The Second Archon War: Comoedia Glacialis 7 (Patreon)

Comoedia Glacialis 7: The Prince rises upon a Grave Trap

When Fortuna had been a young girl, her older sister had gone with the other maidens of the village to the shrine of Aphrodite before their weddings. Fortuna had gone as well, though she was far too young to be married at the age of only eight summers, and hadn’t had her flowering yet. The shrine had been located down the slope of the mountain, several days travel to the seaside, where legend had it the goddess had first arrived. 

The shrine of the goddess had been built of marble quarried from far away and had been decorated with beautiful sea shells and coral that sparkled in the sunlight, along with flowers and some precious stones. The statue of Aphrodite had been beautifully painted to show the goddess in her full glory, and Fortuna’s sister and the other maidens had given offerings of goat's milk, honey, and olive oil as the girls giggled and prayed for handsome husbands. Fortuna had made crowns of flowers with the older girls and offered those to the Goddess of Love and Beauty, wondering what sort of love she would find one day. 

Fortuna had never found love. Instead, she had slain a god, the same god whose coming had killed Fortuna’s sister and the rest of her family, then been cast out of time itself and flung into a frightening future, doomed to save the world with visions of unthinkable horror. 

Once more, she found herself before a God of Love, and perhaps even beauty. Unlike the brightly painted and warm Aphrodite, this woman was starkly cold, if even more regal and beautiful than Contessa had imagined. Her skin was alabaster white, like unpainted marble, her eyes a piercing light blue of glaciers, her hair glossy as spun silver. Instead of the lusty and curvacious figure of Aphrodite, this woman was a slender maiden. Not that she lacked womanly curves, but without her little god Fortuna would never have been able to discern them in the bulky fur coat and mantle the woman wore. 

“Fortuna,” the icy god said, drawing the word out. “You are Fate’s Fool. You are distant from your land and home as I am, child. What brings you into our presence?”

“Fate’s Fool. A proper name for me, I suppose,” Fortuna said, chuckling darkly. She flipped her hat into the air, so that it landed at the perfect cocky angle on her head. “I come representing the mortals of this world who would cast down the Heavenly Principles. As you have raged against them, we come to offer alliance.”

She had asked her Path many questions about this encounter, but it had come up mostly silent, offering only extrapolations based upon the other Archons. Nahida and Raiden would appreciate a direct, honest approach. Venti would play word games, then laugh it off. After speaking with Alexandria, Fortuna had decided that the direct, honest approach was best here. If this really was a loving god, she would not tolerate lies. 

The Tsaritsa regarded Fortuna for a long moment, then a small smile spread across her pale lips. “You would come to the bride and offer to murder her betrothed? A bold move, Fool.”

Feeling like her heart had stopped, Fortuna forced a smile. “He tried the same thing with Lesser Lord Kusinali. Basically raped her when he-”

WHAT. 

Fortuna froze, nearly literally so as the temperature in the room suddenly plummeted. The mien of the god before her changed. Not so much her physical appearance, as the sudden spiritual weight that Fortuna felt upon her soul. Icy wrath radiated from the being before Fortuna, and she found herself on her knees in abject awe as tears came to her eyes. It was like hiking to the summit of Mount Olympus and finding all the myths and legends true. 

SO, THE SUSTAINER DARED TO LAY HIS HANDS UPON ANOTHER, THEN? The queen of love and ice demanded of Fortuna, her face contorted with rage. At first, Fortuna thought she was dead, doomed at the hands of a spurned lover. 

Then the Cryo Archon spoke again, and hatred and loathing dripped from every word. SO THIS IS HOW MUCH THEY HATE ME. THAT EVEN WHEN THE SUSTAINER SHOWS HOW WRETCHED HE IS, EVEN THEN THEY WILL NOT COME TO MY AID. THEY ARE BLIND FOOLS, ALL OF THEM! TO SUFFER UNDER HEAVEN’S TYRANNY LIKE MEEK LAMBS AWAITING SLAUGHTER!

