ask that you lend aid and hospitality to my lady sister, until such time as she is capable of returning home—”

“I’m perfectly capable now, Mickey,” she snaps, sitting tall and proud atop her horse.

“—without bringing shame to our family,” he finishes, addressing the last part directly to her.

“We are happy to lend our hospitality to any who needs it,” Celestino responds, glancing back and forth between the siblings.

“My impassioned thanks,” Mickey says, “And I hope that the holiness of this place is enough to drive the influence of the devil away from her, and bring her back into the fold of God’s children…”

“The devil drives your doings as much as mine…”

“The devil in the form of that red-headed slattern in particular,” he retorts.

“A fine, honorable, brave alpha, who would marry me and I her, and thus strike away any of your so-called dishonor!”

“A thief and an incubus!”

“What has she stolen but my heart, which is not yours to keep?”

“Your maidenhead, Sara!” He turns back to Celestino. “I will of course adopt the child as a ward, unless you are able to find a better placement for it, which may prove to be the best course of action.”

“You will not give away my child, and nothing can be stolen which is given freely!”

“I am your guardian and lord, and you will obey me,” he snaps. “You are a fool if you trust that she would do anything more than discard you as soon as it becomes convenient…” 

“It is you who has prevented our marriage, not her!”

“An institution which means nothing to a wandering, landless sellsword!”

Even Celestino’s smile seems strained. “This seems to be a discussion which must be developed over a long period of discernment,” he interrupts delicately. “My lady, please be assured that your safety, and the safety of the child, will be of paramount importance during your stay. We are not in the practice of separations at St. Stepan’s.”

“It’s for your own good, Sara,” Michele says, in a more subdued tone.

“I do not think I trust you to tell what is good for me at all anymore, little brother,” Sara says deliberately, before carefully dismounting. “At least here I will be free from your foul disposition. Father, if you would show me to where I must stay,” she commands, head held high.

“Of course, my lady,” Celestino bows, “Have you possessions to take in?”

She waves an imperious hand at the horsemen. “They will arrange it, if you send someone to carry them.”

“Indeed,” Celestino agrees, “Let us proceed in, and you may wait just a few minutes, my lord,” he says to Michele.

Viktor watches them disappear, and himself slips back through the side door, unnoticed by the lord and his soldiers.

He can, of course, feel sympathy for Sara, but at the same time a choice in marriage is often a luxury, reserved for the very fortunate. She may have just as well ruined herself, for the sake of what sounds like a poor match indeed.

Yet, he wonders, what must it be like to feel such passion that one would happily ruin themselves? Sara has done it; Mstislav, even, though the consequences of sodomy for an alpha king were of course far less. Was it merely the devil’s influence on them? Even the unbridled and terrible passion of a heat is ultimately bearable, after all, if only with the help of God; it must be, or no convent such as this one could ever exist.

When he returns to his prayer, he spares a thought for Sara, as well.

Oh blessed mother, pity us who have gone astray, and grant us the humility to admit our sins; lend your voice to the ear of your Son, that He may forgive our flaws, and turn us away from the shadow and into His light.

It’s later that evening, after the sunset prayer, that Celestino comes himself to Viktor’s room. For a moment, Viktor considers ignoring the firm knock, but eventually he rouses himself to find the priest standing outside his door.

“Father,” he greets.

“Your Grace.” Viktor bites back a surge of irritation at the meaningless title and only favors Celestino with a polite smile. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Celestino strides inside; he wanders over the window as Viktor closes the door, and stands there for a few seconds in silence, watching something outside. “Is there something I can do for you, Father?”

“I wondered if you were still interested in having something to work on,” Celestino says, turning back towards him.

No , Viktor wants to say, I’ll be leaving as soon as I can; I want out of here, and Sudislav has promised me that. Leave me alone, as everyone else has been so inclined to do.

“I’m not opposed,” he says instead. “Though it seems that I’ve been of little use in previous endeavors. I don’t want to get in the way; you are under no obligation to entertain me.”

Celestino, for the first time since Viktor has met him, actually looks a little sad. “Your Grace, I regret that we seem to have given you a poor welcome,” he says, and raises a hand as Viktor starts to protest. “Most of the monastics here have little idea of what to do with the nobility; we are from rough stock ourselves. I was, frankly, quite surprised when His Majesty requested that we take you in.”

“But you could hardly say no?” Viktor wonders, not for the first time, exactly how much Rostislav is paying St. Stepan’s for his upkeep. The actual cost to the monks must be relatively little.

“I would not have. This is meant to be a sanctuary for those who ask for it.”

I did not ask for it, Viktor’s thoughts cry. Neither did the Lady Sara!

“It has been,” he says. “It is very peaceful here.”

Celestino sighs. “Well, I’m happy to hear it.”

“But your request?” Viktor presses, as the silence grows too long.

“Yes, yes: you speak French.”

“Tolerably,” Viktor says.

“And Latin?”

“Less tolerably, but yes, of course.”

“Do you think yourself capable of producing a translation?”

“A translation? I suppose; it would not be quick. It’s a difficult art.” There are people who spend their lives perfecting it, after all, and Viktor’s language proficiencies stem from a different set of needs.

“We have a commission,” Celestino explains. “From a wealthy merchant, a son of the Leroy family, to be gifted to his lady wife. A book of hours, to be copied over in both Latin and French, and gilded with fine illustrations. But I cannot agree to the request as it stands. We are a small community. We have but one scribe and limner, and though he is talented he has expressed his doubts: he does not believe that he can perform a translation that would successfully capture the spirit of the prayers.” He pauses.

“And you think I could,” Viktor finishes.

“I would of course not require it of you, Your Grace…”

“I’ll do it,” Viktor says. He’ll try; and if he’s whisked back to court before it’s done, perhaps he’ll be able to send some other help. “If I may meet this scribe first?”

“Of course,” Celestino says, visibly relieved. “Actually, I believe you’ve already met.”

“Have we?” A thought strikes Viktor. “He’s not Seung-Gil, is he?” The apiarist had said that he’d have little to do for the bees over the winter… 

Celestino barks out a surprised laugh. “No! Yuuri is—” he glances back out the window to the courtyard, peering through the faint light of dusk. “—gone back to his work, it seems. We can go meet him now, if you’re not too tired?”

Viktor considers that he might be; but better to get it over with. “Not at all.”

A larger convent might have a true scriptorium, set aside from the other rooms, or at least a sheltered corner within its library. St. Stepan’s library, however, is a small and carefully kept room by the cellars with no space to work, and so the scriptorium is a niche with two desks, placed close to the heated calefactory and open to the hallway. The niche is lit partly by a high window and partly by candlelight.

A dark-haired monk hunches over one of the desks, his back turned to them as they arrive. When Celestino clears his throat, the scribe starts, though his hand stays perfectly steady on the page. He lays down his stylus and turns, half-rising from his chair as he does so.

Ah. Yes, they have met; twice, now, both incidents which resulted in Yuuri immediately running away. Now, he stands frozen in his halfway pose, pink lips parted and dark eyes darting back and forth between Celestino and Viktor.

Lovely: another monk who’s afraid of him. Viktor supposes this is better than one who is actively disdainful.

“Yuuri,” Celestino says brightly. “We can take on the commission!”

“Father,” Yuuri says, finally straightening himself up. “That’s good?” His eyes flick once again to Viktor.

“I’ve found you a translator,” Celestino continues, “So there should be no problem.”

Yuuri worries at his top lip with his teeth. His hands, spotted with dark ink, are taut upon his thighs. “Okay,” he says at last. “Father, are you sure—”

“Yuuri,” Celestino interrupts. “If this isn’t something you want to do, I won’t force you. If you’d rather stick with what you’re comfortable with, I’ll tell Jean-Jacques no.”

There’s a long, drawn-out pause. Viktor revises his assessment; maybe Yuuri isn’t just scared of him, but scared in general.

“Alright,” Celestino says at last. “It doesn’t seem like—”

“I’ll do it,” Yuuri interrupts him, then clamps his mouth shut immediately. His eyes spark, though, brilliant in the candlelight. Viktor is almost taken aback by the sudden shift in demeanor.

“Are you sure?”

Something in Yuuri starts to flag at the question, and he droops again. Viktor interjects, pasting on a smile; “I’m told you’re very talented. I’d be delighted to work with you on the project.”

“I, uh, I,” Yuuri stammers, looking desperately at Celestino. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He drops into a bow. “Um, working with me…?”

“Prince Viktor speaks French,” Celestino explains.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, straightening again.

“Tolerably,” Viktor clarifies.

“Oh. I’m sure it’s better than mine,” Yuuri says awkwardly. It’s almost cute, like a shy animal.

“Probably,” Viktor agrees. “Then it’s settled; we’ll do it.” He surprises even himself; he hadn’t thought that he wanted to work on it, so much. 

Yuuri nods, though that bright spark hasn’t returned to his eyes.

“Wonderful!” Celestino exclaims. “I’m happy to hear it; I’m sure it will turn out to be worth every penny of the pay.”

“I’m sure it will,” Viktor says, interestedly watching Yuuri’s response: he tenses further at the mention of the money, as if he were a rabbit prevented from bolting. “Shall we begin tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow,” Yuuri replies faintly. “Um. Yes. I, uh, need to prepare more sheets. But if you want to do that too, you can,” he says quickly.

“As long as I’m not interfering.”

“No!” Yuuri exclaims. “I mean, of course you wouldn’t be. Do you know how to make books?” he adds, uncertainly.

“Not at all.”

“Then I’ll teach you,” he says firmly. His round cheeks flush. “Only if you want!”

“I would love to,” Viktor says smoothly, and means it.

He’s not sure why this otherwise utterly forgettable man intrigues him. Certainly Viktor had taken little notice of him in their previous (brief) meetings, and he’s done nothing yet out of the ordinary. Still, Viktor returns to his room in a contemplative mood, playing back the conversation, trying to figure it out.

He’s actually looking forward to the next day for its own sake, rather than simply anticipating Sudislav’s return. It can’t just be that there’s a new task set before him, given how poorly all the rest have gone (with the possible exception of sowing, which had at least not ended in outright failure). Yuuri himself seems pleasant enough, perhaps a little bit of a mystery, his shyness punctuated by fleeting hints of boldness as it is: like flecks of gemstone peeking through gray rock.

Viktor shakes his head at this turn of thought. Plenty of courtiers he’s met hide their true selves behind some demure guise. There’s nothing special about this monk doing it, too.

Viktor wakes in the middle of the night, slowly, rising out of a dreamless sleep and opening his eyes to the thin moonlight drifting in through his window. In the summer, the night isn’t long enough to wake like this, but it’s late enough in the fall that the darkness is extending, the sunset prayer inching earlier and earlier in the day.

Normally, Viktor is content to stay in bed, using the time for nothing in particular. It’s said to be a time for devils, spirits, and rogues, to be fended off with prayer; or alternatively, a time for love and companionship. Viktor has dealt with none of these things at the witching hour, though were Mstislav’s ghost to visit him, he reflects, he could strike off three at once.

The monks have a service at this time; those who wake earlier than others go around to gently knock on doors, though they have never dared to do so to Viktor’s and thus he has never attended. Tonight, though, he is filled with a strange energy, and rouses himself from bed. He slips on a pair of soft shoes, and stands by the door to listen to the shuffling sounds of the monks passing by.

When the last has made their near-silent way down the hall, Viktor follows.

The entry to the church from the cloister side is downstairs from the dormitory, just past a smaller meeting room. It’s a small door, not nearly so grand as the ones that face the west, which anyone may enter for public services; it opens onto the transept, one arm of the cross, which holds a small altar and pews set apart from the main cathedral. Though all the resident monks could, if they chose, fit easily within this smaller chapel, they without fail perform their prayers in the main choir, and without fail seem to fill the emptiness with their voices.

Viktor, slipping in through this door, lingers in this space, in the darkness. The choir where the monks stand is well-lit with arrays of candles, which cast golden color across their solemn faces as they begin a slow chant. Further down the grand hall, rows of seats fade into shadow, where the grand western doors and the font of holy water rest.

He hears a light rustle behind him, and stiffens, though he thinks it’s likely another monk, slightly late for the service. When the presence fails to pass by him, he turns his head slightly, to find the Lady Sara standing a respectful few yards behind him. Her hands are folded over her belly; her brows are dark.

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it, and only nods to her in acknowledgement. She does not bow, but her eyes flicker upwards to briefly meet his, and she drops the crown of her head ever so slightly.

When the service is over, he lets her leave first, before turning away from the choir.

Chapter Text

Yuuri is already waiting by his desk by the time Viktor arrives in the morning. He fusses with a few materials laid out on the sloped surface, eyes darting back and forth down the hallway; he bites at the inside of his cheek, making an indent on its softly curved surface.

"Here I am, at your service," Viktor greets him. Yuuri flushes and looks down before sketching out a bow.

"Your Grace," he says.

None of that, Viktor determines; he's had enough of skittishness. "Viktor," he corrects. "Aren't we all equals in the eyes of God?"

"Um," Yuuri says, as if he wants to argue, to perhaps say something about God-granted nobility, but bites his lip instead. "I—here," he says, and sets a heavy, unadorned book in Viktor's hands. "This is what we're making."

Viktor is very well aware of what a book of hours is, and though a frown doesn't quite affix itself on his face his smile grows a little taut. "Very well," he says.

Yuuri stares at him, then down at the book. He frowns. "So that's the text," he elaborates, "That needs to be translated." He hesitates. "Do you have paper?" Instead of waiting for a response, he scrambles to find a sheaf of it, presenting it like an offering that Viktor does not take.

"We're making a book of hours out of paper?" Viktor says instead.

"Wha—no!" Yuuri exclaims, looking offended. "No. Of course not. But you—I mean. You can take it, and you don't have to—I mean, you can give me the translation, and I can scribe it into the parchment when you're done. You don't have to work down here. You can have privacy."

Viktor looks down at the book in his hands, and at the small stack of paper. So he's to be sent off to work alone. He should be happy enough.

"There are two desks," he points out. "Am I not to have one?"

The paper in Yuuri's hands lowers ever so slightly. "If you'd like, of course. But I thought—" his gaze drifts off somewhere away from Viktor's.

"Great!" Viktor chirps. "So how does this work, then? Making books?"

"Well," Yuuri says, "You really do want to know?"

"Yes." Viktor is as sincere as he knows how to be. The monk's dark eyes meet his at last.

"Okay," he says, and places the paper back down before reaching out to the book in Viktor's hands. Viktor relinquishes it to Yuuri's steady grip.

He doesn't open it, but turns it so that the spine is facing down. "Do you see the gatherings?" he says, pointing them out with one finger; small portions of the book sewn together at the spine. "We make them one at a time. We buy the parchment, but it doesn't come prepared, so we need to scrape it, to smooth it out, and chalk it, and fold it, and then make sure the pages are open."

Yuuri's voice, which is hesitant when he converses—whether with Celestino or with Viktor himself—is soft but steady, a little deeper than one might expect. It reminds Viktor of the chanted prayers of the daily services. Yuuri traces one black-tipped finger along the center of a gathering, then flips the book over and opens it carefully.

