you're too young & eager to love

This is so pointless. But whatever, I haven't posted anything in ages.


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It is her birthday, so Radomir hands her a nondescript box before they begin to cross the desert. There is nothing ceremonious about it except for the sharp edges; Augusta wonders, with amusement, whether or not he used it to file his teeth. She has a fleeting moment where she wishes she could find this gesture of his equally amusing, but she can feel her emotions beginning to simmer beneath her skin. It is an uncomfortable kind of heat. She, like her father, is not prone to sentimentality.

She can feel his eyes on her as she opens the box, disregards the red velvet lining inside, and plucks out the heavy silver cuff. The metal is polished with care but there are hand-made dents in the design, intentional, and lovely. A thick, wide square fills the center of the cuff, and Augusta raises an eyebrow when she realizes that he has given her a watch rather than a bracelet.

It fits snugly around her left wrist. The design is masculine. She appreciates that.

Radomir straightens his shoulders when Augusta finally graces him with a gaze. “So you might remember to return to me, from time to time.” He explains.

“And since when do I adjust my schedule to accommodate you?”

He laughs, a sound as thick as thunder, and she finds herself smiling at the corners of her mouth (where it hurts the least).



Augusta Reinhardt, to the minds of most, is older, matronly. A thick-necked soldier crammed into the body of a woman. A severe militarist, like her father, and even colder than her brother. No one ever mentions, in all of their talk, that she is so slight. Tall, yes, especially for a woman, but thin and delicate in the wrists and ankles. If wounds could walk, then Augusta would be one. Wrapped in heavy coats, sand-layered from her journey across the desert, she surprises the men and women of the compound when she appears for the official celebratory dinner in a blue and lavender dress that show the backs of her fine calves, low-slashed neckline revealing her straight cut body, as sinless as a prepubescent boy’s. Her arms are thin and her hair is caught in a thick plait down her back.

She offers her hand to Roman, who kisses the back of her small knuckles with all his usual charm, gaze lingering on the heavy cuff shackled to her wrist. “You are here. We heard rumors of rebels in the crossing between the mountains. Harrow was concerned, especially considering you are our honored guest tonight. Happy Birthday, Minister.”

Augusta’s smile blooms naturally, but it is devoid of any authentic warmth. Her amber eyes glint. “There was some minor trouble. We are wounded but not slain, aren’t we, Radomir?”

Three steps off, Radomir responds with a noncommittal noise. His height and width devour the shadow Augusta casts behind her. He has not changed from the journey. There is sand in his short-shorn hair, on his eyelashes, in the callouses of his palms.

Sliding her arm into the crook of Roman’s elbow, the propagandist leans close to her brother’s favorite. “Tell Harrow to forego the cake in favor of rare filets. Assassination attempts always bring out our appetite.”