Fortuna didn’t understand that, but apparently neither did the Archon’s advisors. “Heaven’s Tyranny, Majesty? But are you not of heaven?” the one Fortuna recognized as Anatoly Komissarov, a gangster and oligarch. He was on his knees as well as the others, his eyes full of worship. 

The regal face of the god regarded her subordinate, then the pressure changed, and she looked mortal once more. “No, my Thief. I was born a mortal woman. My name… was Bronislava Cocolievna Snezhnaya. My mother was the Cryo Archon. She adopted me as a young girl she found lost amidst the snow of our homeland. One day, when the people she loved were threatened, she defied the Heavenly Principles. For her sin, she was cast down and slain, and her Throne and Authority passed to me, her heir. I have continued her tradition of defying heaven.”

The Archon’s gaze swept back to Fortuna, and there was neither warmth nor mercy there. “Bold of you to declare yourself an enemy of heaven, mortal. But I am fond of boldness. Come serve me, and be my Fool. I can promise you that one day, we will slay my betrothed, and cast down the Heavenly Principles for all time.”

The offer took Fortuna aback, and she reached for the comfort of Eighty reflexively. She hadn’t seen this: an offer from an Archon to join them? She nearly asked Eighty what she should do, but then stopped. Did she want to join this god in their quest? She didn’t even really know anything about this Bronislava. And her friends…she couldn’t just abandon them. 

“I will honor you, of course, mighty one,” Fortuna said slowly. “And I believe we share the same goals. But I cannot take service with you at this time. Perhaps we can be allies.”

“Who are you?” the blond man, the parahuman called Thoma demanded, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve not seen capes like the three of you before. Who do you represent?”

“An interested party,” Fortuna said, winking at him, but the German man just frowned at her. 

“Come now, if we are to be allies, there must be trust,” the Archon said lightly. “You seem to know where I am from already, Fortune’s Fool. Do not be glib. From whence do you hail, and whom do you represent?”

An answer came to Fortuna, whispered to her by her little god in Eighty, and she licked her lips. “The daughter you love sent me. The one they call Alexandria.”

“You are an American?” Anatoly demanded, his gaze gone cold and steely. He turned to the Archon. “Your Majesty, the Americans are our old foes. They would seek to weaken and cripple us again to maintain their advantage. They have been hostile to Archons as well, from the moment Raiden appeared.”

“I do not think that counts as a mark against them,” Bronisalva said, but her tone was frosty and her eyes never left Fortuna. “So, that child sent you, did she? I know little of this world yet, but she I have heard of. Mayhaps this alliance is possible. What do you propose?”

“You will seek to gain control of Russia once more, yes?” Fortuna asked. The various mortals at the table glared at her, but the Archon simply nodded. 

“As is my right. This land needs a ruler as much as she needs a god. I will be the mother that my people need.” 

“If you dare meddle in our affairs, Yankee…” Anatoly said, his voice low and dangerous. 

“That is not my intent or that of Alexandria,” Fortuna said hastily, her mind whirling as new routes appeared on her path. “Quite the opposite: We propose to ease international pressure and intervention as you re-unite Russia. We could offer you supplies and intelligence, but your methods and means would be largely up to you. I would need to confer with my mistress, but she would be amenable to a more formal alliance once you both take leadership of your nations.”

“You speak as though the outcome of your election is inevitable,” one of the women, Anastasia Komissarova said. 

Fortuna winked again. “I would be a rather poor oracle if I couldn’t even foretell the outcome of a simple election. Even normal political pundits can tell Alex is going to win in a landslide.” 

The other woman snorted. Elena Vasina, a dancer.  Fortuna hadn’t looked up a file on her beyond knowing she was Anatoly’s current mistress. “Even an idiot knows that American elections are but a facade for their elite to maintain their grasp on power.”