Viktor's jaw nearly drops open.

Yuuri has, intentionally or not, opened the book to a uncommonly beautiful spread. On one side, there is red and black lettering, lined up carefully and perfectly in rows of precise Latin prayer. On the other, a full-page illustration: Mary kneeling small and humble, her garments spilling down the page in brilliant blue. The angel, haloed and gilded with divine glory, shining like the sun is hidden somewhere in the thin parchment. His wings, with every feather detailed, look as though they could leap off the page and take flight; the holy mother's expression is one of awe and determination, her face plain but alight in grace. Curls of green wind around the border, spiraling up into tall plants that frame the scene, in which are hidden tiny animals, all of which gaze lovingly upon Mary and the angel. The detail, though incredible, does not overwhelm the simplicity of the scene itself.

Viktor, who has had the privilege of viewing prayerbooks commissioned by dukes and kings, made by expert monastics laboring until their eyes and hands failed them, has never seen anything like it.

Yuuri ignores this page entirely and points to the other. "We plan the layout," he explains, "If you look closely, you can see the pinpricks. We use those to draw the rules, and then write out the text. For the new book Leroy wants to have the Latin and the French on facing pages, so it might be harder to plan…?”

It takes Viktor a moment to realize Yuuri is waiting for his response. “Oh,” he stutters out ungracefully, “Ah, perhaps. The French would be longer, I think. Yuuri, where did you get this book?”

Yuuri looks quizzical. “It’s the convent’s. A commission, actually, that was never retrieved. We would have sold it to Leroy, but he insisted on the translation, even though he’s happy with the set of prayers.”

“It’s exquisite.”

“Oh.” Yuuri seems a little uncomfortable. “It’s alright. After the text is done, we prepare the areas that will be illustrated again, then sketch, ink, gild, and color. And then we do it all again until the book is done, and sew the gatherings together. And that’s all; Leroy wants a jewelled cover, but there’s no one here with the expertise, so he’ll take it and send it on to a binder.” 

“Wow. You’ve made a lot of these?”

“Not that many; it takes a long time, and I’m not really good enough to work with the expensive materials so much. Minako was much better, but the sickness came through a few years ago, and…” he trails off.

“I’m so sorry,” Viktor breaks the heavy silence.

Yuuri shakes his head, and peers up at Viktor, blinking through dark lashes. “If you’re working down here, do you mind using the tablets?”

“Not at all,” Viktor says; paper, though less expensive than parchment, isn’t necessarily cheap. It makes much more sense to draft out a translation on easily erasable wax. “Should we begin, then? Preparing the parchment, right?”

Yuuri nods, and carefully lays the book upon a low shelf. “I’ve brought it up from storage already.” He shows Viktor the rolls, neatly laid out, and takes one piece, gently unrolling it upon the surface of the desk. “If there are any holes we need to repair them. See here?” He traces the edges of a ragged slit, perhaps an inch long, in the lower corner of the piece. “But first, we’ll polish and chalk it, to make sure the ink stays.” He picks up a palm-sized, rough stone, and begins to rub it in sure circles across the skin. “It won’t take too long. Here.” He holds out the stone to Viktor.

“You want me to…?”

Yuuri shrinks away. “Only if you want!”

Viktor holds out his hand, into which Yuuri after a moment of hesitation places the stone. It’s surprisingly light. Viktor hovers his hand over the parchment, unsure of how to begin.

“…you have to set it on the surface,” Yuuri says.

Viktor’s teeth grit automatically. “I know that.” He flicks his eyes up, catching the disappearing tail of a smile on Yuuri’s face.

“I know you do,” Yuuri acknowledges, and holds out one hand to hover in turn over Viktor’s. “May I?”

In reaching his hand out, Yuuri’s body has come closer to Viktor as well, such that they’re almost touching. When Yuuri turns his head to face Viktor’s, he must realize the position he’s put himself in; his eyes widen, and he shuffles back, his hand still in place but his torso twice as far.

“Yes,” Viktor says, “Please do,” so Yuuri with a slightly pink face rests his palm down.

“Like this,” he says, and guides Viktor, pressing and pulling across the surface of the parchment. “Do you see?”

Viktor almost wants to say no; there’s something odd in him that wants Yuuri to keep going. “Let me try,” he says instead.

Viktor scrapes, and Yuuri watches; he makes few remarks, but occasionally repositions Viktor’s hand or reiterates the circular pattern. “It’s good,” he says at last.

“It’s passable, at least,” Viktor sighs. He lays down the stone and stretches out his fingers.

“It’s good,” Yuuri insists. “Now we take the powdered chalk…”

Yuuri, Viktor learns throughout the day, is given leave to not attend the daily prayers if he so wishes, but to instead pray in solitude. This, it turns out, is why Viktor rarely ever saw him, even when Viktor himself attended the meetings. “When we copy over the writing,” Yuuri explains, “It’s as if we were reciting the prayers. That’s what Minako always said.”

They do not even fold the pages that day; the time speeds by, occupied with sanding and polishing the parchment, before Yuuri pulls out a case of fine, brightly colored threads. “Minako always used to make repairs this way,” he explains as he deftly stitches a hole over in red. “With colors. After the pages are inked, we can go back and add more; but this keeps them from stretching out further. Here, you try.”

Every time Yuuri shows Viktor something, he is in short order instructed to try it himself. Yuuri is a patient teacher, even when Viktor’s embroidery comes out ragged and imperfect. He’s not entirely gentle, though—“I thought the noble omegas spent all their days picking out embroidery,” he jabs, but that faint hint of a smile is there for Viktor to spot.

“It turns out I was perhaps not a very good noble omega,” Viktor tells him, careful to avoid the implication of bitterness.

“Perhaps not,” Yuuri says, eyes down on the work.

A few minutes of quiet later, he glances up and remarks, “I think perhaps most of us were not very good omegas,” and then goes back to his needle and thread as if he’d said nothing at all.

To Viktor's great surprise, he finds himself taking his supper in the refectory with the rest of the convent, rather than alone in his room as he's become accustomed. This is simply because, at a certain time, Yuuri peered up at the sunlight coming through the window and said, "The bell will ring soon," and not a minute later it did indeed; and like a duckling Viktor followed him.

Yuuri settles down by another monk, who Viktor recognizes as the cantor, a man who sings the leading phrases during services. This latter waves Viktor over when he hesitates to follow Yuuri, and Viktor is treated to a wide and cheerful smile.

Supper is not necessarily a time of conversation; every day, someone is assigned to read some passage or another, and this takes up most of the time period. However, though the monks do eat quietly, they don't so much eat serenely; the cantor, in particular, is almost continually making arcane gestures at Yuuri, who responds with a few of his own, and the occasional fond smile.

When the reading is over, nearly as everyone has finished their meal, the cantor switches fluidly from gesturing to speaking. "I got that from Emil," he tells Yuuri, "And I think he'd be happy to help."

Yuuri only nods at this information, and the cantor turns to Viktor. "Hello! I think I've been awfully rude; you don't know the signing, do you?"

Unsure to what the man refers, Viktor shakes his head. "Nor," he offers, "Do I think I've had the honor of learning your name…?"

"This is Brother Phichit," Yuuri interjects, "I'm sorry, I should have introduced you. Phichit, this is…Prince Viktor."

"Viktor, if you please."

"Viktor. A pleasure. Here, let me show you; actually, maybe Yuuri ought to be tutoring you! Don't tell me you've left the poor man to scratch away at those books with no conversation; too busy using your eyes instead of your tongue?"

"I haven't," Yuuri protests, abruptly and inexplicably quite red.

"Yuuri has proven a very capable tutor," Viktor offers. "But I don't think I know what you mean by signing."

Phichit grins. "Alright, here," he says, leaning over the table. He takes his palms and sets them against each other, fingers apart, and rubs them together. "This means cheese."

"Cheese," Viktor repeats.

"The most important concept," Yuuri murmurs, and Phichit waves him off.

"Go on," he urges, so Viktor mimics him, feeling a little foolish as he does so. "Great! And this means bread…"

Phichit ends up teaching him a few more food-related gestures, all of which Viktor is sure he'll forget, before suddenly leaping to his feet. "Vespers!" he exclaims, "I'm sorry, I have to go prepare," and hustles out of the refectory.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri says, once he's gone. "Phichit's very friendly."

"It's fine," Viktor says, "There's a whole language?"

"It's not really a language. Just words. For the important things."

"Like cheese?"

"Right," Yuuri says, and Viktor feels a unanticipated surge of triumph when he sees that faint smile appear again. "Exactly like cheese."

Yuuri, it turns out, does choose to go to Vespers, and so Viktor does too. When he gets there he realizes that, for once—or maybe from now on—he won't be alone in his awkward in-between state: not a monk or nun, and thus not in the choir; neither a novitiate; not quite one of the townspeople, who sometimes come to the evening service. No: near his accustomed spot stands Sara, proud and tall.  

She defers to him, standing a few feet away with her head bowed, but Viktor is inexplicably the one who feels like he's in the presence of a queen. Sara's belly isn't showing, yet, even through the relatively close-sewn clothing that she wears—not the shapeless robes of the monks or Viktor himself, but garb in muted brown colors akin to that of an alpha's. When she sings the canticle, her voice is clear and bright and confident, and her visage shines. He can almost believe, looking at her, that when she sings of being blessed she sings in Mary's voice—that when she sings of humbling the mighty and raising up the weak, of filling the needs of the hungry and leaving the rich empty, she sings with the strength of true conviction.

Not for the first time, Viktor wonders which of these categories he falls into. Of course he is neither weak nor hungry, but he cannot call himself mighty, not anymore.

After Vespers, many of the choir retreat to solitary or communal reading; a few return to their work to finish a few tasks before the day ends. Viktor intends to follow Yuuri, but as soon as he leaves the church Sara—directly behind him—says lightly, "Your Grace."

Viktor turns. "Lady Sara," he nods, unsure if this is simply a greeting or something else.

For the first time, she hesitates, before lifting her chin. "Your Grace, I would ask a favor, if you would."

Viktor blinks. It's far from the first time someone has asked something of him, yet he had not expected it here. "I can make no promises," he says, "But you may ask."

Sara takes a deep breath. "You—the high nobility have the power to bless a union," she says. "To override any objections there might be."

He hesitates too long. Her face begins to close up, her jaw to clench and her eyes to narrow. "Lady Sara," he says, before he's ready to, "I do not have that power. Whatever sway I had was my husband's alone. I am only an omega, no matter the circumstances of my marriage—"

"I see," she interrupts, gaze gone frosty. "Then think no more on it." She turns away, sweeping down the hall.  

Viktor stands frozen for a long moment. "Sara!" he cries out at last. Her shoulders tense, but she stops. He catches up to her with long strides. "Sara," he says, "I can ask. My brother-in-law might agree, when he returns."

"Which one?" she asks.  

"Pardon?"  

"Which brother-in-law," she says, turning slightly, not quite looking him in the face.

"…Prince Sudislav," he responds, a little confused as to why she'd ask.

"Then don't bother."

She leaves him there feeling both helpless and embarrassed, and more than a little bemused.

Viktor continues slowly down the hall, heading back to the little niche where he supposes Yuuri might be. When he reaches it, though, Yuuri is nowhere to be found, and he doesn't dare—at this point—try to continue their work without the monk. He passes a hand lightly over the surface of one of the prepared parchments, smooth and pale. This one had no flaws to sew up, unlike most of the others.

The hallway is growing dark, and Viktor abandons the pair of desks with a sigh. He supposes there are people gathering in the warm calefactory nearby, or even a few walking in the inner garden of the cloister. He doesn't particularly want to join them; the encounter with Sara has left him off balance.

Instead, he walks the corridor, one hand on the wall, tracing out the stonework of the building with his fingers. The door to the calefactory is closed, but there are indeed soft voices coming from behind it. He passes it, towards the currently abandoned refectory, and pauses just before he reaches it. There's a small door he's never noticed before, barely tall enough for a grown man to fit. It's barely ajar.

The door makes no sound as he opens it, to see stairs going down into darkness. Just an entrance to the cellars, then.  

He closes the door and turns around, nearly running right into Guang-Hong, who has emerged from the refectory and looks shocked to see Viktor there. "Y-your Grace," he stutters, shifting back and forth.

"Guang-Hong," Viktor says. "Good evening."

"Good evening," the boy says, gaze darting to somewhere by Viktor's shoulder. He makes no move to go.

"Don't let me keep you," Viktor says.

"Ah," Guang-Hong says. "No, of course not, I…" he seems to make a snap decision, and gestures to the little door behind Viktor. "I need to go fetch something."

"Oh," Viktor says, and moves out of his way, watching as Guang-Hong darts past him, through the door, and down into the cellar.  

Guang-Hong has no candle, Viktor realizes, or lantern, and the cellar is dark. Viktor frowns. How odd. Perhaps he knows the cellars well enough to go without a light, or to find one when he's down there.

Still.

How odd.

Chapter Text

The nights begin to stretch out, longer and longer, and the daytime hours blend together. Before Viktor knows it, the Advent season has arrived. The church is draped with violet hangings, and the angels' hymn disappears from the service. The sizes of the monks' meals dwindle. The atmosphere in the convent seems more solemn than ever.

With Advent comes the advent of Viktor's own season, those five or six weeks leading up to his heat. His wedding had come soon after Christmastide, his heats always in the frozen month of January. Though he wasn't supposed to hear such things, he hadn't missed the joking comments by the alphas of the court—how lucky Mstislav was to have an omega warm, wet, and willing to entertain him during the long and dreary nights of winter.

During this time, Viktor always runs a little cold, which makes the December chill all the more burdensome. He's given an extra blanket when he requests it, and a heated stone to warm his bed at night, but he doesn't have the warm fireplace or the luxurious bedding that he once had in the royal palace, and when he wakes each night for the nighttime service he always wakes cold. The monastery is at least not particularly drafty.

Of course, he also begins to crave companionship more than ever, which is perhaps why he is so eager each day to meet Yuuri for their work. They've well transitioned from parchment preparation to the main task at hand; Yuuri letters out the first pages, a calendar with the feasts and appropriate prayers listed for each day, while Viktor sits with Latin book and wax tablet at hand and does his level best to translate the words into French. He wishes he had someone else to run the translations by; none of the other residents, not even Lady Sara—who does not speak to him, anyway—have enough French to check his work. Yuuri turns out to be the best they have, and he is forever reticent about his ability. Viktor would love to be able to write to Christophe, but there are so few travelers this time of year, and none he would trust to deliver the letter.

Viktor awaits his actual heat with trepidation. Of course the monks must think nothing of it; they have, each of them—besides Father Celestino, who as a beta does not suffer heats—gone through the process alone many times. But Viktor has not, except that first one, and furthermore he has been told by both his nursemaid and widowed uncle exactly how terrible it feels to go into heat without an alpha, having once known what it is like to have one. Perhaps that is why widows who subsequently swear celibacy and take the veil are oft considered even holier than sworn virgins. Viktor is not looking forward to finding out, but it isn't as if he has any other option. Unless he marries again—unlikely, even if Sudislav does bring him back to court—he is looking forward to decades' worth of cold, lonely, and painful heats.

