A Reflection of Body and Mind | Dima Kovachev

[Frawlic 1602]

 

Spoiler

 

 

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That day started like any other, a set purpose and plan that outlined everything she would do. Like this, a sense of control was established, and to those who knew the Kovachev, it was something she strived for in every waking moment. Wild cards were an occasionally thrown factor, ones that could entirely shift the trajectory of her day and how she felt.

A fatigue which settled seemingly overnight was a wild card, sickness abandoned in her youth, or perhaps forgotten in the efforts of others ensuring her health. She too had even begun to try, putting time into training at least once a day. Things were less heavy, and the armor which she typically adorned felt like a second set of skin. Even then, she would not push her limits, exchanging practicality and habit for comfort and ladies' fashion. A veil fixed overhead and in the reflection of a spoon, she twirled some flaxen hair to frame gaunt cheeks. She didn't meander over her appearance long, catching bony fingers from the corner of her eyes and ignoring the lightness of her brows. No, the young lady had plans, shopping to do. The descent of all those stairs within Kastell Lesanov never got easier, she had hoped in her flats, exchanged from armor they might, but a certain lethargy came when holding her skirting in her fists that long. Alas, those flights were conquered and eventually she found herself seated upon her well-trained reindeer, for shopping. 

A gift was to be given each year, though she found herself lacking in practice, perhaps because she felt overbearing by constantly giving. But this was different, a request, for a designated purpose. And so,  she had her adventure, in some form of a daze. Who knew shopping would be so difficult, but it was not like she did it often, for herself at least. There were many places she found inventory, attempting to be efficient with her time as she racked her mind for lost orders and other things she had to do. Maybe that was why she couldn't find what she was looking for, therefore returning to her home city. Valdev's shops were the same as always, another reason she may have struggled to find something new for Andrei's Nameday. Familiarity wasn't always a bad thing, but he too was accustomed to the city, and she knew it was only fair to expand her search further, with help this time. A certain starry-eyed girl caught her eyes and if she might hold the universe in her gaze, maybe she would have a better time seeing what Dima sought. There was no pleading required with Louna, never did she have to beg with that younger girl, so once again she embraced on her journey, this time not alone. Asking for help had rarely ever let her down, this time was no different. Efficiently did those two teens find the gift they sought, even finding the time to wrap it. Silky red wrapping paper and a glittering gold ribbon, the latter leaving residue on her fingertips. The colors were a reminder of duty, one she had recently sworn herself to.

Their return to Valdev was swift, and Dima’s need for order followed suit. Chainmail armor weighed upon her, the first time in a long time it was straining upon her mass. It was its own battle, climbing those stairs and another keeping herself upright and attentive for a meeting that held little meaning in a mind flooded with other thoughts. Dismissal came as a relief in the end, except for when she realized it was another workout to, once again, tread all those stairs. She wondered if a lift might ever be installed, for convenience, though dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. There were more pressing matters at hand as she followed a familiar trio to a place with no ears and only the wild to witness.

More whispers found themselves exchanged, the Kovachev a keeper of them. These came unwanted, choked out of her through curiosity, and truly she wondered if it would have been better to swallow them whole. After all, she asked a question she didn't want the answer to, and still, she got it. She continued to spit them up until nothing more came out of her, and her father was left responsible for tending to her mess. Each object, place, and voice came as a reminder that she had many trusts to be broken and even more things to lose. Eventually, it came time to rest, and pieces remained within hidden crevices. Cracks that kept her from remaining whole. Stairs. She could not do another set of stairs. Instead, she dragged herself to open doors, hearing murmurs about chainmail while she melted into a sofa, unattended illness creeping through whatever parts of her had broken that day. Distance came between reality and her thoughts, an utter lack of presence from a girl once over-aware. Dima could barely comprehend time and space, consumed entirely by brain fry and betrayal. Abandonment stung harder in the emptiness of that pink bed watched by Saint Tara and Saint Joren. Everything she had done to move forward unwound itself, regression befell her like silence did to her shy childhood. For now, she found herself fragmented, some unknown force bringing her to do absolutely anything, either in need of survival or release, though nothing of her own accord. A motherly voice echoed somewhere in her mind.

“A nod es all Ea need.” 

So she granted her a nod.

