August 21, 1918
Liberty was bittersweet. Weiss was once again constrained alongside the imperial family by the Allies who had proven to be fearful that something untoward might happen to them. Ironic how they were kept as prisoners by the Bolsheviks. Now, they were restricted with heavy security by their rescuers to avoid anything such as an assassination or something of the sort ever happening.
That did not entirely spell gloom for the most part and the past few days were not entirely dull. They went on walks, sometimes to the chagrin of their British bodyguards who had to fend off the crowds, and took up old hobbies that they were once denied while still remaining observant of the political tides.
The tsar, particularly, had quickly discerned that the Allies were unsure where to exile them. The British and the French remained adamantly unwilling not to mention an intense offensive on-going in Western Europe. The Greeks were still reeling from a coup. The Japanese were...untrustworthy. The Spanish and the Portuguese have yet to be approached while the Italians had not given any sufficient answer. That left the Americans.
Which seemed rather suitable. Valish, the dominant language on Remnant, was almost a carbon copy of English. Weiss wondered whether life in the United States would be similar to life on Vale or Atlas a hundred years before she was born.
Additionally, at the insistence of the international media, a handful of journalists were granted audience with the imperial family and their companions. The same questions were asked—how did you escape; where did you go; what was it like running from the Bolsheviks...
It was the same old charade from home except a hundred years more archaic. Weiss adapted easily though she had to fend off the budding curiosity stemming from her unusual appearance (and the rumors of her Semblance). It was only after she had finally entertained her last batch of reporters that she was given a copy of a British newsletter.
Flipping through the pages yielded her an interesting column story that enraptured her:
Forked Lighting: France's Fieriest Foot-soldier
Now Weiss had a greater understanding of Jaune's experiences on the front lines. Filtered as the article was, it provided enough to allow her to imagine what he had been through.
So she interviewed some of the war corresponders about Forked Lightning, guarding her queries to not give any hints of interest. Come afternoon, Weiss was in deep thought piecing together the details while sipping her tea in the restaurant of the inn that accommodated them. Jaune Arc had indeed come far since then. No longer was he the bumbling fool of a knight severely lacking in skill with the sword. She had to admit she was impressed yet at the same time worried. This war had broken him and it showed.
"Are you sure you are not being bothered, freylina?" asked Mister Dverko as he nibbled on his biscuits. "Pardon for my observation but you look like something bit your leg and laid its eggs in the bone."
"Ugh. Nothing...to concern yourself with," she answered with a wince.
"Razve? I have heard that you have had an intimate relationship with one of the French soldiers."
Weiss nearly spat out her tea. "Where in the world did you hear that garbage!?"
The former farmer laughed. "It is true then?"
"You know I can send you flying out the window."
He stiffened. "Izvinitye, freylina. I was only making light banter."
"I told you. Stop pandering. I am not a noblewoman."
"I find it hard to treat you the same way I treat my batraki."
"Regardless, I reiterate that I am no way romantically involved with anyone."
The look on his face was clearly doubtful. "Others have said that you are good friends with a decorated veteran from the West."
"That is true."
"And that you have once eloped during the war. Or was that before the revolution?"
Weiss twitched. "Don't pay attention to rumors. They are detrimental to your health."
Mister Dverko laughed. "I am only...how do the British say it? 'Lightening the mood.' You are very serious, freylina. Enjoy some humor. You are safe now."
She sighed, stewing over her steaming cup, her solemn gaze settling on the cobblestone street outside. "I'm...worried for him. The soldier. My friend. He...he might get hurt and..." A growl. "I sound ridiculous."
"There is no shame in worrying for a loved one."
"Please do not refer to my rela—err—correspondence with that dolt as such."
"Tak semya? You are perhaps siblings? He is a brother or a cousin?"
"A friend. Just a friend. Nothing more, nothing less."
"A friend who you have not seen in a long time. And now that you have, you are feeling very worried. I can understand that," he rasped warmly. "And who knows? If you are feeling some, ah, romanticheskiy interes then why not entertain it?"
"I would rather you not entertain this nonsense."
"Ah, no pochemu ty protiv otnosheniy?" Why the aversion to such a relationship? The answer was simple.
"Potomu chto ya...ya...u menya yest..." Weiss stammered. What exactly was that simple answer? Jaune and her could be such a thing. It was...not repulsive. It only did not...seem to work. Yes. It was non-compatible. There were reasons for that. Distance, time, and personality. Besides, she would rather be romantically linked with someone else. Right? In the first place, was she willing to wade in these waters? "It's complicated."