He does not talk to Mstislav so much, anymore, and it's to his surprise that one day he realizes he has gone a whole week without thinking of Sudislav's return, too distracted by wrestling with a knotty passage that he's had difficulty doing justice to. He still wants the prince to come, of course. Besides Yuuri, and less often Phichit, the monks still interact with him very little, and he's sure that once this translation is finished Yuuri will have no need to talk to him, either.

He does, however, return to his habit of attending the daily services, though in general only those that Yuuri attends as well. In practice, this amounts to merely a few times a day—the dawn hour, the Evensong at dusk, Mass itself, and frequently the midnight hour in all its serenity. When the bells ring for the other hours, the two of them pause in their work instead, or Yuuri will read aloud as he copies the Latin over. Viktor likes those times, almost more than he likes the relative grandeur of the official services. Yuuri’s voice is soft but captivating, and they feel like private little moments, as if he’s been invited into something hidden and precious.

One morning, still dark enough outside that their niche is lit by lantern-light, Viktor finds himself watching Yuuri. The latter is bent over his work, brow furrowed. He looks ageless in the flickering light, both very young and very old, and it strikes Viktor all of a sudden that he must have spent nearly all of his life within the confines of the cloister walls. Viktor feels something like a pang of sadness, though he knows it’s foolish; even if Yuuri didn’t choose this life for himself, it’s in many ways a better one than he might otherwise have had. Then again, Viktor knows nothing of his background at all.

Yuuri shifts, his spine crackling, and looks up. His gaze is arrested by Viktor’s stare.

“What is it?” he asks.

Viktor shakes his head. “Nothing. Sorry.” He looks back down at the prayerbook in front of him. “I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“How did you come to live here?”

Yuuri shrugs and sets his pen down. “I’m from the village,” he says. “My parents run the tavern, with my sister.”

Not so poor, then, and—if Yuuri’s sister is his only sibling—not overwhelmed by omega children, either.

“I suppose I should say I was called to the life?” Yuuri muses. His eyes glint oddly. “I always liked coming to church, when I was very little, and I wanted to learn my letters. Minako gave lessons to the village children, sometimes; Phichit does that now. I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

Viktor would protest that Yuuri is a wonderful teacher, but he wants to keep hearing Yuuri speak.

“Anyway, she encouraged me to become a postulant, because I learned to write rather quickly, and she thought I had the temperament. So I did.”

He stops there.

“And you stayed,” Viktor says.

“Well, no.” Yuuri’s smile is wry. “I left. I missed my family, even though I could still see them sometimes, and I missed—I missed Yuuko, my friend, and being able to just run around if I wanted to, and helping my parents with the tavern, and I missed our dog. So I went back, until I was—oh, fifteen, I think. Sixteen.”

“Then what happened?”

 A shadow passes over Yuuri’s face, and Viktor backtracks. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says.

“No, it’s fine.” Yuuri looks down at his hands. “I was never interested in alphas, you see.”

“I suppose that makes it easier.”

The faintest hint of a laugh. “Yes, I suppose it does. I was never interested in alphas, but they were interested in me.”

Viktor doesn’t doubt it. If Yuuri were some high-born noble at court, he’d be one of the most sought-after omegas there; he has all the grace that must usually be trained, and the beauty, besides.

“You should understand that my parents wouldn’t have made me marry,” Yuuri says. “I could have grown up an old spinster in my sister’s house, and it wouldn’t have made a difference to them.”

“That seems uncommonly kind.”

“It would have made a difference to me, though,” Yuuri says. “And then there was—well.”

Viktor remains silent, waiting.

“An alpha. Who pursued me, very, um—he was unrelenting.” Yuuri’s voice cracks, very slightly. “Eventually, I realized the only way to avoid his advances was to give myself to the church. So I did.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, carefully.

Yuuri flashes a strained smile. “I think it worked out for the best.” He stares down at the parchment before him, before abruptly rising. “I’m going for a little walk.”

“What? Yuuri, it’s freezing out.”

“It’s not that bad.” Yuuri pauses, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves. “Do you want to come?” 

 Viktor really, really doesn’t want to take one step out into the frigid morning air, but he’s trying to not seem too delicate. He sighs. “I suppose.”

The morning sun is weak and pale, and between the walls and the clouds its light scarcely reaches into the inner garden. Little flurries of snow, not yet enough of them to stick to the ground, puff their way past the leafless tree and vanish into the air. When Viktor had seen him here before, Yuuri had always been in a rush, pacing quick laps around the walkway, but with a companion he seems content to meander.

Viktor’s nose is already turning red, he imagines, and his ears will soon go numb. A gust of wind blows the wrong way; he blinks tears back from his eyes. Yuuri seems entirely unaffected.

“Isn’t it supposed to be warm in the south?” Viktor complains.

“I think you have to go much further south,” Yuuri muses, “We can ask the barbarians, if they stop by.”

“Can we? As they’re carrying us off or before?” Viktor shakes his head. “No, wait, one of your young novices says we could fight them.”

“Oh, Guang-Hong?” Yuuri laughs quietly. “He likes those kind of stories, with armies and great battles and triumph over impossible odds, thanks to the grace of God and the angels. But he’s not completely wrong.”

“Really.”

“Surely you’ve noticed the wall?”

It’s true that the exterior wall here is broader and taller than any he’s seen at a convent before, and difficult for horsemen armed with bows to breach. “Couldn’t they just starve us out?”

“Eventually,” Yuuri says, “But that’s why there’s an army, isn’t it? And besides, wouldn’t you pick a ripe berry over a walnut if you were out foraging? The tougher a nut we are to crack, the less likely they’ll come for us.”

“If I were out foraging,” Viktor says drily, “I’d probably pick a poisonous berry, anger a hive of bees, and get knocked out with a falling oak gall while fleeing.”

Yuuri’s snort of laughter is distinctly unattractive, yet somehow charming all the same. “Don’t worry, I’d do the same. I leave these things to Seung-Gil and whoever’s made to tag along with him.”

Viktor successfully suppresses his flinch, thinking back on his early days in the convent. “You don’t leave the walls, do you?” he asks: he doesn’t remember even seeing Yuuri in the fields during the sowing.

Yuuri turns his head towards the garden, away from Viktor. “I don’t even leave the cloister, usually,” he says. “It’s better if I don’t.”

“Oh,” Viktor says. “Why?”

Yuuri shrugs. “It’s just better,” he says vaguely. “Oh, Viktor!” He raises the back of his hand to touch Viktor’s reddened cheek. “You’re cold to the touch, you should have said something.”

“I told you it was cold out,” Viktor protests. “And it’s fine. I can handle it.”

“Pride is a sin,” Yuuri scolds. Viktor’s head swings around in surprise to see a tiny smirk on Yuuri’s face. Viktor pouts.

“You know, Father Celestino doesn’t speak of sin nearly so much as I’m used to,” he remarks, in an effort to change the subject. “The Archbishop is constantly preaching of the various ways to be damned.”

“Oh?” Yuuri retreats noticeably. “Ha, I’d almost forgotten you would know the Archbishop.”

“I don’t really know him,” Viktor says, already regretting that he brought the man up.

“Mmm,” is Yuuri’s only response; after that, he falls silent. Viktor bites his lip.

“I much prefer the services here,” he confesses, “If I’m to be honest.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, a little more warmly. “I guess that’s good, then.”

“Very,” Viktor says. He rubs his hands against his cold ears, and says, “Alright, I admit, I am very cold, can we go back inside?”

Yuuri laughs at him, but the tension seems to be allayed, and they do go back into the relative warmth of the cloister halls.

The second time that Viktor sees Guang-Hong at the little cellar door after Vespers, he thinks hardly anything of it. The third time, he reasons it away as a daily task the boy must have.

The fourth time, Guang-Hong sees Viktor first, and deliberately walks away from the door, only to slip through it as soon as he thinks Viktor isn’t watching.

The fifth time, Viktor waits in the refectory, watches as Guang-Hong goes downstairs, and waits a few minutes before following.

It is indeed quite dark; if Guang-Hong has lit a candle, Viktor cannot see it. He keeps one hand on the wall and lets his nose guide him. Guang-Hong doesn’t have a strong scent, and Viktor’s nose isn’t very good, but it’s enough to lead him down the right branch of a hallway and straight into a dead end. In fact, he nearly runs right into a shelf.

He feels around in the darkness, perplexed and wondering if his nose has failed him. After all, the shelves in the small room seem to contain various preserves and dried foodstuffs, which have enough of a scent of their own to obscure Guang-Hong’s slightly. If the shelves weren’t half-empty, the combined smells would probably be enough to throw him off entirely.

He walks back to the corner, wondering if he’s been fooled by an old trail, but the air to the left is stale and apparently undisturbed, so he returns to the storage room. This time, he manages to trip over something sitting on the floor, and catches himself against the back shelf, barely staying upright.

He clings to it in horror as it begins to move. Fool he is, he ought to have brought a light, or failing that never meddled in this to begin with. He’s about to be crushed by a piece of falling furniture, a terribly inauspicious way to go.

When within a few seconds he has not been crushed, he notices also that a pale, flickering streak of light is illuminating the floor in front of him. He releases the shelf; it stands there silently, at an angle from its former position against the back wall.

Carefully, he takes a few steps, peering around the back of the shelf. Behind it is the entrance to a large tunnel, which stretches out further than he can see. A few candles sit on its walls, spaced far apart and throwing off just enough light to see. On the floor just inside the entrance is a small, empty box, large enough to hold flint and steel.

Guang-Hong’s scent is clear.

Viktor’s heart beats loudly. If he were smart, he’d turn back immediately and make no indication that he’s been down here.

He creeps down the tunnel, listening hard for any trace of another’s movement. The tunnel seems clear, though, and it’s not particularly long before it starts to track upwards. The end is sealed off by a door, with sturdy steps carved into the earth leading up to it.

Viktor hesitates only slightly before opening the door an inch. He peers out through the small crack this makes. The air is as cold as ever; the sky outside is mostly dark. The door appears to be set into the side of a ditch, half-covered by ratty brown grasses. 

Two figures stand several yards away, embracing.

The first is Guang-Hong, that much is clear; if his scent weren’t enough to give him away, his stature is. The wind blows away from him and towards Viktor, for which he’s grateful, since it makes him much less likely to be noticed.

The second is taller and broader; he looks familiar, but in the darkness Viktor can’t quite place him. His scent is a beta’s scent, unassuming and mild. Young. Not from the convent, then.

The beta leans down and kisses Guang-Hong full on the mouth, his hands grasping at Guang-Hong’s body, and any possibility that this is some innocent tryst flies away.

Viktor’s heart is in his throat. He closes the door as silently as possible, and pauses for a long moment, staring back down the tunnel.

It’s one thing for Guang-Hong to fantasize about such things—and Viktor’s memory flashes, remembering the plowman who the boy couldn’t quite keep his eyes off of—and it’s another thing entirely for him to be outright disobeying his vows.

He should tell Celestino.

He shouldn’t tell Celestino; it’s not Viktor’s place to ruin the boy’s life. Except he’s causing his own ruin, isn’t he?

He should walk away and pretend he never saw anything.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He strides back down the tunnel, suddenly acutely aware that if Guang-Hong is paying any attention whatsoever he’ll notice Viktor’s scent. He reaches the little storage room, closes the hinged shelf behind him, and blinks his eyes against the return of darkness.

Why is there a secret tunnel out of a convent, anyway?

Still flustered, he manages not to trip himself as he stumbles his way back up the stairs and through the little door. He whirls around, closing it, catching his breath.

“Your Grace,” comes a flat voice behind him, and Viktor startles badly, turning and stepping back into the door handle hard.

Seung-Gil stares back at him. “Is there something I can find for you?”

Viktor’s mouth opens and closes dumbly before he collects himself, shaking his head. “No—no. I’m fine. Sorry.”

A nod. “That’s just the cellar. No reason for you to go down there.”

“No. No, there isn’t. I’m just—ah, headed to the calefactory.”

Seung-Gil glances to his left. “It’s over there.”

“Right. Of course.” Viktor isn’t sure whether Seung-Gil honestly thinks he doesn’t know where the calefactory is, or whether this is his version of being polite, or… “I just, ah, saw one of the novices go through, and I was confused.”

Seung-Gil doesn’t blink. “Guang-Hong? He’s running an errand for me.”

“…I see.”

Does Seung-Gil know?

Viktor retreats down the hall. Before he enters the calefactory, he glances over to see Seung-Gil open the cellar door. The man’s nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow.

Even by the warm communal fire, Viktor finds himself shivering.

Chapter Text

It’s only a week before Christmas when Viktor notices that the voice leading the choir is distinctly different. He looks up at the cantor’s place; Phichit is missing, and in his place is the subchanter, who normally only assists Phichit in his duties.

He doesn’t bring it up for a couple more days, but finally asks one morning. “Is Phichit sick?”

“Phichit? No, I don’t think so. Why—oh.” The tips of Yuuri’s ears turn pink.

Viktor could smack himself. Oh, indeed. If Phichit isn’t sick, the next most likely alternative is that he’s in his season, which Viktor has no business asking about at all.

“It’s Seung-Gil’s season,” Yuuri explains. “Always right around Christmas.”

Right, exactly as—wait, what?

“I’m sorry?”

“It is a shame, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean—” Viktor really shouldn’t pry— “Seung-Gil’s?”

“Yes.” Yuuri looks up at him. “Oh. Phichit helps him through it. He’s done it for a few years now.”

Viktor stares at Yuuri, who tilts his head to one side with a frown. “Is something wrong?”

“No! No, I…no.”

Viktor can’t help it that his thoughts immediately went to his own heats, and the way that he’s been helped through them. But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? Phichit’s as omega as Seung-Gil is.

(Is it still sodomy, for two omegas to…?)

It takes nearly an hour for Viktor to realize, and he could smack himself again. “Prayer!” he exclaims, though it’s entirely a coincidence that the bells for Terce ring almost immediately afterwards.

“We could use you as well as any water-clock,” Yuuri teases him, obligingly seguing into prayer.

Viktor doesn’t protest his meaning, too charmed as ever by the sound of Yuuri’s voice. Internally, he feels a great sense of relief. Of course Yuuri doesn’t mean that Phichit helps Seung-Gil in the way that Mstislav helped Viktor; he only means that the monks here, thoughtful and kind to each other, assist their brethren in keeping to their vows. The solitary prayer that unwed and widowed omegas are enjoined to partake in so as to keep themselves from sin is simply not as solitary here. And who would be so shameless as to try anything with another sworn virgin by their side?

In the worst of times, he fantasizes, they might even hold each other’s hands, to keep them from straying.

How foolish his initial thoughts were; he is clearly still out of sorts from his discovery of Guang-Hong’s indiscretions, a matter about which he has still not made up his mind. In a sense, it’s Viktor’s duty to do something before the boy is utterly ruined. In another sense, Viktor is an outsider, and he doesn’t know what the consequences could be.