Fortuna bit her lip. She wasn’t an Athenian herself, but she strongly believed in democracy as the purest expression of the human spirit. That said, there was a time for tyrants in the more Roman sense of the word, and she firmly believed Becky would be a modern Cincinnatus, or like the Americans' own mythical George Washington. 

“What god oversees your lands, mortal? Is it this Jesus I have heard of?” Bronisalva demanded. “Does he know of Alexandria’s plans?”

“The gods of America have not made themselves known in some time. Many are Christians who follow Jesus of Nazareth, but I do not worship him, nor have I seen him,” Fortuna answered. “He is said to have returned to heaven and will come back one day, but it has been 2000 years.”

“Two thousand…” the Archon shook her head and frowned sourly. “Well, then he should not complain when I take back his followers. That is too long to abandon your people. Not even Barbatos slept for that long.”

Fortuna privately agreed, but didn’t feel it was her place to speak for the Christians. Most of them were perfectly lovely people, even if they were a bit odd for believing in just one God. “The religions of this time and world are strange indeed. But I think we can reach an accord. Please, accept these gifts, and take my card. More will follow, but I wanted to meet you and let you know that the Protectorate and the people of the United States and Canada wish our Russian neighbors only success in their struggle to rebuild their nation.”

The Archon smiled and nodded. “We look forward to further communications from our American allies. May the bonds of love join us together.”

Bowing once more, Fortuna had her minions leave the offerings on the table, then led them out of the building and to a garden shed, where they took a door back to headquarters. For once, her after-action report would be positively rosy. Maybe Becky was right. Love really was the strongest force in the world. 

Anatoly waited until the Yankee skank had left the room to explode. “You would make a deal with the Americans?! Do you truly hate your people so?! They would exploit us and grind us into the dirt again, as they did during the Great Patriotic War!” 

“My dear Thief,” the Tsaritsa chuckled throatily, shaking her head. “Have you never heard the saying before? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I trust not these silver-tongued arrogant fools who come with such paltry offerings.” She walked over, picked up a cup of Starbucks and sniffed it. She took a sip, then shrugged. “Coffee, with chocolate and cream. Pathetic.” She set it back on the tray, picked up a donut, and examined it. “Unhealthy in the extreme. Do they think me a child, to placate me with sweets?” 

 “So you will not buy into the American’s lies?” Anatoly asked, a sense of relief washing over him.

“Hmm. They could be useful,” the Tsaritsa mused, pacing back to her seat. “This America, it is a powerful nation?”

“The strongest in the world,” Thoma said. Anatoly glared at him, but the other man shrugged. “Be pragmatic, boss. It is not Russia and has not been for decades. Who else would you say can rival the Yankees? Japan, perhaps? Even with the Shogun, they cannot rival the Americans in industry, population, food production, or even the number of capes.”

“I have much to learn it seems,” the Tsaritsa said, frowning and shaking her head. “Krasnov, tell me: how should I learn about these Americans?” 

“Hrm,” Thoma rubbed his chin. “I have read a few books on the Americans. They often say that The Great Gatsby is the best reflection of their soul, and I would tend to agree. You are fond of theater, no? Perhaps Death of a Salesman?”

“Apollo 13,” Elena said, and everyone’s eyes turned to her. She blushed and bowed her head. “I…I always thought it best showed how the Americans beat us. How even in the face of disaster, they never give up. They did not rely on God or miracles but trusted in their machines and spirit to persevere. It is the movie that explained to me why the Soviet Union fell, but the United States did not.” 

“You should be learning of our history, not the Yankees,” Anatoly complained. “You could read Tolstoy or Pushkin, or watch Andrei Rublev or The Cranes Are Flying. Not American trash.”

“There will be time enough for that, but I already understand the heart of my people. What it is to take strength from the ice, and to endure all, though the world turns against you. To laugh in the face of despair and to make feasts out of nothing. Do not fear, my Thief. I know my people, my children, my land. But I do not yet understand my enemies,” the Tsaritsa said, her smile as cold and foreboding as winter itself. 

