The walk to Botkin's residence was shorter than I anticipated, but longer than I had hoped.
Afternoon heat burned into my exposed face and arms. The kefta remained unworn, rolled into a ball and tucked under my arm in some childish act of rebellion...against a man who wasn't even here. Against a king who saw me as nothing more than a pawn. A shiny soldier to play with.
Ugh. Despite the humidity, goosebumps threatened to break across my skin.
I had done what I could for Genya and Katya, at least until the Fold was destroyed. Perhaps there was something I could do for Botkin, now.
If he hadn't already been sentenced. My pace quickened, then stopped in time with my stuttering heart. Saints.
Botkin's hut appeared as if it had been taken from memory. From that memory, in particular.
This was Ravka, I reminded myself, squeezing my eyes shut. My fingers dug into the kefta's thick fabric. Not Shu. Ravka.
Mercifully, a second look proved the nostalgia to be just that, the differences easier to spot; the roof was made of a grass native only to northern Ravka. The hut was dwarfed by trees that could never have survived in the Shu mountains.
And, most notably, a Ravkan flag hung limply from a pole besides the front door. Without the accompanying breeze, it was just another piece of colored fabric used to signify some facsimile of loyalty.
Saints. What was wrong with me?
I groaned and tried to rub away the incoming headache.
…Better yet, don't ask that particular question.
Much as I wanted a distraction, there was a significant part of me that actually hoped Botkin wouldn't be home. Storming the castle seemed preferable to…well, whatever this was.
So, of course, the door opened before I could even knock.
"Anastasia."
For Saints sake.
"You're okay." I breathed, then froze. Warmth flooded my cheeks as Botkin paused, visibly amused. I must've appeared equally transparent, for he only turned slightly, one hand raised.
"Come in."
It wasn't a request. Swallowing my nerves, I acquiesced. If nothing else, I could at least get some answers.
Unlike Baghra's stony prison, the inside of Botkin's hut was noticeably - and comfortably - cooler. Threadbare curtains were tied away from the windows positioned around the circular room, allowing strings of sunlight to weave themselves between the sparse furniture and across the singular rug on the floor. There was a subtle sweetness to the air, punctuated by a faint sizzling.
As the door closed, Botkin strode past to a curved pan sitting on a lit stove. I hovered awkwardly near the doorway as he returned his attention to…whatever lay within.
My previous urgency - fears of Botkin's fate swirling in my mind, guilty for not having considered the possibility - seemed altogether unnecessary. I found myself scowling at his back.
The sudden annoyance, however, withered when Botkin turned around.
Even in the dim lighting, the shadows under his eyes were obvious. His pallor appeared slightly off, as if drained, and the gray hairs in his beard seemed to stick out more.
One guess as to why.
I didn't protest when I was ushered to the lone table against the back wall.
"Here." Botkin slid a bowl towards me as he settled into his own seat.
Almost reluctantly, I dropped my attention to the offered bowl, unwilling to linger on his visible exaustion. The scent of spiced pork rose to greet me, its dark sauce already seeping into the bed of rice beneath.
"Botkin -"
He held up a hand, cutting me off before I could start. "Eat first. We'll talk afterwards."
I bristled at the undisguised command; it was the same tone he used in training, stern and unrelenting. However, the guilt - or the promise of a hot meal outside of the palace - proved incentive enough to listen.
Ignoring the twist in my stomach, I picked up the waiting chopsticks. Although I hadn't used them in a decade or so, the polished material - a deep black flecked with gold - felt strangely natural between my fingers.
After the first few bites, I understood the need for silence.
Braised pork wasn't uncommon by any standards, but the manner in which he had prepared it was, accompanied by the subtle aftertaste of cinnamon and other flavors I couldn't quite identify. How long since…
That haunting parody of nostalgia swelled once more, pricking moisture from my eyes as we ate. Like a spell, broken, the tension in my shoulders began to ease.
Unfortunately, it didn't last long.
By the time we were done, the day had withdrawn its light from the windows. Shadows lengthened across the floor like an outstretched hand, and a crooked branch tapped some unnatural rhythm against one of the panes, bolstered by the muffled whistle of the wind.
Botkin, once more, rose to his feet. With unnerving grace for a man his size, the empty bowls were whisked away. He remained facing the sink when he finally broke the silence.
"Where along the border did you grow up?"
I froze in my seat. The warmth inside cooled instantly.
"What?"
How did he -
His head turned slightly to reveal a smile, scarcely visible under his untrimmed beard.
"You hold them differently."
What? I glanced down at the chopsticks lying innocently on the table.
My incredulity must've shown, for Botkin chuckled. Returning to the table with a pair of steaming mugs, he added, "You speak Shu like a native, Anastasia. Ravkans always mispronounce certain words, even when they bother to make an effort." The ceramic clinked against the wooden surface, his chair protesting as he sat. "That, and your accent slips through when you're upset."
I stared at Botkin, struggling to formulate a reply. How many hours had I spent practicing my Ravkan in some old, forgotten room of the orphanage? Trying to rid myself of that damned accent? My breath went shallow, my lungs shrinking in my chest.
Did he know?
Slowly uncurling the fists in my lap, I forced myself to nod, as if every muscle wasn't screaming to run. As if I couldn't taste the metallic scent, an unwelcome echo of the laboratory.
He couldn't -
"I…" I took a breath. "Didn't realize you knew how to make a joke."
Botkin shrugged, a lethargic rise and fall that failed to provide any comfort. His hands loosely cupped a misshapen mug.