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“What would happen if you—if someone here broke their vows?”

Yuuri’s brow furrows. “Broke them how? There’s usually some form of penance.”

“With an alpha. Or a beta,” Viktor adds.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, appearing distinctly uncomfortable. He fiddles with the hem of his sleeves. “It’s never been a problem,” he says at last.

“Never?” Viktor says, in disbelief—and not only because of the evidence of his own eyes. Why, the larger convents are frequently riddled with rumors of scandal. “No one’s ever done it?”

“It’s never been a problem,” Yuuri repeats firmly.

“I see,” Viktor responds, and lets it go. His thoughts are whirling. Is Guang-Hong actually the first? Or does Yuuri just not know?

The last days of Advent pass quickly, in an air of anticipation. Christmas at court involved weeks of feasting and merriment, where wine flowed freely and amusements abounded. Viktor, close to his season at that point, had always vied for his husband's attention with everyone from fawning nobles to Ivan Gorchakov to the wine itself; he'd lost, often enough, but the steady supply of alcohol took away the sting.

The midnight mass begins when Christmas Eve flows over into Christmas Day, and Viktor arrives to find the church as full as he's ever seen it; the townspeople, to a man, stand in the benches, shepherding their sleepy children and whispering to each other with a quiet hum. Viktor pauses in the transept, staring out at the crowd. He notes the woman who had been in to see Cao Bin, surrounded by three children and beside a large smiling man; Leo, apparently part of a large family; other familiar faces, from the workers who come help with the convent chores to the particularly devout who frequently attend services.

He slowly proceeds to his usual spot, an awkward several empty yards from the Lady Sara and in a separate block of benches from the townspeople. He looks up to the choir; Phichit is back, as is Seung-Gil, looking as moody as ever. Yuuri, as Viktor has learned is usual, is hiding in the last row, always reluctant to be seen. Father Celestino has not yet arrived.

Even with what appears to be the entire town here, the church is barely half-full, and it isn't warmed. Viktor wishes briefly that he, too, could stand with the townsfolk, who warm each other with their body heat. Somehow he doesn't think Sara would be interested. Her belly is just beginning to show, and her head is bowed.

The doors to the church, closed to keep out the wind after the last of the townspeople arrived, open suddenly and unexpectedly, and the chattering dies down. Viktor turns to see: perhaps Celestino makes a grand entrance on nights like this one.

But it isn't Celestino; rather, a bevy of warmly dressed people proceeds into the church. At their head is a familiar face, and Viktor's jaw nearly drops in surprise.

Sudislav, bright-eyed and grinning, strides down the aisle towards him, flanked by his retinue. They file into the benches behind and around him, while Sara—apparently alarmed—retreats to a corner. Sudislav, his cloak still brushed with snow, clasps Viktor's limp hand.

"Surprise," he says. "I couldn't stand to spend one more day in that place! So I told Rostya we'd make a great sacrifice and ensure there are no border raids to spoil the holiday." He winks. "We're here for the whole of Christmas."

"Welcome," Viktor stutters, a smile of his own threatening to overtake his face. "I'm very surprised!" Sudislav can't have spent more than five or six weeks at the capital, if he traveled at any reasonable pace.

"Well, I think Father Cialdini was as well," Sudislav looks a little abashed. "Oh well, no harm done. How have you been?"

"I've been well," Viktor says, "The better for your visit."

Has Sudislav come to fetch him back already? A thrill of excitement is tempered by unexpected disappointment. He isn't a tenth of the way through his translation for Yuuri. It's silly, though; Viktor can persuade Sudislav to send a real translator down here, if he wants to. 

"Ah, and I have a gift for you," Sudislav says. "Here, here," he slips an envelope into Viktor's hand. At first, Viktor thinks that it must be from Rostislav, an official declaration of his intent; but on closer inspection, it's sealed with the Giacometti emblem. A response from Chris, then.

"Thank you," Viktor says, and wonders if he ought to bring up the matter of his return to court. But before he can do so, the chatter quiets down again; the priest and procession must be coming, and with them the beginning of the mass.

Viktor spends the service in a happy daze. He is no longer cold; the great mass of alphas behind him give off heat, as does Sudislav. As the service progresses, the atmosphere turns from anticipatory to triumphant. Phichit is in fine form.

He spares a glance to Sara, who had shrunk away from the group of alphas. To his surprise, though, she doesn't stand alone; one of Sudislav's group, apparently, has maneuvered her way to stand beside the lady. The alpha keeps a distance of a few inches, but it seems as though Sara's whole body leans towards her. Her hair is a brilliant, distinctive red, and Viktor barely recalls a slur that Michele Crispino had hurled. A red-headed slattern, he'd called Sara's paramour.

Viktor's heart beats a little faster.

No; this is an opportunity, isn't it? Sara had despaired of Sudislav's help, but if the alpha is a member of his own guard, he must have some fond feelings towards her. Why would he reject their union? Viktor resolves to ask the favor. The worst that can happen is a denial, which is already the status quo.

After the mass ends, the townsfolk file out gradually, and Sudislav turns to him with a wry smile. "Alas, I must leave you for the night, I think; we only just arrived! But I shall see you tomorrow for the dawn service, and at noon, and then I think Father Cialdini must allow us to spend some time together. If you so desire."

"Yes, yes," Viktor exclaims, "Of course. I hear there is a Christmas feast, as well, though I doubt that it's like the ones at court; I hope you didn't give that up solely for my sake."

Sudislav waves a dismissive hand. "Ah, I can do without such excess; anyway, I don't doubt Rostya's version of Christmas is a good deal more austere than it might have been previously. I look forward to these provincial celebrations! And I will not have to deal with schemers and prattlers and social climbers, only good hardy folk and good hardy soldiers." He winks again. "And you, my dear."

He favors Viktor with an embrace, before he and the rest of his retinue make their way out of the church. Viktor supposes they are staying in the guest-house. Left alone at the bench, he looks up to the altar, eyes shining.

It should be a wonderful Christmas, indeed.

Because nobody from outside the convent is allowed past the church and into the cloister, the Christmas celebrations of the townsfolk are largely separate from those of the monks and nuns. Likewise, Sudislav and his company for the most part must stay in the guesthouse and the exterior grounds.

Although the meals at the convent are still austere as compared to those at court, the return of luxuries like cheese, eggs, and meat mean that the monks view their Christmas dinners with much the same attitude that any courtier viewed the palace excess. Viktor, for his part, is torn between enjoyment and embarrassment; Sudislav and his alphas partake in the same relatively simple fare, brought to the guesthouse.

Viktor doesn't see Sudislav quite as often as he'd thought he might, but they do meet several times over the course of the Christmas festivities, whether in the small meeting-room where Sudislav had first visited him or in the guesthouse itself, surrounded by carousing soldiers. He’d balked at first—although he’s not technically cloistered, and may move freely through the grounds, it’s unseemly for even a widowed omega to be in the unchaperoned company of so many alphas—but Sudislav, with his characteristic insouciance, had waved his concerns aside. “We are brothers,” he’d insisted, “And no soldier of mine would dare lay a hand on you.”

Viktor tries to bring the matter of Sara up delicately, though afterwards he's sure he's failed. He starts out by asking about the red-headed alpha, as if he's merely curious.

"Mila." Sudislav grins lazily. "She's a mercenary. Picked her and her crew up just a little while ago, just in case there was anything going on down here. I hire them, sometimes; I wouldn't trust them, though. You can't ever pay them enough to keep them from turning tail when the going gets tough." He purses his lips. "Why do you ask?"

Viktor shrugs noncommittally. "She seems very close to Lady Sara."

"Does she? How interesting. Sara, the pregnant one?" Sudislav raises his eyebrows. "If you think it's Mila that befouled her, I'm happy to release her from my service."

"No, no," Viktor says. "That's not what I mean at all."

"Well, then," Sudislav shrugs, and leans closer to Viktor. "The Crispinos, you know, they're not really like us. There's more of the barbarian in them than they like to admit; and those barbarian omegas, they'll sleep with any alpha they can get their hands on. It's not even really their fault. They can't help it. That's why they breed like flies, though." He laughs. "It's no harm if Sara wants to dally with another alpha when she's already full up, hmm? At the worst she'll spawn another set of twins. Runs in the family!" He takes a gulp of wine; the aroma of it comes out on his breath. "Poor Mickey, he tries so hard to pretend he's something he's not. Can't even control his own sister."

Viktor doesn't laugh. He stares at Sudislav, somewhat taken aback, and the alpha sobers.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I shouldn't be so crude. I always forget—you're not like the other omegas in court, you know, they're so simpering and delicate. Not that you're not a fine omega!" he hastens to add. "But Mstislav had something going with the idea of the strong mate, didn't he? If only he'd done anything for it. Oh, I'm doing it again. You need to stop me, Vitya. I'm far too used to rough company, I don't know how to behave anymore."

"It's fine," Viktor says, but resigns himself: it seems that Sara was absolutely right to avoid asking Sudislav for anything.

"Oh, Vitya," Sudislav hums. He hasn't retreated from his proximity to Viktor; in fact, he's slightly closer. "You smell divine, do you know that?" He lifts a hand to brush Viktor's hair away from his face, trailing a finger along his cheek.

"You don't need to flatter me," Viktor says, "I know what I smell like."

"Do you?" Sudislav's smile is soft. He looks like Mstislav used to; not when viewing Viktor, but after his trysts with Ivan, when he thought no one was looking. "It's your heat soon, isn't it?"

"…Yes," Viktor admits, since Sudislav would know anyway.

"I've heard it's difficult without an alpha."

"I suppose I'll soon find out," Viktor says, stiffly.

Sudislav shakes his head. "I wish you didn't have to. What a waste, Vitya, what a waste." He leans back abruptly. "I think I'm a little drunk."

"Perhaps a little," Viktor says. "Are you leaving for the capital again soon?"

"So eager to get rid of me?" Sudislav pouts. "Unfortunately, after Epiphany, yes. But I'll see you again when we come down in the spring."

Viktor hesitates. "Did—did you happen to speak to Rostislav? About me?"

An expression of guilt passes across the alpha's face. "Ah, Vitya, I'm sorry! Not yet; I can hardly get an audience with him. My own brother!" He sighs. "I will, I promise. I'll have an answer for you in the spring."

Viktor trudges through a light layer of snow on his way back to the cloister after this admittedly disappointing conversation, feeling rather sorry for himself. But, he reasons, a few more months will give him time to do more work for Yuuri. As for what to do about Sara—he's not sure. Perhaps her brother was right.

As he nears the cloister, he sees Father Celestino standing by the wall of the church, nearly blending in. He looks out past the guesthouse and through the open gateway as if entirely lost in thought; but when Viktor approaches, he turns to him with a soft smile.

"Your Grace," he greets, quite loudly.

"Father," Viktor nods, and makes as if to go around to the little side entrance. Before he can, though, Celestino clears his throat and steps in his way.

"Do you mind taking a brief turn around the grounds?" he says, at a normal volume this time.

Viktor has no good reason to refuse. They turn in the other direction, around the outer walls of the convent. Celestino's hands are folded as he looks up at the sky. "Chilly out, isn't it?"

"I'm getting used to it," Viktor says. Why Celestino would pull him aside to merely talk about the weather, he doesn't know.

"Has Sudislav's visit inconvenienced you too much?" he says hesitantly. "It seems as if he did not send word ahead."

"No, no," Celestino replies, "We are well equipped to handle travelers, even in large and hungry quantities. Although, I should ask—he is not putting too much demand on you, I hope?"

"On me? Not at all."

"That's all just fine, then." They turn the corner past the well, and continue their walk, silent except for the fall of their footsteps and the rustling of clothing. Viktor looks down at the ground beneath his feet; somewhere underneath him is that damnable tunnel, though there is no evidence of it here. Celestino walks slowly, as if savoring each step.

As they turn the third corner, near the winter stables, Viktor catches a distinct flash of red hair near the church. Mila leans against its walls, apparently quite comfortable in the cold; she straightens only slightly as the two of them approach. Viktor catches her eyes briefly. They are, if anything, curious; perhaps a little defensive, but he could be imaging that. He turns his glance back down to the snow at his feet.

There's an extra set of footprints.

He tracks them as they round the bend and eventually disappear into the small side door, the one Viktor had been originally intending to use. This time, Celestino seems content to let him go; he enters the slightly warmer church with some relief. Although it's draped with bright hangings, it's nearly empty, even especially devout monks likely having retreated to the calefactory with its blazing fire.

In the north transept, however, a single figure kneels: Lady Sara, her cloak still dusted in white snow.

Chapter Text

Sudislav's words weasel their way into Viktor's mind and stick there, compounding his fears about his upcoming heat. He's not sure what he's more worried about: failing to keep his composure and spiraling into depravity and self-indulgence, or suffering through a week of unresolved desperation.

After Epiphany, things go back to normal; days of etching translations onto wax tablets, handing them over to Yuuri so he can plan and scribe the text, and preparing more parchment in the meantime. For better or worse, he cleaves to Yuuri more closely than before; his instincts press him to, though Yuuri is no alpha. A craving for company begins to bleed into a craving for contact. When a restless Yuuri takes his cold walks in the inner courtyard, Viktor accompanies him for the sole and guilty pleasure of feeling Yuuri's hands on his face as he scolds him for not wearing properly warm garments.

It's an odd and uncomfortable truth that Viktor had never desired his actual husband's mere touch so much; but then again, at court he had servants and maids who dressed him, did his hair up, and catered to his needs. Here in the convent the only human or animal touch he ever receives is from Yuuri, except the briefest of contacts when handed things, like a dish, or the communion wine.

His time inches closer and closer; he awakes some nights sweating, as the pre-season chill begins to give way to an overabundance of warmth. His mind becomes fuzzier, such that he finds himself spending time staring blankly at the texts in front of him. The heavy wool of his winter clothing starts to itch and chafe. His nose and ears become more sensitive; he hears sounds from rooms away, and can trace the patterns that people make in their coming and going by scent. He's constantly hungry, but the slightest ill scent in his food makes him turn up his nose; he finds himself eating mostly bland and plentiful bread and porridge.

"It's not fair," he whines to Yuuri, who blinks at him with his large, dark, clever eyes.

"What's not fair?"

Viktor, tuned into such tiny motions, watches Yuuri's plump, pink lips move as he speaks. "Eve," he says at last.

"Eve." Yuuri looks at him curiously, brows raised, lips parted.

"And Mary."

Maybe someone else would be laughing at him, but Yuuri's expression is serious, despite his light tone. "Both of them?"

Viktor waves his hand. "Isn't it true that Mary never suffered through a heat?"

"Oh, that's what this is about." Yuuri shrugs. "Not as I've been taught. Certainly some of the great thinkers believe she was born without the taint of Eve's sin, but that is in its essence distinct from Eve's punishment, which itself is not necessarily a punishment as we think of it. Think; if baptism washes away Eve's punishment along with her sin, would we not all be free of it?"

Viktor pouts. "I suppose." His muzzy mind picks its way back over Yuuri's words. "What do you mean, not a punishment? It seems like a punishment. I feel punished."