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Three months had passed and the rot she had planted within her mind continued to eat away at any good. Or maybe, that was just the effects of a fever, off and ongoing. This day she had tried to bring herself to eat something, anything, finding favor in a few dry crackers. She did not bother with water, a comfort in that dryness which settled, and only used her tongue to dislodge what remained to bother her. It was useful for that, removing things. That house on Barbov Street had been quiet, and so she stirred from those sheets, not keen on finding herself under them, and strayed towards the opposing end of the room. A careful seat was taken in front of the mirror where she stared, bony fingers pulling along her skin. They traced against her nose, belonging to a man with whom she lacked familiarity, perhaps not understanding the damage of her childlike words towards him. The rest of her was utterly akin to her mother, that softness which tired eyes carried and the slight curl withheld in streams of sunlight that rooted in both their heads and became more present at their fringe. The muscles of her brows were where she found herself unsure, an odd lightness that allowed her eyes to overpower her visage; though they were hers, until there was ache or anger, and suddenly she realized how she and her brother were related. In defeat, she scrunched up her nose, a taught trait, and stood. A note was taken, that her ribs pressed against her garments before the rest of her body did, and the definition in her extremities had begun to wither away. Dima felt like a stranger in her own body, maybe that was how it always was, why sickness seemed to invade and always find space.

She dragged herself back to that bed at the sound of a door opening on the lower level of the home that she had invaded. The older girl closed her eyes as she hoped for slumber, some escape from life further than she had already brought herself. They remained closed as muffled words reached deaf ears and a hand found her forehead. Often this was like clockwork and by this point she expected Mahaut to ease her 'awake' and plead with her to drink. Sometimes she broke, indulging in the Grand Lady's words, more often would she just roll over. This was different, no, whoever checked upon her was different. Alone now, only one pair of footsteps. The need for understanding peeled back her mind fog. 

“All ea could do was regret our last conversation.”

A coolness settled in her palm and while she didn't bother to move, she could understand someone holding her hand, just barely able to put Sigmar’s voice to his face. It was a fleeting feeling, guilt was it? She couldn't tell, comforted that she was no longer by herself, and that ploy of her eyes remaining closed only drew her further towards sleep once again.

“That conflict alone does niet make a life.”

Another stirring came, this one not her own as emptiness settled between her hand and the sheets. Once again she made no movements, like some creature acting dead to avoid confrontation. Those murmurs fell deaf upon her ears at the gentleness displayed by Sigmar, followed by the sounds of his equipment and himself leaving that room. Her eyes forced themselves open, and she stared at that door, residing footsteps that she could have sworn begged her for a response. An awful sound cracked away from her throat and just like that she gave up on calling for him. Instead, Dima turned over in that double bed, a hand, almost skeletal in nature, picking at the woven pink of the empty space beside her, Ipera's space.  Maybe if she was more like her, she could speak up. She could be unabashedly herself. But, Dima wanted to stay, returning to rest.

 

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Faint joy receded into the distance, heading towards the square. Talks of Tuvmas lingered in halls and her usual attire had been exchanged for something that would provide her warmth. She had yet to collect herself to head downstairs towards a hearth, but the bookshelves outside of the room kept her company, those, and trinkets left overhead by a visiting Knight. Never when others were home, of course, she was not quite ready to confront whatever she felt, nor willing to explain it to others. Entertainment was found in medicinal writings, a surge of knowledge elsewhere in her brain compared to what she normally would seek. Short-lived was whatever joy she found though, easily replaced by grief felt for a once-Ruthern, now-Amador; from cough syrup to herbs and their uses. 

Did some malice always exist behind the kindness he extended, was that the case for she who burnt down her home? Dima sometimes saw such in herself, that destruction without meaning, a trait she tried to blame on a man she barely knew. Maybe she found herself bitter, stubborn like the woman she once looked up to, though now feared. No matter, this was not about fitting pieces of others into herself. She wanted to learn what was truly hers, and she'd claw away at everything that remained to find it.

Resilience, determination, and a will. All taught, but something she persisted with on her own. To be knocked over so many times and still, she would try and try to get back up, to push that boulder up a hill. 

