Avdotya is smoke; neither here nor there.
Her body may be physicially present (a black shadow shifting on the sand) but her eyes are distant and he supposes that her mind drifts elsewhere. Matters above his pay grade probably. He wants to ask, but doesn't. He wishes that she might trust him enough to share her thoughts, but then if she trusted anyone she would not be Avdotya.
She is someone he has always known and never known. They are both deeply familiar and stark strangers and he does not anticipate they will ever be anything more or anything less. It is a simple matter. It is just as well that they will never be anymore familiar or chummy than a formal relationship between a Khan and her Jagun, because what more can be said outside of Davke related matters? He can't possibly imagine either of them engaging in a casual conversation about the weather.
She tolerates his presence but does she tolerate much more than that? He really can’t say. Avodtya has always been unpredictable as an afternoon sandstorm and just as deadly. He does not expect this particular encounter to be different. He endures her vague scrutiny, knowing it means more than she lets on. The relentless glare of her eyes is like the scathing afternoon sun with vultures circling overhead. Her intensity is exhausting and everlasting. He does not suppose there will ever be another of Avdotya's like.
Long live the king, she repeats, her eyes void of any emotion. She reaches for something wrapped on the head of her spear and tosses it at his hooves. A chain of brilliant, glimmering gold. He knows instantly the jewelry belongs to Makeda. His stomach drops. The bright sun enhances the glittering chain; he winces as the light shimmers and refracts in his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this," he says at last, hardly able to control the tremble in his voice. Somewhere in the depths of his heart he already knows but he pushes the reality of it all away, pushes it down, down, down. "What is this," he repeats, this time more urgently, demanding she meet his furious gaze. He feels the hardened exterior of his rigid discipline fading rapidly in the face of one of his greatest fears. His voice cracks. "Tell me, Avdotya. Tell me!"
Her body may be physicially present (a black shadow shifting on the sand) but her eyes are distant and he supposes that her mind drifts elsewhere. Matters above his pay grade probably. He wants to ask, but doesn't. He wishes that she might trust him enough to share her thoughts, but then if she trusted anyone she would not be Avdotya.
She is someone he has always known and never known. They are both deeply familiar and stark strangers and he does not anticipate they will ever be anything more or anything less. It is a simple matter. It is just as well that they will never be anymore familiar or chummy than a formal relationship between a Khan and her Jagun, because what more can be said outside of Davke related matters? He can't possibly imagine either of them engaging in a casual conversation about the weather.
She tolerates his presence but does she tolerate much more than that? He really can’t say. Avodtya has always been unpredictable as an afternoon sandstorm and just as deadly. He does not expect this particular encounter to be different. He endures her vague scrutiny, knowing it means more than she lets on. The relentless glare of her eyes is like the scathing afternoon sun with vultures circling overhead. Her intensity is exhausting and everlasting. He does not suppose there will ever be another of Avdotya's like.
Long live the king, she repeats, her eyes void of any emotion. She reaches for something wrapped on the head of her spear and tosses it at his hooves. A chain of brilliant, glimmering gold. He knows instantly the jewelry belongs to Makeda. His stomach drops. The bright sun enhances the glittering chain; he winces as the light shimmers and refracts in his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this," he says at last, hardly able to control the tremble in his voice. Somewhere in the depths of his heart he already knows but he pushes the reality of it all away, pushes it down, down, down. "What is this," he repeats, this time more urgently, demanding she meet his furious gaze. He feels the hardened exterior of his rigid discipline fading rapidly in the face of one of his greatest fears. His voice cracks. "Tell me, Avdotya. Tell me!"
@Avdotya