"Well…" Yuuri lays down his stylus and rests his head on one hand. "It is a punishment in the sense that is a consequence of her actions. Because of them, she and Adam cut themselves off from Eden; it is not even perhaps the case that it was a deliberate ruling on the part of God, but instead the natural course of affairs. They simply could not be part of Eden anymore."

"God is all powerful."

"But humans have free will and the power of choice, which would be meaningless if nothing resulted from those freely chosen actions."

Yuuri's voice sends a warm buzz of satisfaction somewhere deep inside Viktor's head, even when he disagrees with the words. "It hurts, though."

"It doesn't have to. In the context of a marriage, doesn't it ensure a greater closeness between alpha and omega?"

Viktor wrinkles up his nose. "No. Yes. I suppose." Without his heats, would Mstislav ever have interacted with him at all?

"There's a school of thought—a little controversial, I admit—that heat is the natural state of things, actually."

"What, always?" Forget hellfire, that sounds like hell.

"Yes. In Eden, Eve was always in a state of heat; but in Eden, there was no scarcity, or disease, or danger, and she and Adam reveled in their closeness together without shame. It was eating the fruit of knowledge that revealed to them that shame, instead, and caused them to hide their joy and love. So Eve's punishment, as we think of it, was actually a gift; a remnant of the natural state of Eden left to her children, even as she departed from God."

"Hmm." Viktor narrows his eyes. This is a very different doctrine than the one he's used to. Still, he wants Yuuri to keep talking. "But it's supposed to be terrible. Without an alpha."

Yuuri scowls. "It's not."

"Once you've had one, I mean." Viktor regards Yuuri, bright, beautiful, virginal Yuuri, never soiled by the touch of a rutting, grasping, lustful alpha. "Maybe it's not as bad if you haven't."

"It doesn't have to be terrible, Viktor," Yuuri insists. "Is depending on somebody else terrible?"

Fat tears begin to well up in Viktor's eyes, much to his horror. "It is if you don't have anyone to depend on."

"Viktor!" Yuuri scrambles up from his seat, and crosses around the desks. He lifts Viktor's hair from his face; Viktor, torn between rearing back and leaning into it, sits limply instead. "Viktor, don't cry."

Viktor sucks in a deep breath, and strikes upon an idea. A terrible, wonderfully appealing idea. "Yuuri," he hums, glancing upwards at the flustered monk. "You said Phichit helps Seung-Gil."

A hint of pink appears at the tip of Yuuri's nose. "Yes."

"Yuuri," Viktor says, more boldly than he feels, "Would you help me?"

The pink spreads in a fine wash from Yuuri's nose to his cheeks, trailing down his throat and ripening his ears. "You…you would want that?"

"Yes," Viktor says, heart beating faster and faster, "I would."

To simply hear the sound of Yuuri's voice in prayer beside him? It could cover over any pain.

"I'll do a little more than just, um, keep you company," Yuuri explains. "Bring you food and drink, that kind of thing."

"Wow, just like an alpha," Viktor says, quite content with this. He's perhaps unreasonably pleased that Yuuri agreed to sit with him for the heat.

Yuuri's response is simply to blush, a reaction that he's had a lot more lately. If he were a noble omega, Viktor muses, he'd have no need to wear any kind of makeup or even adornment. The kind of appearance that people at court spend endless hours striving for is embodied effortlessly in Yuuri. What Viktor wouldn't have given to have a friend like him back then!

A guilty little worm of a thought probes at him: wouldn't it be wonderful to bring Yuuri back with him when he does return? He could have any resources he wants for his work. But it would be needlessly cruel, Viktor imagines, to drag the man away from his accustomed place. He will have to delight in Yuuri's company here, while he still can.

On the day that at last he is too uncomfortable and distracted to even pretend to work, Viktor retreats to his cell to hide away. To his surprise, someone has furnished it with additional bedding; multiple blankets, even pillows. Dried sachets of flowers hang over the door, perhaps in an effort to hide his heat-scent.

He does not have to wait alone for long. Yuuri comes with a sturdy knock on the door, lower lip bitten between his teeth, pale and determined.

"It hasn't started yet," Viktor explains; Mstislav, for one, would not have been here for another day at the earliest.

"If you'd rather I come back later," Yuuri says hesitantly, and Viktor shakes his head vigorously.

"No! Please, stay."

Yuuri obligingly settles down in the chair, hands folded over his lap. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"Nervous," Viktor admits, "I know it's coming, but not when it will hit. How does this work, then? Do you hold my hands the whole time?" He says it half in jest, but Yuuri's eyes drop down towards his hands.

"If that's what you'd like," he says. "I can do that."

The prospect is suddenly very tempting. Viktor reaches out, and Yuuri with a soft smile meets his hands. It might look a little foolish, the two of them sitting there with hands clasped between them, but Yuuri's touch is solid and grounding.

"And then a lot of Hail Marys, I suppose," Viktor says at last, breaking a long silence.

Yuuri's laugh is light, breathy, and surprised. "If that's what you'd like, Viktor."

"Aren't you supposed to guide me?" Viktor says. "Like an alpha?"

Yuuri's eyes flash up to his. "Nothing like an alpha," he says firmly.

Viktor loosens his grip, abashed. "I don't mean that," he says, "I was only joking."

Yuuri lets Viktor's hands fall away. "I know."

As soon as Yuuri lets go, Viktor feels a pressing need to touch him again, so great and so quickly that he raises his hands once more. It's almost uncomfortably sudden. Yuuri obliges, though, as if it were nothing at all. "What do you normally like?" he asks. "Before it hits?"

Viktor shrugs. "Not much of anything? I don't know. It's usually just waiting around, right?" A day or more of sequestration, then as the desire begins to hit, hollow and lonely, he'd strip off his clothes and wait in Mstislav's bed, napping when he could. By the time Mstislav came to him, he'd practically already be begging, and then they'd spend the rest of the heat in wanton pleasure.

"Hmm." Yuuri rises from the chair, not releasing Viktor's hands, but coming closer to stand by the bedside. "Viktor, may I?"

Yuuri smells a little earthy, like the ink that permanently stains his fingers, and a little salty, and sweet like beeswax. Viktor notes this almost dazedly.

"Viktor?"

"Yes," Viktor blurts out, "Yes." He doesn't know what Yuuri plans on doing, and he doesn't particularly care.

"Lie down," Yuuri instructs, and so Viktor scoots backwards onto the cushion. Yuuri follows him. 

The cot is too small for two people to lie with any distance separating them; instead, Yuuri is half atop him, like a dominating alpha and nothing like that at all. Their clothes still rest between their skin; Viktor regrets this for a moment, before the rational part of himself reasserts itself to wonder why he would care.

Their hands are still together. Yuuri's face rests near his, his cheek by Viktor's chin. He's a little tense, a little rigid, so Viktor squeezes his hands and he relaxes slightly.

A sense of bubbling warmth diffuses through Viktor's body. His lips part; he feels unutterably content. He can feel Yuuri's breath, and hear his heart beating steady and solid. It's like a full-body hug, a physical closeness that trickles soft rivulets of solace along his limbs, into his belly. He could fall asleep instantly; he wants to stay awake like this forever.

Oh, oh, if only this were what the whole experience could feel like, not desperate lust but support and calm and dare he think it love. Ought such simple contact affect him so deeply? A sharp prickle teases at the bottom of his eyelids.

"Viktor," Yuuri says, alarmed, his voice vibrating through Viktor's chest. He begins to shift away; Viktor grasps onto him, to keep him close.

"I'm fine," he says, "I'm wonderful. Thank you." He closes his eyes, blinking away the threat of tears. He knows the proper heat is coming, that soon he will need to hold onto Yuuri more tightly, to keep his hands from straying, his legs from parting. He will ask for prayer, and recite as many himself as he can and must, and beg the holy mother to take away his pain.

For now, though, it is exactly as Yuuri said; a moment of blessing, a gift rather than a curse, something to revel in with a clear mind and soul.

Despite his intentions, Viktor dozes off into a dreamless sleep, the best that he’s gotten in weeks. When he wakes, the room is dark, the window shuttered and the candles out. Yuuri lies atop him still, nestled into the crook of his arm.

He wants to open his legs and let Yuuri’s slip between them; he wants to turn his chin up and let Yuuri awaken with his nose buried in the crook of Viktor’s neck; this is how he knows it’s started. Heat-lust is nonspecific and irrational, after all.

Instead, he shifts to lay on his side, gently sliding Yuuri off. The other man stirs, blinking bleary eyes at him and muttering, “Viktor?”

He shivers. He feels a glob of wetness slip out of him and slide down his leg. His face burns.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, more alert. He lifts a hand to Viktor’s cheek. “What do you need?”

He presses his cheek into Yuuri’s fingers. He lets his eyes slip shut. The hunger begins below his navel and grows and grows. The brush of his clothing against his body sends lightning strikes into his stomach.

Hold me, he wants to say; he wants to return to that serene and satisfied state of just a few hours ago. Instead, the only noise that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic whimper.

He snakes his arms around Yuuri’s back and clings. His chin rests on Yuuri’s shoulder; this is a mistake—Yuuri’s scent surrounds him, but he can’t let go. He drops his head to let his forehead sit there instead. He cleaves to Yuuri as tightly as he can with his upper body, and keeps his lower body well away. The clothes keep their propriety, but even so…

His breathing is ragged. He shakes. Yuuri reaches around his back and holds on, murmuring soft and unintelligible words into his hair.

He wants to bring them closer together, to wrap himself up in Yuuri, to let Yuuri inside him, consume him whole, and thus sate the gnawing emptiness that he feels.

(He doesn’t spare a thought for Mstislav, or any other alpha. This is a thing that he only realizes later, after it is over, when he has a chance to truly feel the weight of his shame).

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeats. Viktor shakes his head, and like a child holds firm, not allowing Yuuri to leave him, clinging for hours, until the wave subsides and he falls into exhaustion.

He wakes again. This time, Yuuri isn’t holding him, and he sits up in frantic, unthinking worry only to realize that the latter is right there, is lifting a cup of water to his lips, is sitting back with a worried look.

“Yuuri,” he whines, already reaching out, but when he shifts he feels the wetness between his thighs, foul and obscene, and he shrinks back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Yuuri says. “Viktor—” he hesitates. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want.”

Viktor shakes his head, or his whole body, he doesn’t know.

“Viktor—” Yuuri lays a cool palm on his cheek, lets his thumb trace along the edge of Viktor’s dry lips. “May I?” 

Viktor doesn’t know what he may, but he nods.

Yuuri rises only to sit sideways on the bed, flank by Viktor’s flank, chest and body close and radiating warmth. He slips one arm around his back, supportive, and shifts closer. His oak-apple scent, rich, musky, oddly sweet, broadens to surround Viktor, who cannot help but to lean in.

Yuuri’s tongue peeks briefly across the side of his bottom lip. His mouth opens, slightly, and Viktor stares at it, bizarrely entranced. Yuuri presses their chests together; his breath passes gently over the pale scar of Viktor’s old, faded mate-mark. When he turns his head, their faces are a hairs-breadth apart.

The lightning-bolt want fizzles and bubbles into something deep and dark, spreading from Viktor’s belly up through his chest, striking where Yuuri’s hand touches his back, where their thighs sit close together. He imagines he can see it spark between their lips, towards which Viktor’s gaze goes like a lodestone north, a prickling pull or pain that draws him in.

Maybe it’s true that Yuuri moved first, but that isn’t what Viktor remembers, later.

No; he remembers the hunger and the yearning, and the barest tilt of his head that presses them together, into something that could never be mistaken for a brotherly kiss or a symbol of devotion to a liege-lord. He sinks into Yuuri’s mouth, monstrous and devouring, as if in an attempt to consume him utterly; the curious hunger of Eve’s that led her to the fruit reflected and magnified into something terrible. The lightning of desire echoes in his body and cracks and thunders between them, and Viktor grasps at Yuuri, starving, hands clutching into his clothing and pressing against the warm solid flesh, the steady muscle. He kisses him selfishly, bestial, ravenous, with a fervor he’s never felt, not even in the depth of his heats; he groans into it, and hears Yuuri’s answering voice, and something in him shivers with satisfaction as the sound vibrates between them.

And then sharp realization cracks over him like icy water in the January wind, and he pulls back in horror, arms gone from holding Yuuri close to shoving him away.

Yuuri winds up sprawled on the floor, eyes wide and shocked. Viktor scrambles back, curling into a corner of the bed, heaving in deep and shuddering breaths. They stare at each other, the one surprised, the other terrified.

“Viktor,” Yuuri finally says, quickly and breathlessly, “I—”

“Get out,” Viktor gasps. “Get out, get out, get out!”

He closes his eyes against the look in Yuuri’s. He grasps onto the blanket, hands shaking and shaking and shaking.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, pleadingly.

“Get out,” Viktor whines. Yuuri needs to leave, or what will Viktor do to him? “Please, please, go.”

He hears Yuuri stand, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry,” he says, stiffly. Viktor hears it as if it’s very far away, and flinches from the ice in it, the clear condemnation of what he’s done. “I’ll leave you be, Your Grace.”

The door opens, and closes, and Viktor is alone.

Chapter Text

When later he looks back upon that week, Viktor remembers hardly anything past the kiss.

Somehow, somebody continues to deliver him water, and small amounts of food; somebody continues to empty out his chamber pot; somebody replaces the sprigs of dried herbs that hang above the door. If Viktor has a memory of this at all, it is only of a blurred figure and himself hunched in the corner like a insensate beast, a snarl hanging heavy in his throat, tensed and angry until the intruder left.

He is sure that it hurt. He did not dare to touch his own body; his thighs are sore and his knees are bruised on the inside and out, as if he'd held them together by force. His hands take time to relax from their clawed positions; he's bitten through his lip, and scratched lines into his arms.

He remembers the low throbbing ache of loneliness more than he remembers the physical pain. He remembers that he cried. The blankets are torn and foul with a horrid stink; later, he takes them to be burned.

A punishment, indeed.

The church does not condone divorce, but a marriage may be annulled. There are few valid grounds for annulment; one of them is the deliberate abandonment by an alpha of their omega in heat. Officially, this is because the heat is the foremost time for conception, and a marriage without the intent of procreation is not a marriage at all. Unofficially, it is because such a thing is widely known to be unabashedly cruel.

But Viktor was not abandoned; Viktor caused his own downfall, through his own dark and awful sin.

Afterwards, when he takes the first hesitant steps out of his cell, it feels like all eyes are upon him, judging. He raises his chin. He centers himself. He passes through the convent as if a ghost, attends each prayer service, kneels for hours in front of altars alone, and finds no answers.

He cannot face Yuuri. He does not dare. He avoids the scriptorium, though it means that he has to go the longer way around to reach the refectory. He avoids the warming-room. He eats alone in silence. He walks in the cold, snowy courtyard, and this time he is the one who flees if Yuuri comes, though the man turns towards him. If he feels a pang of guilt for having stalled the book’s construction, he pushes it aside. What business does he have in writing words to God?