He nodded reluctantly. “As you say, your Majesty. I apologize for speaking out against you.”

“Do not ever apologize for giving me what you think is good advice. A wise ruler seeks advisors who tell her what she needs to hear. Not what she wants to hear,” the Tsaritsa told him. “See to it that those works you both spoke of are sent to me, and make preparations. At dawn, we depart to wake the Sleeper.”

Anatoly stood with the others as the Tsaritsa departed for her chambers, then called for a servant to bring her his copies of War and Peace and Little Tragedies, along with the movies she’d requested. Including Apollo 13, which Elena informed him was at their flat downtown instead of the estate, which was several hours outside of Saint Petersburg near a small town. 

“It’s going to be a long night,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was a great deal to plan for. He couldn’t simply travel hundreds of kilometers with the Tsaritsa with little warning. While he had access to helicopters, this expedition would call for more pomp than a small raid with a few dozen men. They would need to travel by plane this time, and he would need to send ahead staff to prepare a place for them, as well as monitor where the Sleeper was. 

“Can I help?” Anastasia asked, and Anatoly gave her a pained smile.

“I hate to drag you into this, Nastya,” Anatoly said morosely. He’d always done his best to keep his sister out of this.  “For now, see to the Tsaritsa and her needs. There will be much more for you to do in my absence.”

“Of course. I’ll speak with Thoma, and see what I can do to assist him as well,” Anastasia said, then turned to go. Anatoly smiled after her, but it was a painful smile full of regret and nostalgia. He did this to protect his sister, not send her off to the underbelly with him. 

“Perhaps I can be of assistance as well? I write a good hand, and I am good with numbers.”

Anatoly blinked, then turned to meet Elena’s gaze. She started back resolutely, hand on hip, her lips pressed together. “I did not think…that is, you are not familiar with the organization.”

“I am a proud Russian as well, Tolney. And I think for once, you have actually done something as impressive as you think it is. Before, your schemes just made us rich, and I was thankful. Now, they have a chance to restore the Motherland and change the world.” She leaned in closer, and a smile curved her full lips. “And I have to admit, I find that terribly attractive.”

Now it was Anatoly’s turn to smile. She was so very beautiful, and his cold heart throbbed with love for her. “Well, business first. But if we work hard, perhaps there shall be time for pleasure before dawn.”

As it turned out, they did manage to finish sometime after midnight, and Anatoly took Elena right there in the office. It was different in ways he hadn’t imagined before: feeling her heat beneath him, feeling her heart beat in time with his, feeling his Vision magnify the love he felt. He would do anything to protect Elena, to protect Anastasia, to save his people.

With his Love, he would change the world. 

Flight was not new to Bronya. Her first flight had been shortly after her mother had adopted her, racing across the night sky in the warm arms of her savior. She had clung to Cocolia then, gripping tightly with chubby little hands. Cocolia had laughed and swooped through a snowstorm, and before long, Bronya had been delighted as well. 

Later, when she had gained her Vision, her mother had taken her flying with her as well, showing her the lay of Snezhnaya. It was a beautiful land, especially in spring when the flowers bloomed as the snow melted. Summer was all too brief, as had been Bronya’s childhood. 

“One day, all this shall be yours,” her mother had said.

Broyna had scoffed at the idea. “You are a god, mother. You will live forever. I am but a mortal child. One day, I will look like a doddering grandma, while you will still be beautiful and young.”

Cocolia had smiled sadly. Perhaps she had known even then. 

Later, when she became the Tsaritsa, Bronya had flown on wings of ice to oversee her people. To remind them that their Loving god still watched over them, even in the darkest winter night. 

Now she flew on mechanical wings, and while it was comfortable, she missed the wind blowing in her own face. Still, this was efficient, and that was what truly mattered. She sipped her strong black tea with just a little pepper in it to give some kick. 

“Do not light that filthy thing,” she said without glancing over at her Thief. 