Silence. The former farmer leaned back and said, "You know, the French have met with the British on the Onega Bay this morning. I do not know what they will do next but there is talk that they might try to liberate Karelia and maybe attempt an attack on Sank-Peterburg. It...will be bloody if they will try that."
"Jaune is in a supporting role," she blurted. "The marines should be doing the main fighting. His unit shouldn't be relegated to the front!"
"So you wish not for Kapral Arkos not to be hurt, da?"
"I...I wish him well. He...he shouldn't be foolish and...and charge into battle recklessly."
"You should write him a letter."
More silence. Why would she write him a letter? What could either of them gain from it? Perhaps there was no harm in maintaining communication. Anything to lift her spirits...
Weiss stared out the window down at the street where Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova chatted with curious passersby while surrounded by a detachment of American riflemen. The undying smile on her face, radiating hope despite the odds, and laughing with those who used to taunt her family's name upon their arrival. If only she had her optimism, her penchant for happiness...
"Freylina, ty yego lyublyesh?"
"That's ridiculous!" she snapped, her tea nearly spilling out of her half-empty cup. Her outburst silenced the restaurant and she smoothed herself before continuing softly, "Please, Semyon Klementovich, stop asking these things."
Mister Dverko nodded, finished his water, and stood. With a bow and an unreadable smile, he said, "I am sorry for pressing the matter. However, allow me to advise you. Do not deny what you feel or it will hurt you more than that cut that gave you your scar. Do svidanya, freylina."
Weiss wished she could ignore what he said but his words rang in her head for the rest of day.
Jaune and his squadron found their nice little spot along the icy beaches facing westwards towards the Onega Bay and in the further distance the forested mounds of Karelia. The four men settled comfortably under the shade of an overhanging tree, grateful that there was little for them to do now that the main bulk of the British forces had attained their objectives. They maximized their down time by resting from their long march.
Of course, that meant prime time for Baz, Avi, and Gosse to bring up the same crap they had been picking at him with since his fateful reunion with Weiss: their ridiculous bastardized 'fairy tale' of the Yellow Huntsman—how fitting—coming to the rescue of Snow White and the seven Romanovs.
"Donc, Monsieur Jaune," snickered Avi. "Lettres de Demoiselle Blanc?"
Jaune scowled at him.
"Parle anglais," added Gosse with a laugh. "Si tu veux qu'il parle d'elle."
Baz cleared his throat and adopted his best impersonation of a British falsetto accent. "Ah, Mister Arkos. Miss me you, ma chérie?"
"One more word out of you," sneered the blonde corporal.
A round of sniggers. "Ooh! Il parle maintenant!"
Jaune groaned. "Putain de merde..."
"No need for that kind of talk, Jaune," chastised Causson.
Heads turned and nodded to acknowledge their captain striding to their midst.
"Capitaine, I thought you killed the rumors, already," Jaune groused.
A shrug. "You cannot kill curiosity. Il n'y a pas de honte à ressentir de l'affection."
"C'est juste une amie," Try as he might, he could not turn away from the smug grins of his squad mates. They were just being stupid and his superior was only feeding the damn joke.
The officer placed his hand on his shoulder. "Du calme, Jaune. It is normal to harbor intense feelings for those you care deeply about."
"Capitaine, je ne—"
"You are friends. Close friends. That much is apparent. Cherish it." And with a parting grin, the captain left them to check on the the rest of the company lying idly about along the beach.
Jaune huffed, enduring the teasing until they started talking about something else. He had already gotten over Weiss; that was loud and clear. Final. Done. Weiss was over him, he was over her. They were friends now, closer than ever but short of crossing that line. So why the hell was he constantly thinking of her?
It was probably the cold.
That night, Weiss sequestered herself on her desk staring at her reflection in the mirror.
"Should I leave you alone?" asked Anya.
"You don't have to go," she answered.
"It's okay, Isha. I understand." With her disarming smile, the grand duchess excused herself from their shared room to be with her sisters across the hall.
Weiss released the breath she had been holding when the door clicked shut. She was only expressing concern. Because there is a civil war going on and lives were on the line. This was only a means to assuage her anxiety for those involved in the fighting, a medium of comfort for both parties. Taking a moment to compose her thoughts, she picked up the fountain pen and started writing...
Dear Jaune...
ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 17, 2018
LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018
INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 20, 2018