His days are dull and bland without work, however fervently and long he prays for mercy. He drinks more wine than might be thought necessary, but it softens the edges of the day, lets him fall asleep if not stay asleep.

He prays for Sudislav’s return. Perhaps when the prince comes and takes Viktor away, removes him from the terrible temptation of this place, then he will have a chance for redemption. He thinks back to what he’s seen here, Guang-Hong and Leo, Celestino covering for Sara’s meeting with her lover; he cringes at his former thoughts. Viktor is a far worse sinner than any of the lot, and has no place in judging them. At least their sins are natural, and not perversion. He thinks back to his kneejerk assumption about Phichit and Seung-Gil, and knows that it had merely been an echo of his own hidden desires, a trick by the devil inside him. All Yuuri had done was hold him, motherly and soothing, after all.

The sterile cold of January turns into frigid February winds; the snow melts briefly and reforms into ice. Trees bend and crack under its weight. The days grow longer, but the sun is pale and weak, and its light and warmth do not yet reach the ground.

Viktor, God save him, dreams.

Not all of his dreams are ones that he remembers, but even then he wakes up wet and aching, and he knows that he is falling. He recites prayers, each flowing the one into the other, until he is breathless and gasping, tears in his eyes.

When he does remember them, it's worse.

He dreams of Eden, a garden bright and beautiful, of an endless summer that drips sweet honey thickly into his veins. The fruits on the trees are always ripe and full, their flesh clinging softly to the pits, which sprout new trees as soon as they fall to the ground. The berries are never bitter, and the water is always clear.

He is naked, and he is unashamed.

There is another person there, a presence at his back, strong and steady. When Viktor tires, this person holds him; in his arms, Viktor feels as if they are and have always been a single person, the one born from the other and made to be paired. When Viktor turns, he catches his mate in a kiss, and the taste is as sweet as any heavenly fruit, as deep and rich as the fertile soil beneath them. He never feels the need to come up for air; the breath of life is all around them.

They lie laughing and tumbling upon soft grass, in pleasant glades beneath the gentle sun. There is no question of where one ends and the other begins; there is no ending and no beginning.

Viktor's legs spread wide and welcome the other in. There is no pain. There is no nervous sense of unease. The pleasure is great and all-consuming, joyful, building in triumphant crescendos and settling into warm constancy.

In his dream, he opens his eyes, and his vision focuses. His mate has dark hair and warm dark eyes and the gentle curves and valleys of an omega. His fingers are tipped in black and his mouth and lips are red. He leans over Viktor, closer and closer, until there is nothing else in view, and Viktor is glad, and the sound of his gladness echoes through the valley.

Sometimes, the dream ends here.

Sometimes, when he spreads his legs again, the other man mounts him and presses in, and Viktor looks up to find Mstislav, broad and golden and unseeing. He thrusts, and thrusts, and fills Viktor up, and Viktor's belly swells like a taut and bursting fruit, wider and wider. Mstislav holds him with a hand over his mouth and a hand over his belly, and does not cease in his movements, even as Viktor grows, his skin thin as a fine sheet of vellum. Upon his rounded belly, black lettering appears, and when it has been written over he is scraped clean again, and his skin grows thinner and thinner and heavy with the weight of the ghostly words. And Mstislav is doing the writing, but when he turns to look upon his face it is Yuuri again, intensely focused on his work, and Viktor cries out with no answer.

Yet every time, when he wakes, he is covered in his own spend, filthy and tacky on his stomach and thighs, as if a demon has indeed come to him in the night to work its foul intentions upon his body.

He prays for mercy.

It’s not so long—a matter of weeks—before he finds Celestino outside his cell, waiting for him. Viktor’s back stiffens. Has the priest come to condemn him? Viktor hasn’t made a confession—another oversight, but he’s been too afraid.

The priest looks tired. “Your Grace,” he says. “I’m not sure exactly what happened, but for whatever discomfort you’ve experienced I’m deeply sorry.”

He waits, as if for Viktor to say something. Viktor’s words stick in his throat, until at last he pushes them out. “There’s no apology,” he croaks, “There’s no fault to you or the brethren here.”

“Then,” Celestino sighs, “Would you be willing to finish your translation? You’re welcome to do it in the privacy of your own quarters.”

Viktor wants to refuse. “I—Father, I do not believe I can do the work justice,” he explains. “I’m sorry; I will do my best to find you a proper translator, if I may. Perhaps there are some candidates who I may yet reach—”

“Now you sound like Yuuri,” Celestino says, and Viktor can’t help but flinch. The priest notices; his brows drawn down. “You are the best we have. If Yuuri has done you ill—”

“No!” Viktor half-shouts. “No, never.”

“Then,” Celestino presses. “He is running out of material to ink.”

Whatever guilt Viktor has been suppressing rises in his gorge. First he had attempted to befoul the monk; now he hinders his work, and all for his own selfishness. He slumps. “I see,” he says. “I’ll work on it. I apologize.”

Although Viktor has seen Yuuri in the prior weeks, he hasn’t seen him up close. He sits at his desk like at any other time, shoulders hunched, lips dry and bitten up. There are dark shadows under his eyes, but that is not necessarily abnormal. Viktor can only hope that he has not been too distressed.

But Yuuri tenses as they come closer, and stares at Celestino with wide eyes when the priest tells him brightly, “Look, it’s your translator back!” His glance darts between Celestino and the wall. He doesn't look at Viktor.

"Okay," he says at last, and returns to his work without any other acknowledgement.

They work in brittle silence. Viktor leaves Yuuri for the daily prayers. Yuuri, who becomes more and more fidgety as minutes pass by, frequently leaves for the courtyard, which he returns from with reddened ears and reddened eyes. Viktor passes him completed tablets wordlessly, and Yuuri takes care not to let their fingers brush as he does so.

When the dinner bell rings, Viktor rises. "Are you going to eat?" he says politely, hesitatingly.

Yuuri does not look up. "No."

“You should eat,” Viktor points out, and then considers what might be stopping him. “I can stay here, if you—”

“I’m not hungry,” Yuuri interrupts. “I’m fine.”

Viktor stands there, hovering, and Yuuri does not acknowledge this. At last, he looks up, and where normally his eyes are expressive, warm and sparkling, now they are cold and hard. “You don’t need to trouble yourself over me, Your Grace.”

Viktor, shaken, almost opens his mouth to speak again, but Yuuri’s hand is taut on his stylus, pressing hard where it rests against the parchment, so Viktor turns to leave. It’s not that he’s running away; he’s obeying Yuuri’s wishes, and leaving him alone. Why would he want to even see Viktor, after all? He knows the depth of his depravity. He has already fended off the unwanted advances of some lustful alpha, and come here for peace and safety, only to be assaulted in the confines of the cloister itself.

Viktor feels sick. He chews his bread without tasting it, and each mouthful sits like sludge in his stomach.

Sudislav comes back at the end of February, just after the season of Lent begins, when the monastery is solemn and austere.

This time, he has more than his little retinue of soldiers; he brings with him a significant array of fighting alphas. "We'll break those barbarians once and for all," he boasts, "And we'll be back before the harvest."

Viktor, who hides his excitement at seeing the prince behind calculated poise and grace, smiles warmly. "I'll pray for your success," he says, "God is on your side."

"No prayers necessary," Sudislav grins, "Although I suppose they can't hurt. I'd rather your favor, Vitya; can you give me that?"

"Always," Viktor promises, raising his cup in a toast. "My favor to the bravest alpha in the realm, and to the soldiers that go with him."

"I would have you inspire them! But alas, I am jealous; perhaps we should keep your beauty to ourselves, hmm?"

"Didn't you say you would dress me in silk and parade me again before the court?" Viktor teases. His heart hammers; Sudislav still has not brought the matter up on his own.

"Ah, but the court and the soldiers are different beasts," Sudislav replies, "Brave soldiers, but a host of ruffians, all of us! They would undress you with their eyes, Vitya, and imagine terrible things to your body; things that do not bear thinking, my dear."

"I'm no blushing virgin," Viktor protests. And besides, Sudislav’s soldiers have already seen him, haven’t they?

"No?” He pauses. “I jest, I jest; if my brother had left you entirely alone, he would have been dead long before last year," Sudislav promises darkly. "Is that too crude?"

"Not at all," Viktor says, though he hesitates to think too hard on that possibility. He doubts that even Sudislav would be so bold as to kill a king; he's surprised that he should even bring it up, though they are the only two in the room. "You were right," he adds quietly. "It is a painful thing, to go without an alpha."

Sudislav's expression goes soft and wounded. "Oh, Vitya. Come here," he says, and without further words embraces Viktor, letting the latter's cheek fall upon his shoulder. "I am so very sorry. Did not the brothers here have any aid?"

"No," Viktor says, too sharply. "They—they tried. It was not enough." He thinks about telling Sudislav all that has happened; he shies away from it, though. Better to keep things close to his chest, and hold his secrets and his shame.

"How terrible; what an awful waste."

After Viktor thinks they should part, Sudislav does not let go. He strokes a hand down Viktor's back, holding him close with the other. "Vitya," he says at last, abruptly. "I asked Rostislav about you." His tone is unhappy. Viktor draws himself away, to look him in the eyes.

"And?"

Sudislav shakes his head. "He thinks," he says, words venomous, "That you are a threat. He would have you rot here, and live out the rest of your life in this backwater province. He forbid me from seeing you again, Vitya."

Viktor's heart plummets to his feet. "I see," he says, in a choked whisper. "But you are here."

"Yes," Sudislav says. "I am. I won't let his paranoia consign you to this," he says, and takes a step forward, crowding into Viktor's space.

"You'll ask again?" Viktor says. "Perhaps he'd relent—"

"Do you know him?" Sudislav shakes his head. "He's as stubborn as any of us. He won't relent unless he has to."

"So." Viktor turns half away, retreating further. "That's it, then." His voice trembles. "If he's told you to stay away, you ought to. I appreciate—"

"No," Sudislav interrupts, taking another step forward. His body cages Viktor's against the wall; his arms reach around him. "We can make it so he has to."

Viktor shakes his head. "What do you mean? He's king. My family has no power, not anymore, and none of the others would gainsay him."

"Not if there were no one to rally behind, no. You're clever, Vitya. Do you think he's popular? Half the people don't even believe he's my father's son." There's something fierce and wild in Sudislav's eyes, so much so that Viktor leans away from it, into the wall behind him.

Rally behind. "You?" Viktor says, "Are you—you're not planning on—"

"No, no, no," Sudislav says. "I'm no politician, Vitya. I'm no king. But who would they jump to support, if they could? If he existed?"

"I don't know."

"Mstislav's child, Vitya! His legitimate child? In a heartbeat. From the peasantry to the nobles!"

"Legitimate? Mstislav had no legitimate child." Illegitimate, perhaps; but even then, Viktor doubts it. For all his faults, the man had only one true lover, and Ivan could not have hoped to produce a child in a thousand years.

"But what if he did?" Sudislav's eyes glitter, a sharp and striking blue.

"But—"

"Come, do I need to spoonfeed you?" Sudislav leans in closer. "When you appear, my darling, with a lovely alpha child to your name, one with your features and his? They will support you. Prince mother to the rightful king? Prince regent, if you want it."

"I don't have an alpha child," Viktor insists, although he knows exactly where this is going. He needs to keep his composure.

"You could," Sudislav tells him, and presses his body up to Viktor's, so that Viktor can feel all the bones and flesh and hardness of it. "You were never the infertile one, Vitya."

"What if it's not an alpha?"

"We try again."

"They'll be far too young. Nobody in the court will fall for it. It's too obvious a ruse—"

"It will take patience, my dear. Who can tell the difference between a child of nine years and a child of ten? When it's known that Rostislav sent you away, intentionally to a place beset by barbarian raids?"

"Rostislav would know."

"It doesn't matter. That's the trick, Vitya; it doesn't matter what Rostislav knows. It doesn't even matter what the rest of the court thinks, as long as enough people think enough people will be fooled. The peasantry would fall for it; all the common folk. It's a perfect story."

Viktor, petrified, doesn't answer. Sudislav steps back, freeing him. "Think on it, Vitya. There's no need to rush. Oh, darling." He brushes the hair from Viktor's forehead. "Have I scared you? I'm sorry; I know I'm too intense sometimes. I'll let you take your time, okay?"

It takes a while before Viktor finds his words again. "Y-yes. I'll think on it. I'll have an answer for you, when you next return."

Sudislav's smile is broad, wide, and cheerful. "Thank you, darling."

Viktor walks back to his cell, head held high and spinning. Something roils and churns in his stomach, sickening. He’d hated the feeling of Sudislav’s body on his, he realizes; the uneasy tremor of his hands persists even now, a prickling and instinctive thing that wants him to shy away and curl into somewhere safe. A ball of emotion rises in his gullet, choking; he presses it down, down.

This is an opportunity, he reasons. This fear and unease; it’s only because of Rostislav’s possible retribution. Sudislav is a handsome alpha, tall and strong, the type that Viktor should want, and this is an opportunity to want him. He’s been so confused, after all, so lonely and bereft, grieving over his husband. Mstislav’s depraved tendencies had wormed their way into Viktor’s mind. Maybe he’d thought that he could find happiness in a similar way, and that’s why he’d assaulted Yuuri, had perverted the man’s attempts at friendship and comfort into something so wrong. Maybe this is his chance to—not redeem himself, but to reteach himself what real desire should feel like. When Sudislav returns, he should accept the offer.

Maybe Sudislav can fix him.

And yet for all his logic, Viktor cries throughout the night, with great gulping sobs, clutching to his bedding and reaching out for someone who isn’t there.

Chapter Text

Viktor hardly sleeps that night, mind restless and roiling. In the morning, his eyes are red and raw. The one and only time he’d drifted off, his dreams were as dark as ever, only this time it was Sudislav mounting him, drunk on wine and laughing, and Viktor had woken immediately and sharply with gasping, panicky breaths.

If, by some act of God or the Devil, the plan works, it will be advantageous. There are only a few positions of power that an omega might have. In approximate order of least to highest, they go something like this; the queen or prince consort, often not as beloved to the reigning monarch as someone else might be; a treasured mistress, though Ivan was not an omega; abbess to a large and influential convent, like those near the capital; and queen or prince mother, were they given the freedom to raise their own child. To become regent, as Sudislav had mentioned, is vanishingly unlikely in modern times, though not entirely unheard of in the past.

If he had it, though…

He works up his courage, and tries to talk to Sara.

She looks as if she would like to dismiss him, but chooses not to, and instead squares her shoulders and raises her chin. “Yes?”

 “I wanted to.” He stops. He’s not sure that he owes her an apology, exactly. “You were right,” he says.

“Was I? What about,” she says flatly.

“Sudislav,” he says, thinking back to not their latest conversation but the one over Christmas. 

Her lips thin. “I suppose you told him everything?”

“No!” he hastens to explain, “It’s merely that it was made clear that I should not.” 

“I see.” He can’t read her expression, except to see that it’s not a happy one. “Anything else?”

“I might have another option,” he says, “But it will take a long time.”

“How long?”