"Your past is your own, Anastasia." His eyes - a shade beyond gold - were horribly, uncharacteristically soft. From pity, perhaps, or something else. He went on, undeterred. "You aren't the first Grisha to seek refuge from what lay beyond those mountains."
My teeth bit into my lower lip with a painful vengeance, as if tamping down the panicked fury provoked from those words. From those memories. The scar running down my chest itched under the thin layer of cotton that shielded it from sight.
He didn't know, I repeated silently, refusing to break eye contact. He couldn't. No one did.
Genya's face came to mind.
Saints.
As a result, my response came out sharper than intended. Head held high, I practically spit back, "Like you?"
Botkin appeared unfazed, however, only leaning back in the wooden chair. He met my challenging gaze without hesitation or surprise…which only served to piss me off further.
This was not how I pictured this conversation.
"Something like that, yes." He took a sip from his mug, golden eyes dropping pointedly to the one before me. "Now, do you want to talk about why you actually came?"
I opened my mouth to bite back, words weaponized against - No. My jaw clenched as I finally tore my gaze away from his. I couldn't. Not against him.
A lump formed in my throat. The tea sat untouched on the table, and another of Oktai's old proverbs came to mind, uninvited.
You cannot see your reflection until the surface settles.
At the time, I had only laughed; a metaphor hadn't been enough to trick me into restraining my temperament.
Now…I would've given anything to hear him say it again.
Across the table, Botkin seemed to be waiting patiently for a response. Exhaling noisily, I crossed my arms.
"Yes." I said, taking another breath. The tide receded ever so slightly. "If they suspected you of being involved, Botkin…how are you still here?"
Botkin took another sip, seemingly mulling over the question. His shoulders were slumped, as if a heavy weight was pressing down on them, much like the bags under his eyes. Upon closer inspection, his clothes seemed rumpled and unusually worn.
How long has he been absent from training? I wanted to scoff, my frustration switching directions easily enough. How quickly had the King turned to him, an accusing finger already pointed in his direction?
The answer came only a few seconds later.
Probably as long as I had been unconscious.
"It was the General." Botkin's reply broke through the heavy thoughts, lowering his half-empty mug. Kirigan?
"What?" I straightened, frowning. "How?"
Botkin studied me with something akin to a smile.
"You're aware of the influence he wields." He replied simply, though I noticed the bitterness in his voice, "Reduced the 'punishment' to suspension. Supposedly temporary."
I nudged the offered mug aside to lean forwards, the wooden surface rough against my bare arms.
"Kirigan helped you?"
"Yes." Botkin finished his tea, gesturing towards my own. "You should drink, Anastasia."
I scowled instinctively. Saints, I hated that name. Shaking the thought away, I pressed, "When did this happen? Why would he -"
Just as quickly, I cut myself off with a grimace - and a realization.
I had come to do the exact same thing. Hadn't I?
"You think very little of him." Botkin commented, the smile emerging from beneath his speckled beard.
In a show of maturity, I made a face at him and leaned away, the wooden spine of the chair pressing into my back. For a moment, I watched the last tendrils of steam rise from the mug. The dark surface, calm and unmoving, reflected little.
"You don't?" I risked a glance up.
Embarrassment warmed my cheeks once more, but I didn't look away. This was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. After all, if anyone were to share my…skepticism towards Kirigan, wouldn't it be him?
Golden eyes lingered on me for another minute or so. Even with the obvious exhaustion, or exasperation, a sharp intelligence shone through.
Dishelved or not, Botkin wasn't one to be underestimated, either.
"I owe him a great deal." He replied in that same, factual tone. I huffed, displeased, but he wasn't done. Botkin straightened in his seat, the casual air he'd worn falling away.
"But I advise you to hold onto that instinct, Anastasia. It will help you survive what is to come."
Saints. My mouth went dry.
There were a number of things he could be referring to, none of them pleasant. Survival never was.
But he understood.
That strange pricking began behind my eyes again, and I bit the inside of my cheek to distract myself. Emotions rose in my throat, blocking the words.
Botkin sighed.
"The assassins are long since dead, but more will come." He said, pushing himself to his feet. I tensed automatically, as if for a fight, but he merely scooped up both mugs and returned to the counter. In the quiet, his voice was perfectly clear. "Why else do you think you are here?"
My brow furrowed.
"They're both dead?"
While I had - mostly - managed to avoid thinking of that night, I could've sworn that one of them had escaped. Hadn't Zoya implied as much herself? The memory of Kirigan's fury rose to the surface again, and with it, an odd sense of…relief?
Had he…
Botkin set the mugs into the sink and turned, nodding.
"The General made sure of that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his sleeves bunching around his elbows.
I inhaled sharply.
Since meeting Botkin, I had never once considered why his arms were always covered, brushing it off as uniform or propriety, same as everyone else. Now, in the solitude of his Shu-esque hut, I saw the faded, star-shaped scars along his forearms.
My gaze dropped to my own forearms, unmarked and covered in dried sweat and dirt. They were one of the few sections of skin I could expose, the scars kept mostly to my upper arms and torso.
He understood. Saints. He understood…but how?
When my eyes found his again, Botkin actually grinned.
"Why do you think I wanted to be in charge of your training, Anastasia?"
A/N: I'd been planning some of this conversation for awhile, but I'm happily surprised with how it ended up. I hope you enjoy it, too! Next up, we see some familiar faces and come up with a new plan, one that involves a certain someone...
THANK YOU FOR READING! Your support means the world (and I consume each and every comment for motivation in the midst of night).