The boy paused, a small device that made flames halfway to his lips along with that disgusting cigarette. “Majesty?”

“There are easier and kinder ways to kill yourself, Thief. Or to enslave yourself. Throw those things away and do not let me catch their stench upon you again,” she ordered. 

He looked stricken for a moment, then pulled the pack out of his pocket and tossed it into the bin. “As you wish.”

She glanced out the window at the passing countryside below them. “So where is this scar you spoke of?”

Her Thief leaned close to the window as well, glancing out of it. Then he called a servant over and inquired with the pilot of the vessel, who called back to indicate that they would see it in just a few minutes. 

Bronya waited patiently. As a mortal, she had always been quick-tempered and impatient, even after she gained her Cryo Vision. An odd trait for the daughter of the Cryo Archon, but still. After a few hundred years, she had learned patience. She still had her temper, but it was a thing of ice now. Slow and inexorable, and something that remembered wrongs forever. 

When she saw the Scar, that anger flared up again, but she suppressed it. The shape of it was all too familiar: it was the trail of a demon beast. 

The Scar was a kilometer or so wide, though it varied somewhat, and looked like a glacier had been dragged across it, flattening the land and destroying everything caught in its path. Several towns and villages had been bisected or touched by it, and had been torn to shreds. Forests had been plowed under, and even fields scoured. It looked to have happened a handful of years ago, so the land was healing, but the Scar was still very much evident. 

“The only mercy is that Sleeper moved slowly, no faster than a man can walk. The trip took him several months,” Anatoly said quietly. “He’s not Manton limited, and anything in his path is obliterated, even the topsoil. He was the second worst disaster to strike Russia, after only the Behemoth.”

“Yet he remains in Mordovia?” Bronya asked, curious. 

“Hasn’t moved in years. He’s actually sank down several meters as his storm eats away at the ground below him. He may have trapped himself, but no one’s sure,” Anatoly admitted. “No one can even speak to him.” 

Broyna nodded thoughtfully, concocting a plan. Normally, she worked on careful timetables that had been calculated and planned over decades, if not centuries, but now she had to move fast. She was in a new world, a new land, and there was oh so little time. It was almost like being mortal again.

Almost. 

The city they flew to had been ravaged by the Scar, with a wide section of half-destroyed buildings that had never been rebuilt. But it was the Storm that drew the eye and interested Broyna. It looked like a great, irregularly shaped soap bubble, with iridescent swirls and half-seen shapes within. It also appeared to have sunken and shrunk somewhat, if the surrounding ruins were anything to go by. 

It reminded Bronya of the Cataclysm. Of when the Abyss had been unleashed upon the world, and wrought terror and destruction across the land. How these people had to have suffered. No wonder they were hers. 

The craft landed, and Bronya disembarked with her Thief and his servitors. Waiting for them were the scum of the earth. Bronya could sense the hatred and self-loathing coming off these men and women in waves. They were thugs, thieves, charlatans, whores, and drug dealers. They had no love for themselves, or one another. Especially not for her. 

Well. That was changed easily enough. 

Taking off her gloves, Bronya stopped to smile at the first man. A wiery, middle-aged man who squinted to hide his nearsightedness. His teeth were yellow and stained from cigarettes, and he had several old wounds that pained him. 

Nikolay Chaly.

“Kolya, you should be wearing your glasses, you look very handsome in them,” Bronya said, gently touching him. “You should be dressed more warmly, your joints are hurting you. Here, let me ease that.”

The man blinked owlishly at her, and she quickly restored his pains as he gasped, then held up a hand and formed a pair of spectacles to his prescription, then put them on his nose. 

“There. Thank you for coming out to aid us today. Russia and I have need of more men like you.”

Nikolay stared at her in astonishment, love already kindled within his heart. Bronya didn’t even have to stoke it. It had been years since Nikolay had a woman touch him like that, not since his wife left him and his mother died. He was hers now, and forever. For a few words, and a pair of glasses. 