“Years,” he admits.

“Long enough for me to give birth and lose my child forever, then.”

“Celestino will help you hold onto them; you know that.”

“I do.” She looks him up and down, unimpressed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, if your words seem to me to be nothing but empty promises.”

He nods. “I can see how they would seem that way. Sara, I—” he stutters. “I admire you.”

Half of a laugh erupts from her mouth. “Do you? What for?”

“Only that the way you carry yourself, your courage; you seem more a queen than I ever had been.”

Her lips form into a smirk, even as her eyes look past him. “My mother would have been. Did you know that?”

“No,” Viktor says. He can’t remember who her mother was, in fact; whatever knowledge he had of the Crispino line has not improved from his stint in the convent. It’s certainly a surprise that someone who might have been chosen for queen would have wound up marrying relatively far down, however.

“They don’t call them queens, of course. She would have been a warlord’s bride, and the first of them, and well-beloved. But Papa fell in love—” and this she says with a sarcastic tone—“and he stole her away.”

“I didn’t realize.” That’s—then Sara and her brother are far closer in blood to the barbarians than he’d thought. It’s a shock that their father had made them his legitimate heirs. No wonder Sudislav is disdainful.

“I’m sure you didn’t.” She pats her belly. “Mila’s a half-breed too, though she passes well, don’t you think? That’s why Mickey hates her so. He’d like to pretend he’s as pure as any palace brat.”

“The palace brats aren’t particularly pure,” Viktor says without thinking, then winces as Sara laughs, this time truly.

“Well, Your Grace,” she says, when she’s finished. “I’ll keep your promise in mind, then, shall I? And ten, fifteen years down the road, when I’m an old witch and my baby nearly grown, we’ll see whether I’ll finally be wed.”

It is easy for the weather in early March to turn one way or the other; sometimes snow, sometimes rain, sometimes gray and biting like a return to February. Today, though, the sky is blue as Mary’s raiment, and Viktor does not feel the cold.

His conversation with Sara has, somehow, left him with greater conviction, though still he wavers. If this could fall out as a bloodless affair—but that is baseless optimism. Viktor is no fool. If stubborn Rostislav resists, it will be civil war. And Sudislav—he will want to make Viktor regent, Viktor supposes, because he will want to sway Viktor’s decisions, and because he thinks it will be easy to do so. But even with Rostislav’s support (impossible), that would be a hard thing to push to the nobility.

He is not sure how Sudislav would react to Viktor’s refusal. And if he does refuse, he will be here at this convent forever; forever tormented by his sins, wasting away, lonely and hidden. The thought of it is like a great abyss, deep as the reaches of Hell, and the thought of accepting, like a mountain of ice upon his shoulders. Yet bearing its weight seems better than the fall.

He looks up at the great gate of the monastery, wide open as it ever is. Maybe, he thinks darkly, the barbarians will come and put him out of his misery. Either that or he’ll become some horseman’s prize, and be worse off than ever.

The crunch of gravel behind him alerts him to the presence of someone else, and he glances to the side to find Cao hustling towards the infirmary. “Your Grace!” he cries out, with a smile.

It is between Lauds and Prime; Cao would normally be reading with the others, and not be back to his infirmary until the end of the morning prayer.

“Brother,” Viktor greets him, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes, more or less; one of the brothers is complaining of a headache, and I promised to fetch him a remedy. Come, come; how are you this morning? I hope I am not interrupting?”

“No, no, I’m just thinking about things,” Viktor responds, trailing obligingly after Cao into the infirmary and back to the storeroom.

“The curse of many an intelligent mind,” Cao says lightly, poking around. “Where did I leave that, hmm?” The storeroom is semi-organized, full of dried plants hanging from the ceiling or packed away in containers. Cao’s little paper record book sits open on the desk. A pile of rags for bandages is in a basket on the floor. The room is a riot of smells, layered atop one another like leaves on the ground.

The scent of mint curls into his nostrils, and he almost without thinking picks up the vial sitting innocuously on the shelf.

There is enough of the pennyroyal extract here for a dozen pregnancies. He wonders how often Cao prescribes this, whether the townspeople know that they can come to him for such a thing. It seems as if it would not be out of place, here, where they seem all too happy to encourage such indiscretions.

A shadow of a thought crosses his mind—he would not, if he wanted, have to wait for barbarians to come and put him out of his misery. A gulp of this, a good several doses, would do just as well.

Cao’s hand plucks the pennyroyal out of Viktor’s. “Are you pregnant, Your Grace?” he asks, and it takes a moment for Viktor to realize he is not joking.

“No! No, no, of course not,” he says, taken aback.

“Flea-ridden, then?” This time, there is a tint of amusement to the monk’s voice.

“What? No,” Viktor sputters.

“Good, we’d have to treat the whole convent for it,” Cao sighs. “I’ve found it.” He waves a packet of something in front of Viktor’s face. It smells bitter and faintly of wintergreen. “It’s best to consume as tea,” he says, “Will you come with me to prepare it?”

“Alright,” Viktor acquiesces, though he has no idea why Cao would want his company. They walk out of the infirmary and into the sunlight, then back to the cloister, where Cao takes him to the kitchen and sets a kettle on the stove, filling it deftly with water and a handful of green-grey bark. They wait; Cao seems deeply interested in the patterns of steam that rise from the water.

“It has to steep even after we take it off the stove,” he explains, turning to Viktor. “So best to get it started now.”

Viktor nods.

“How have you been?” Cao asks, softly. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been checking in.”

“You have no obligation to,” Viktor says, surprised that he would even have thought it. “I am well enough.”

“Hmm.” He glances back at the boiling water. “You had a hard heat.”

Viktor flinches. “Does everyone know?”

Cao raises his eyebrows. “As fast as gossip spreads here, people do not tend to relish descriptions of somebody else’s pain. I would not think that it’s common knowledge. I am charged with tending to our brethren’s physical health, however, and thus learn a little more about these things.”

“Oh.” Viktor looks down. “My physical health is fine.”

“And the rest of it?”

“The rest of my health?” He must mean spiritual, and Viktor swallows; how could he tell the monk about the dark seed of rot inside him? “As it ever is,” he settles with.

“Viktor,” Cao says with a sigh, and an extended silence after. “What is God, to you?”

He did not expect a theological lecture. Viktor frowns. “Our Creator,” he replies.

“Yes, this much is true,” Cao hums, “And our sustainer, as well; the living breath that is in you and I and everything around us. But that is what God does. What God is, first and foremost, is the purest and most selfless form of love.”

He has heard as much, in Celestino’s sermons—far more so than the Archbishop’s. “I know that.”

“I don’t doubt you do. What do you think it means?”

Viktor shrugs. “God loves humanity, and chose to sacrifice Christ as an expression of that love.”

“Not exactly. You see, God cannot choose to love, or to not love, any more than you can choose to be a fish. Nor does God love humanity, as if it were an entire entity, but instead each individual human alone and for the sake of themselves.”

“I see.” He doesn’t see.

Cao regards him with something like sadness in his eyes. “God doesn’t want you to suffer, Viktor.”

“Of course not,” Viktor agrees, automatically.

“Sometimes the road is long and difficult, but God never puts more upon us than we can withstand. And when we cannot withstand it alone, that is why we rely on our brothers and sisters, and let them in turn rely on us. And that is also love.”

“And what if I betray that love?” Judas, Viktor thinks, resides quite firmly in Hell.

“Love is also forgiveness, if you only ask,” Cao says. He lifts the kettle from the stove, and sets it upon a low counter. “Now, that will steep through the morning prayer, which will soon begin. Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Viktor says, and goes.

After the morning prayer, Viktor walks down slowly to the little niche, where Yuuri already sits hard at work. Viktor pauses for a moment to watch this. The morning light is bright, heralding spring, and it passes gentle fingers over Yuuri’s back.

“Yuuri,” he calls out, and the other man stops his pen, straightens his back, and sets himself alert. He does not turn around. Instead, Viktor walks forward, step by endless step, until he is standing beside him, facing him, even as Yuuri does not take his eyes of his half-inked parchment.

Viktor sinks to his knees. Yuuri’s eyes widen as his body turns the barest of angles Viktor’s way. Viktor bows his head, and places his palms on the floor.

Yuuri’s next breath is unsteady, and his scent spikes sharply.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says, staring at the patterns of faint ridges and worn-down smooth spots on the floor between his hands. “I shouldn’t have done what I did. If you can only find it in your heart to forgive me, my eternal soul will thank you.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, high-pitched and wavering. His hand reaches down towards Viktor’s face, but hovers bare inches away.

“You tried to help me,” Viktor continues, “And in return I failed you. I only pray that whatever taint I may have shadowed you with will be cleansed.”

“Viktor!” Yuuri cries out, bullrushing over Viktor’s words. “Please, stand up,” he sounds entirely distressed. Viktor lifts his head, but remains kneeling. “I made assumptions,” Yuuri says. “I never wanted you to feel like you had to—but you didn’t do anything to me. I know what it’s like to be chased by someone I don’t want,” and here Viktor flinches, “I never wanted to make you feel that way.”

“You didn’t,” Viktor says, bemused. “You were never anything but kind to me. I took advantage of your kindness.”

“Oh, Viktor,” Yuuri says, “No, no you didn’t…”

“I want to ask your permission to come work here again.”

“You have it; you have been.” Confusion sits heavily upon Yuuri’s face.

“Yes, but—”

“I won’t bother you. I promise.”

Viktor shakes his head. “I want you to,” he says, “I just—I liked spending time with you. I liked it when you held me. I liked it too much. I’m sorry.”

“Not too much.” Yuuri leans forward, as if drawn by a string.

“I can’t—” 

“I know. I know,” Yuuri says, and retreats. “Friends, then.”

“Please.”

There’s a shine in Yuuri’s eyes that still seems shadowed, but he smiles at Viktor anyway. “Okay.”

However much Viktor wishes they would, things don’t go back to how they were. Though Yuuri is no longer so cold as he was, he’s more hesitant, and he assiduously avoids touching Viktor at all. Still, they make progress on the book, and Viktor gets to watch as Yuuri carefully brings the illustrated scenes to life.

Meanwhile, spring rolls onward. Three of the cows in the convent’s stables are pregnant, and their sides swell with the promise of calving soon. The Lenten season is well underway, past the halfway point. Green peeks through the ground and spreads out from formerly dormant branches.

Sara’s belly, too, has grown over the winter. She looks more and more tired as the weight she carries increases, but acts as if she doesn’t notice it at all.

Viktor wrestles with himself. One day he has determined to go along with Sudislav’s plan; the next, he cringes at the thought. He isn’t sure, to his shame, whether his reticence is from fear of the country’s suffering—violence and death—or his own. Confronted with this, he wonders whether his perpetual inability to become pregnant was out of some fault of Mstislav’s, as his brothers believe, or what he is discovering to be a strong revulsion at the very idea. Viktor’s failings, all along. He watches Sara, imagines herself in her spot, and shudders.

One evening, he sits alone at his desk—Yuuri having disappeared after Vespers—warming the wax of a well-used tablet and rubbing the marks away. He ignores the person passing by, until they sit with a rustle of robes at Yuuri’s seat, and he feels eyes upon him.

He looks up.

“Your Grace,” Seung-Gil greets Viktor.

“Brother,” he says, cautiously.

Seung-Gil looks down the darkened hallway. “There is an unfortunate side effect to knowing Phichit well,” he says. “He is not very good at keeping secrets; he requires an outlet for them, and that outlet is, more often than not, me.” He folds his arms. “And Yuuri, who as clever as he is has apparently not learned this, continues to confide in him regardless.”

Viktor sets down his tablet, the writing only half scrubbed out.

“You are obviously quite good at enduring,” Seung-Gil says, and Viktor is far more surprised and thrown off by the praise than he would have been by criticism. “What you have to learn is that, if you prefer to spend your season alone, as it seems, it is not a mere matter of enduring. When you fight your pain, it turns you into a rabid animal.”

“I don’t see that I have a choice,” Viktor says, slowly. “I cannot—I cannot do as you do. I lack self-control,” he admits, “At least I do not succumb to self-gratification, but when I am with another it seems I am worse—”

“It is a separate matter if you cannot do as I do than if you do not want to do as I do, though I am not sure you know what that is. I should hope you do not, or I will be having words. Tell me, what is so wrong about self-gratification?”

Viktor frowns. “It is a sin.”

“Hmph. And who has told you that?”

“It—the word of God,” Viktor says, lamely. “How do you mean?”

“The word of God or the word of alphas?”

“The word of the Archbishop,” Viktor snaps, “As well as many others; so both, I suppose.”

“Hmph,” Seung-Gil repeats. “You are not a complete fool; think on who benefits, when you believe these things about yourself. And think less on what other people think about you.”

“What’s your point?”

Seung-Gil tilts his head. “There is a technique, regardless, for self-denial, if that is what you seek. I spent many years perfecting it. The first step is prayer; the second, acceptance of the pain, a conversation rather than a rejection. When it comes, listen to it, feel it, all its depth and edges, and only thereafter choose to turn it away. After a while, it will not hurt so badly.”

“And this works?” Viktor asks, flatly.

“Eventually.” Seung-Gil rises. “But a better path is probably to reconsider your assumptions, and question whether you need to deny yourself at all.”

“I would drag someone else into sin, if I let myself,” Viktor says.

“Do not be so arrogant. You would do no such thing. Do you think Yuuri has no thoughts and desires of his own?”

“If they tend that way, then I have corrupted him.”

Seung-Gil blows out an exasperated sigh. “When you are more dogmatic than a convent full of monks, you might want to rethink yourself,” he says drily. “I have given you what advice I have. Take it or not; it’s none of my concern.”

“Wait,” Viktor says. “Why give me advice at all? You don’t like me.”

“Not for your sake. And I have better things to do than actively dislike you. I think you were wasted as a rich alpha’s breeding stock; that is all.”

Viktor watches the brother sweep down the hall, unsettled.

He thinks back to Sudislav’s words; his concern over Viktor’s heat; how he only brought up his proposal afterwards, when it would have been better for the plot to have had Viktor during his season.

Who benefits, indeed?

Chapter Text

The prince returns three days before Easter, early in the morning, riding alone to the convent. He greets Viktor with a smile and an embrace. He is harder than before Lent, tense around the edges. Viktor holds himself back, and Sudislav notices, pulling away to grip Viktor only by the shoulders.

"Darling," he says, and his eyes are sharp, narrow and blue. The Nikiforov family always has blue eyes, Viktor thinks, except for Rostislav; yet another reason he was chosen to bear their children, to preserve that particular trait. "Have you made up your mind?"

No time for niceties, then. Viktor doesn't answer immediately; instead, he takes a step back, and Sudislav's hands fall to his sides. The alpha's eyes pinch, and his smile falls into a light frown.

"I haven't," Viktor says, quickly, "I—I have been thinking of making my vows here."

"Vitya! Why?"