Trills of child-like laughter and needless screaming trailed through the open window at the end of the hall, the book between bony fingers closing as her attention shifted to something more human. Cautiously, she made it downstairs on the lift and kept to the shadows of the windowless doors. The sunlight which streaked in stretched back along the wall, lighting up the portrait of the homeowner before it ached past the corner, trying to reach the kitchen. Dima treaded lightly against the cold wood floors, dodging the warmth that already radiated in her ears and nape. The fruit display on the table called her name, and she lacked care that it was meant for display, hand encompassing an apple. Familiar with the interior, she found a knife, peeling away the skin of the fruit before slicing it into bite-sized bits. She was not wasteful, setting the remains in a jar of other slop. A glass of water followed suit, carrying her plate, it, and a book tucked underarm to the foyer of the home. Longingly she observed the sofa, following the particles in the air to the line dividing her and sunlight which she had long removed herself from. Her breath hitched and a foot moved forward as the doors on her left unlocked and more light streamed in, along with pleasant chill and her brunette caretaker. 

Dima stared at Mahaut, the light creeping over and radiating around the woman before it crawled along her arms and across her own visage. She turned, and without a word made for the sofa in the room; sinking away into it as she had almost a year prior. Her apples sat beside her, book in lap and water in both hands. Only once she had settled did she stray her gaze towards Mahaut, regarding her only with misty eyes. In a silent understanding, the Grand Lady left her to her own, a silent co-existence. 

She finished that plate of apples, and any other meal Mahaut brought her way. The pain banding her head began to slip away with each glass of water, and though no words were spoken, enough was said. The Kovachev fell asleep back there, the door upstairs left ajar as the sun from the hallway painted the back walls of Ipera's room, shadows retreating to the corners. That overwhelming dread escaped through the floorboards and for the first time in a long time, that room didn't feel so hollow.

 

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Where ups came, downs followed and maybe, just maybe, she had pushed herself too soon. Within a short time, fever and phlegm built up. That night was the worst of it, damp cloth exchanged for damp cloth and she couldn't recall how many times she choked on water trying to swallow it. She was miserable, a mess, crying from how she scratched at herself in hopes that might bring relief to the insufferable heat she felt. Every time she tried to sleep, a coughing fit came which left her in more tears and pain. Muffled requests echoed in the hallway and she wasn't quite sure she wanted to hear them. Were they seeking for someone to read final rites or maybe even some doctor who wielded foreign magic? 

There were so many things that remained undone and unsaid, and as she could hear her breathing rattle in her lungs, panic set in.  She eased from that bed and didn't even make it to her feet before she couldn't recall a singular thing outside of the sound of metal, cool to the touch that enveloped her gangly limbs in a careful hold. When she came to, she found herself back in that bed, bangs clinging to her face and a pit of hunger in her stomach. Dima, not the fool this time, clung to furniture and walls with her movements, the worst of it over, but still taking its toll. The door to her room creaked open slightly, her fingers prying around the corner as something sat slightly in its way. With a small nudge, the armored arm that blocked her immediate path shifted aside and she stared down at the sleeping Joakim. 

Her movements were slow, a humming reminder in her head not to wake him, as she had no clue when he even went to sleep. She fixed stray hairs back into his braid and pressed a kiss to his temple. Not wanting to be gone whenever he did awake or Sigmar shooed him from the Ruthern-Leuven home, the Kovachev slinked back to her bed and within moments found herself asleep in that pink sheet bed. Whenever she next awoke, a quick note was taken of a token hung above the doorway. So that was who left them.

 

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Varon was always delayed in discovery, and so the news of her whereabouts and wellbeing eventually did reach him. By this point, Dima wasn't so secluded in that room on the second floor, attached to the sofa by her hip whenever she didn't occupy herself with other things, like a silent dinner preparation or babysitting Mathilde in her infantile years. It was snowing when he came, that glistening white powder building up on the window frames and sill. She watched as he darted for that door, ignorant to the calling from Mahaut behind him that they were locked. His impatience could be felt through the threshold and with a click and creak, he tumbled into the foyer. There were no snarky remarks from him or tears from her.  Not a word escaped her, and though she was visibly off, she was now more attentive in comparison to a month prior. Room was made on that lush red seat, fingers patting the comfortable fabric for him to sit. And he did. And in silence they both sat, for she rarely ever told him what was wrong and even then she was not ready to tell him, not ready for him to leave. Perhaps this agitated him, but for her, she knew he had developed a kindness, an understanding. 