But she had already moved on. The next was a boy with the sort of mustache the young tried to grow out to show how adult they were, but only proved how childish they still were. His face was pimpled, but his face was already reddening from alcohol addiction. He had a knife in his coat and a gun as well, and he had killed many times on Anatoly or his lieutenant's orders despite not being old enough to shave. 

Pyotr Uglov.

“Pyotr! How many times have you been told not to be drinking on the job?” Bronya said in exasperation, and reached out, drawing the half-emptied bottle of vodka from his coat. She sniffed it, and made a face. “And cheap swill at that! My Thief, do you not give your workers good food? Here, give Pyotr some bread and sausage. He is hungry, he needs food, not liquor!” 

She purged the alcohol from Pyotr’s system, which hurt, but she did it as she kissed him chastely on the cheek. “You leave off the drink, and maybe Olga will not be so quick to slap you when you greet her, eh?”

The boy stared after her, open-mouthed, but Bronya had moved on. It took nearly half an hour, but she had a word and a small healing for each and every one of the assembled criminals. When she was done, she didn’t have a ragtag bunch of thieves. 

She had an army. A fiercely loyal one, that loved her. Some as a mother, others as a sister, many because they wished to take her to bed. That was all fine. So long as they loved her. The ones who lusted after her would learn soon enough to find mortal women to take their affections. Or mortal men, though Bronya preferred the former. She needed many sons and daughters to carry out her will, and while love was good in all its forms, some were more useful than others. 

“You need not concern yourself with them, they are simply peasants,” Anatoly told her once they were in the private carriage, no, car, he had arranged for them. 

“A nation is built by its peasants, my Thief. You must learn to love all your countrymen, from the highest to the lowest. For each has something to contribute to my work,” she told him. She did not comment that it was amusing that one of no notable heritage she could discern would make such a comment. His father had been a weapons merchant who had become wealthy stealing from the government. Not a nobleman. Yet all mortals needed their little Delusions. 

She would have to find a way to grant them such once more. 

When they were within 100 meters of the Storm, the car stopped, and Bronya stepped out. “Stay here. My Thief, accompany me.”

The Thief walked with her, though he was nervous as he did so. Fitting. A Thief should be cautious and work from the shadows. So much open action clearly unnerved her new player. She had chosen his role well. 

When they were ten paces from the shimmering barrier, she turned to him. “This is where you must await me. From here, I proceed alone.”

“You…you would go into that, alone?” the Thief asked, swallowing nervously. “I know you are powerful, Majesty, but-”

“I am a god. I may tread where no other can,” she said and caressed his cheek tenderly. “Do not fret over much. A little is touching. Too much is unbecoming.”

Then she gripped her gnosis tightly and strode into the chaos. 

It was not like the Abyss, truly. It was a simple rending of matter, no distortion of Time or Dream at all. A little spatial distortion perhaps, but in a crude, basic level. She sensed only the Sustainer’s power here, not that of the dead god she had smelled on Fortune’s Fool. 

Still, it was an impressive display of power. But it was simply energy. And all energy Ceased before the power of her Love. 

The storm still raged around her, but it could not touch her. Nor did she let it harm her garments. She did note that it was obliterating the very ground she walked upon, but only slowly. Interesting. 

She could see her way through the storm, but it was like walking in an alien desert, where there was no life, and hardly even any air. That was fine. Bronya did not need to breathe to survive and had not in centuries. Still, it was unpleasant, but she did not speed up her steps. She was the Tsaritsa. The Tsaritsa did not hurry. 

She found what she sought at the center of the storm. A man, naked, laying on the ground, with hands folded upon his breast, eyes closed in apparent somnolence. But she knew it was but a decoy. 

“Well? I have stepped into your parlor. Will you not deign at least to greet your guest?” she demanded of the storm. 

There was silence for a few moments, then the sleeping man dissolved to ash. And the storm spoke. 

Who are you? It’s been so long, so very, very long. Am I dreaming?