Viktor sighs. "It is peaceful here. I enjoy it…"

"You're lying," Sudislav says, although he doesn't sound angry, not yet. "Every time I come here, it's as if you brighten, Vitya, and every time I walk away you fall into dullness again. Why would you swear yourself to this place? At the very least, you must make vows at Our Lady; I have friends there, among the priests, and you will not be forced to labor like you might here."

Viktor twists his hands together. "What would you say," he says slowly, "If I had already done so?"

"That you're lying, Vitya! Why? What are you afraid of?" His gaze hardens. "Don't tell me Rostya has been here—"

"No. No, he hasn't. I merely—" Viktor sighs.

"Vitya," Sudislav looks down at him, gaze tired. "Haven't I told you that you're wasted here? Why do this to yourself? You could be—not king, but ruler. The entire country, Vitya."

"The nobility would never let me do that."

"Then we would make them! You'd make twice the king that any of those pussyfooted cowards would, don't you see?"

"I'm just, I'm not sure." He lends a quaver to his voice; it's easy to. Sudislav steps forward, and Viktor flinches.

"Is it me, then?" The alpha's face is darkened, sad. "You don't want me. What did Mstislav do to you, Vitya? I promise I'm nothing like him—"

"Mstislav was fine," Viktor snaps, "He was fine. It's not that." It can't be that; nor the dread that grows the more he thinks about carrying a child, now, Sudislav's or Mstislav's or anybody else's. Those reasons are too selfish, too wrong. "There'll be war."

"Vitya. I hate to have to tell you this." He does look genuinely remorseful, like each word is a heavy burden slipping from his lips. "There will be war no matter what you choose. Rostya doesn't have the support he needs; there have been lords who've come to me already, pledging their service. But I don't want it; I don't want to be king. And there will be so much more bloodshed if they try to make me, Vitya. But you…" he trails off suggestively.

"Which lords?"

"What?"

"Which lords have pledged to you?"

Sudislav raises his eyebrows and looks to the ceiling. "Ah…" he hesitates, just a moment. "Khilkov, Sheremetev, Vorontsov, Gorchakov—"

"Gorchakov? Ivan?"

"No," Sudislav drawls, "I wouldn't want an alpha like that anyway. His brother."

"A cadet branch."

"Well, yes," he admits. "But when you declare, they'll come out for you, and many more than that. They are only waiting for a flag to rally behind. A brave, God-blessed dam, can't you see it?" He looks around. "If you're so fond of it, it could raise the fortunes of this little convent too."

Still, Viktor hesitates. "I don't know. Please, give me more time."

"There is not much more time," Sudislav warns. "But I will give it to you. Vitya." He reaches to embrace Viktor again, who does not pull away, and forces himself to relax into Sudislav's arms. "I only want what is best for you, and for our country. Make your decision soon."

Sudislav does not stay for the holiday; he rides off again immediately, and Viktor supposes that he must return to his posting. Halfway through Holy Week, the monastery is busy with rites and preparations for Easter itself; this morning of Maundy Thursday, those members of the village who are poorer than others come to gather the alms distributed freely by the non-cloistered brethren. Many will come to the evening mass, and even Matins tonight.

After supper, in a long service held before the public mass, Celestino kneels at the feet of his monastics and washes them, one by one. Sara's, too, and Viktor's. He holds his breath and his tears back as Celestino laves his feet with plain water and the barest of scented oils. In the eyes of the world he is of higher station than the priest by his birth, of lower station by his gender; in the eyes of God, he is flawed and broken, and the priest a holy man.

Later, during the public mass, it is the non-cloistered monastics who kneel before the layfolk. In this, Viktor is not asked to take part, and he doubts very much they would dare ask.

He'd told Sudislav that he wanted to take the vows. How much of it, he wonders, watching the ceremony, was a lie?

He wanders in pensive silence back to the niche, not intending to work, per se. He traces his fingers along the smooth wax of a recently erased tablet.

"Viktor?"

Yuuri startles him; he nearly knocks the tablet off the desk.

"Sorry!" Yuuri cries. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

"It's fine," Viktor says, self-consciously steadying the tablet and wiping his dry hands on his robes. "You weren't at mass?" He doesn't mean to say it accusingly, but Yuuri flushes.

"No," he replies. "I was given leave not to be."

"Oh."

Yuuri sighs. "He watches me. He won't let anyone else touch him, if I'm there."

Something hard and lumpy settles in Viktor's throat. "…the alpha?"

Yuuri's wry, half-smile is answer enough.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Does Celestino know? Can he not—" ban this person from his services, if he desired?

"Yes, or I would not be given that leave; but I asked him not to do anything."

"Why ever not?"

Yuuri turns half-away. "Walk with me?"

The courtyard is shadowed with the thin light of dusk, and Yuuri is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. "We had a little dog," he says, incongruously, and Viktor thinks back quite unexpectedly on his own hound, whom he'd loved very much and who wasn't really his, and who didn't go with him to live in his husband's household. "He kept the rats out, and he slept indoors with us, mostly." He quirks a little smile, the barest breath of a laugh. "His name was Viktor."

"Oh," Viktor-the-human responds, amused by Yuuri's amusement.

"One day he—" Yuuri's voice cracks, and Viktor, alarmed, almost reaches out to him before remembering himself. "I never had proof, you see. But it was so soon after I'd—I'd told him no—and then the ale."

"The ale," Viktor repeats, a soft whisper.

"He's the brewer's son," Yuuri says. "And we didn't make our own ale; we bought it from them. And what we bought started to be off, to make people sick. Just ours, though. So of course they thought it was because of us, but we'd never changed a thing in how we stored it…"

"Yuuri," Viktor says, heart hammering, simultaneously outraged and frightened.

"And when I came here, it stopped. The ale was fine again. But Vicchan was still—" he breaks off, voice choked into silence studded with sobs. Viktor stands helplessly by, torn between holding him, comforting him, and keeping a proper distance.

Yuuri makes the choice for him—he turns his step into Viktor's path, and Viktor finds himself with an armful of Yuuri. He tightens the unexpected embrace, practically on the verge of tears himself.

"I try not to let him see me," Yuuri whispers, half-muffled into Viktor's chest, "Or do anything against him. Just in case. He's not so bold as to anger the church, but…"

Viktor has no wise words, or anything calming to say. He's not good at comforting people. As an omega, he's supposed to be nurturing; it's another failure on his part that he must admit he can't be. Instead, he stands there, awkwardly patting Yuuri on the back and letting him cry into Viktor's chest, dripping tears and snot all over.

The shadows lengthen, then disappear. Night falls. The bells ring out; stars arrive in a clear sky. Eventually, Yuuri's sobs dissolve into silence, and his halting breaths into steadiness. When he pulls away and steps back, his face is lowered and hard to see in the darkness.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

"No," Viktor says, "No—you shouldn't—thank you for telling me."

Yuuri shrugs, hunched over. "Sometimes I think I should have just said yes," he says. "It's supposed to be what's natural, isn't it?"

"Natural," Viktor parrots, vaguely sick. Yes; natural.

"If an alpha wants you, you're supposed to say yes. You're supposed to want them back. And I didn't, and because of that Vicchan—Vicchan died."

"It wasn't because of that. It was because of him."

"I know! I know that. And the people here, at the convent, they know that. But it's so hard to shake it off, even when I know that's not how it is."

"Yuuri," Viktor says, word by hesitant word, "When you say you were never interested in alphas. Were you never interested in anyone at all?"

"Not alphas," Yuuri says, "I always fancied myself in love with my best friend. But she got herself a proper marriage, with a good alpha."

"But she wasn't a beta, either."

"No." Yuuri looks up at him, so that Viktor can see the echo of the bare light glint in his dark eyes. "Viktor, I know I overstepped—"

"Yuuri, when I kissed you—"

They say it at the same time, and stop at the same time, and stand with a tense and terrible uncertainty between them. "When you kissed me?" Yuuri says at last with a tremulous laugh. "Wasn't it the other way around?"

"No." A wild and awful terror-joy grasps at his lungs. "I thought it was wrong. I don't know what to think now, only that—only that—" he can't put it into words, but it's something like this: that though Viktor can believe a thousand times over that he is flawed and failed and broken, he can't bring himself to think the same of Yuuri. That though Viktor could easily be as a corrupting demon, Yuuri is more like an angel, awash in God's light.

And if Yuuri had always been like this…

Yuuri, he's sure, could not be fixed, improved from his present state of near-perfection, by the weight of an alpha between his thighs.

"Seung-Gil says," Yuuri says, after Viktor has trailed off into nothing, "That we believe it's wrong only because the alphas want us to. But I don't have his kind of confidence, or Phichit's, either."

"They're lovers."

"Yes."

"When you agreed to share my heat—"

"I thought that's what you were asking of me."

"My husband," Viktor blurts out, "My mate, he—he was in love with another alpha. For all of our marriage. And the court, and the priests, they overlooked it, but they always whispered that he'd find himself in hell."

"Do you think he is?"

"I don't know. I don't know." He laughs, half-hysterical. "I never knew him well enough to know."

"Do you think he should be?"

Viktor shakes his head, slowly, eyes closed and barely leaking tears. "I don't know."

He feels Yuuri step towards him again, and now he's the one crying in the other's arms.

No conclusion comes from that night. They part quietly, at last, walking separately to their own cells and to sleep, and Viktor wakes for Matins early; the special service of Tenebrae, the darkening of the world.

Through each of the psalms, he catches Yuuri's eyes, and the other man watches him back. Through each of the psalms, another candle is snuffed out, and the church falls deeper into shadow. When there is only one candle left, flickering in the light of dozens of solemn faces, Yuuri's is the only one he can see.

When the last light goes out, a great stampeding of feet shakes the earth beneath them as the monastics cry out: in feeling if not in words, Christ is dying; Christ is dead; and then, pitch black, and silence.

Three days later, Christ has risen, and Sudislav comes to Viktor once more.

Over the early morning of Easter Day, light returns to the world. Just inside the gate of the monastery, a great fire burns through the night, while monastics and townspeople stand in vigil around it. From it, the candles of the church are lit, and as the dawn approaches they are carried in procession to the altar, while the congregation lights their own small flames, little rushlights, one by one. When anyone's burns out, their neighbor lights it again, and so it goes.

Of the holy days, Viktor loves Easter the best. With it the long winter ends; the spirit of joy returns. That great and solemn feeling, that even he could feel the touch of God upon him, wraps him up in its warmth. The congregation breathe as one.

The lamb, free of sin, brings sinners to the Father, Phichit sings, his voice high and strong; Viktor shivers with the weight of it, the glory, like the voice of an angel.

(How, then, can Viktor reconcile this: that Phichit is a sinner, who lays freely in perversion with another of his own kind; that Phichit can singlehandedly call the joy of heaven to the hearts of the whole congregation.)

I saw death, and life set against it—I saw the slaughtered lamb, the King of Kings, risen again to reign immortal.

The doors of the church are open, and Viktor can tell immediately when Sudislav strides through them, not so brash as to disturb the service with words but bold enough to set his footsteps in irrhythmic counterpoint to the song. His face is red; when he reaches Viktor, the reek of sweat curls around them.

Viktor holds himself steady, makes himself focus on the music.

We know now Christ is truly risen; victor, King, show us thy mercy!

Sara stands tight-lipped and full-bellied; Viktor catches the faintest of sneers on Sudislav’s face as the prince’s eyes briefly slant towards her.

When the time comes, neither Sara nor Sudislav show hesitation in receiving the Eucharist, though Viktor—unconfessed and tainted as he is—always feels a pressing guilt when he does so. Still, as always, he does not refuse it, and he wonders if this shows that he is truly unrepentant.

As soon as the service is over, Sudislav grips Viktor by the arm, hard enough to bruise. Viktor starts and stiffens, but goes obediently and awkwardly along as Sudislav guides him out of the church. He’s self-possessed enough to act as if he were going entirely willingly, though he must put effort in to avoid tripping over his feet. “Sudislav,” he hisses; “They are staring at us.”

“Of course they are,” Sudislav dismisses him. “Who wouldn’t?” He drives them past the crowds of celebratory townsfolk still in their rows and through the church doors; past the still-burning fire, and into the relative privacy of the guesthouse’s vestibule.

“Sudislav!” Viktor wrenches his arm away, stumbling backwards. “What are you doing?”

“Vitya, there is no time—I am done with unnecessary delays!” His voice is lowered, but almost a snarl. The thick and overbearing smell of anger billows through the air, overlaid with woodsmoke. Viktor cowers as it hits him, and Sudislav visibly retracts the tension from his face. “Vitya,” he repeats, calmer this time, “I need your answer.”

Viktor looks up at him, and Sudislav dislikes the answer in his expression.

“Vitya,” he says. “Without you, the war will be worse.”

“For whom?” Viktor whispers.

Sudislav only sneers down at him, and Viktor wonders wildly how he ever thought the man could be handsome. “Are you that selfish?”

Viktor shakes his head, looking at his feet.

Sudislav’s breath huffs out. “Look, Vitya, I’ve fixed things. We’ve got a child with the right coloring…”

“What?” Viktor interrupts, in disbelief. “What?”

“All I need is your support; all you need to do is say the brat is yours. And to come with me.” He steps forward, curling his hands up to grip at Viktor’s shoulders, and Viktor stands frozen in place like a rabbit in the fox’s paws. “Vitya,” his voice is low and dark. “You will come with me. You ask for whom the war will be worse? It pains me to say, Vitya, that I can make no promises as to the fate of this little convent that you like so much.”

Whatever words Viktor might have had choke up in his throat as tears leap to his eyes.

The threat is quite clear. How stupid he had been, to think he ever had a choice at all.

Jerkily, he nods, and Sudislav’s face washes into a sweet smile. “Thank you, Vitya,” he says, and loosens his grip. “Fear not; you’ll be under the closest protection, I swear. The baby is scarce a few months old, the perfect age, and of course we have a wet nurse for her. What were your other reservations—oh, but Vitya, I’ve taken care of everything. Rostya won’t know what hit him.”

“Yes. I see.” Viktor stares blankly past him, thinking of sweet little dogs, and tainted ale, and a bright-eyed limner with a soft smile and clever hands. He swallows, and steps forward into Sudislav’s arms. “Thank you,” he says, breathy, meek.

The alpha’s eyes widen in surprise, barely, before he wraps Viktor in an embrace. His scent is heavy, almost like Mstislav’s. Viktor closes his eyes and tilts his head, baring his scarred neck to Sudislav’s gaze, forcing himself to melt into the other’s body even as his gut curls.

Maybe Sudislav will win. Maybe, when it’s all over, Viktor can come back. Maybe the convent and the town will still be here, drenched in Easter sunlight, like a finely crafted miniature preserved in golden amber.

Sudislav buries his nose in Viktor’s neck, breathing in, and Viktor’s eyes flutter barely open. Behind Sudislav’s back, at the entry to the guesthouse, a thin streak of light illuminates the bare floor. At the crack of the door is a curious eye, a flash of light hair.

Guang-Hong.

Viktor tenses, and Sudislav notices. He starts to pull away; Viktor clutches him closer, acting the needy omega, willing Guang-Hong to go, to think this a mere tryst.

He breathes out and relaxes when the young man steps away from the door. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s fine.