Hot chocolate had been provided to them both, and with a side-eye, she blew bubbles against the lip of her cup. A foamy marshmallow mustache remained on her upper lip, and she smiled, waiting for him to repeat the childish habit in turn. So they sat in silence, building up their cocoa staches until they were finished or their drinks grew cold. Varon left without a goodbye, and Dima hoped he knew she'd be okay, otherwise he wouldn't leave. Not when she had begged him to come back. They still had work to do.

 

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Enough recovery came, enough that Dima willed herself to get ready. A soft shout, if it even could be considered that, and still it had Mahaut dropping everything and almost tripping down the hall. In front of a mirror, she turned her head over a slender shoulder and whispered a request. Just like that, laces arranged and tugged tightly and for once she thought something held her together better than arms or skin. Her hair was neatly arranged in its usual style while she debated adornments or headpieces. She would not attempt to conceal the exhaustion that had built, tired of hiding, everything truly. The young lady turned around, pressing her hands over her attire before she murmured,

 

“Ea think… this is ordak.”
 

 

Spoiler

I wanted to create a narrative post for the time that I was away from the server, mainly because I had nothing to do during those plane rides while I traveled. Here it is! Huge thanks to everyone who sent me logs and the likes, and if you want to reply, feel free to :)

 

[prophetisms 982]

A year. It was only a year that Dima spent in the Ruthern-Leuven residence, yet felt much longer than the entirety of the Kovachev’s wardship. A year of worrying, mothering even. There was guilt in this, without admitting it to a soul–not even to her Sigmar. Two years ago Mahaut would’ve been pleased to aid Dima in such a way. To house the Kovachev as her own, to tuck her in on the illest and coldest nights, to slice fruit for her, to make sure she read every book in the family collection no matter how small. 

Those sentiments, their potential joys, were a lot more hollow than the coughs from the stolen bedroom. Wondering became Mahaut’s habit: if Dima would have fared better upon advice sent through paper and ink. Would she breathe easier, hold her head a little higher, if they had gone on walks more? Dima had enough adventures to make her move faster than the winds and there was always the dreaded stairwell of Lesanov to greet the girl after a long day. Would Dima walk straighter, if she had instilled humility every year prior with a gift to give? Maybe it would’ve subdued any hubris that compelled the young Kovachev to fight. Or, changed her view on coin and left her without vying for it, despite how that coin would go back into coffers to see her dwindling kin afloat. It was regret that flowed greater than the Dules and Lahy. 

It would’ve swept Mahaut away as easily as the cold waters, had it not been for the day she caught Dima downstairs. Like a lamb escaped from its pasture, although Mahaut was no wolf; closer to the shepherd. She remained near Dima in silent guidance thereafter, as a habit that would not die out any time soon. Despite the sunlight that streamed through the windows, the warmth afforded in the colder season, Mahaut’s regret froze over. She did not wholly heed past advice. She did not walk with her every day or month. She was not there for the days Dima fought, like others. But she was there when Dima needed her. Mahaut gave her food to eat, water to drink, a bed to sleep in, clothes to keep her cool and warm, company in quietness. When the Grand Lady happened upon her teenage ward in the foyer, she would’ve picked Dima up if her legs gave out. She would have put her back together. “We’ll keep her whole,” was told to Mahaut when Dima first came to the home. And that was enough.

That is enough. 

[RingAroundRosey 498]

She didn't know the fellow teen's health would decline so rapidly.

 

She was asked to go and hunt for a gift, and to that she quickly agreed. The girl which was the beacon of strength to Louna was with her, so in the starry-eyed girl's mind - not a thing could go wrong. Next thing she knew, she was home to find that strength, her strength, bedridden. She was at a loss for words, tears pricked her eyes but she wouldn't dare let them fall. There was work to be done after all. Whenever Sigmar and Mahaut were not watching over the sleeping figure of the Kovachev, Louna was there. To dab at her forehead, to fix her sheets, her hair. Anything to relight the beacon.

 

Everything only seemed to go wrong after this. Rumors and bad deeds done to others that Louna loved. She had gotten her own fevers although not ones that could compare to Dima's sickness. She needed her beacon, she needed her to glow once more.

 

"Please."

Edited December 8, 2024 by RingAroundRosey