“You are the Sleeper, are you not? It would be fitting for you to dream. But I am no apparition or figment of unreality. I am here, mortal. You have slept long enough,” Bronya told the storm. 

Go away. Let me rest. I’m tired.

“Indolence breeds weariness. Come. It is time for you to awaken. I have work for you,” Bronya said. 

But I can’t wake up. I don’t know how to stop it! I don’t know how to end this nightmare! I finally found somewhere to sleep, where the noise would all stop. Just let me sleep. 

“I cannot. You cannot remain as you are. You must awaken. I have need of you. Open your heart to me, and I shall grant you wakefulness.”

If you won’t go away, then I’ll destroy you like the rest! 

The storm grew in intensity, began to swell, began to actively attempt to grind her down and turn her bones to dust and her body to ash. 

In response, Bronya summoned her own storm. Winter’s own heart. Around her formed a bubble of true rest, truest peace. For ice was the embrace of emptiness. 

What?! It hurts! It freezes! It burns! It…I can…feel it! I…I haven’t felt anything in such a long time…

“Submit, mortal. Submit, and I will grant you the true rest you seek. But only after your work is done. And it is a mighty work I have in store for you.”

How? I can’t make it stop! It never stops! It’s only destruction! I killed…I killed everyone I loved! Everything I had! Gone! 

“Then you shall love me, and I shall be all you need. Only say that you will serve me and love me, and I will give you your heart's desire. For I see you, Ivan Petrov. I see your pain. Come into my embrace, and I will soothe your hurts and give you a new heart of ice.” 

If you can wake me from this nightmare…I will serve you eternally. My heart will be yours, for I have nothing else to love. 

Bronya’s lips curved upward in a wintery smile. So easy. All you had to do to get someone to love you was to simply see them, see their ugliness…and love them anyway. If you did that, they would do anything for you. 

She reached out, not with her hands, but with her Authority. It was easy enough to find the angel behind this storm, the shard of the Sustainer that had possessed this mortal man named Ivan Petrov and turned him into naught but a storm of destruction. She caressed the angel, and it shuddered at her touch, for nothing had ever touched it before. 

You seek someone to Love, do you not? Someone to complete you. To give you knowledge. Let me teach you of love, little angel. And I shall drag you from heaven to suffer amongst the mortals as I do. 

The angel shuddered, tried to resist, tried to force its mortal host to fight her. But it was powerless against her Authority. For she was the object of its master’s affections. Soon, it loved her too.

And so she killed it. For do we not always kill that which we love? She took the angel and shattered it to pieces, taking its body for herself. She had much work to do with it. 

Then, she grasped the fading soul of Ivan Petrov. His body was gone, yes. But she could forge him a new vessel. So she did. She took the dust of the Earth, and formed it into the shape of a man. Not an ordinary, plain man, as he had been in life. But a handsome doll of a man, chiseled and carved to serve a purpose. 

When she had formed the perfect body, right down to the cowlick in the dark curly hair, she leaned down, and kissed it, placing Ivan’s soul within it. Her Prince sat up, blinking his eyes, as tears filled them. 

“I…I’m awake,” her Prince whispered. 

“So you are,” she said with a smile. She tilted her head up, pointing to the bright afternoon sky, though it had been morning when she had entered. “And it is a beautiful winter day.”

Her Prince wept in her arms, and Bronya cradled him as her Thief and his band of rogues came running up to them, the storm having broken at last. 

How she loved these mortals of hers, these players upon the stage she had sculpted. 

And how it broke her heart to know she must write a script that would slay them. 

But the show must go on.

And she would have her revenge. Let heaven Tremble at the strength of her Love. For the God of Love would conquer all. 

PHILO: How cold-hearted of the Cyro Archon. The cruelest part is that for all her manipulation; she is sincere in her Love even as she tears her own Heart out to do what must be done. How ruthless. How admirable. How pitiful. A tragedy on both sides; a love that burns both ends.