no thing is without poison
1200s, buyan • asa & koschei

It would have been cruel if it hadn’t been well-intended and even then, body aching though little physical clues remain of such libidinous roughness, Asa was sure there was some harshness to it; something a little selfish to those considerations that made it helpful; and certainly a thought considerably conniving to perpetrate such a merciless act against that whom Asa saw dear. He could see where it might have been foul, where his trust could - potentially would - come into question in the future, but as restless as Koschei had become and only seemed to be, his options were dwindling. But they weren’t gone. For the moment, he left Koschei to rest with a gentle brush, then two and three times, of his fingers, bare of most jewelry through his hair. He could see it - the raggedness in his expression, the dark circles about his eyes however dark as they typically were, and just how it seemed the cold seeped through his skin and into every press of his fingertips as if to threaten the Firebird’s very bones - but sitting idly by, waiting for him to figure it out himself, wasn’t an option and where attempting to plead, attempting to convince, didn’t work and where attempting to tired out immortal bones for a semblance of rest failed, Asa knew it would hard to act more harshly. It was why he had gathered up a layer of fur, collecting it around himself as more weighty, warming garb than his usual choice of robes and headed through the wide open halls for the confines of the kitchen where, as if readily able to read the mind of the Firebird, the domovoi were already gathered, already working, already stoking a fire and drawing water and pushing together not floral blends of tea leaves, but something deeper, darker, more sharply flavored to promote warmth and comfort over the summer-seasoned blends Asa was more prone to. Bamboo roots from lands afar, peach leaves and wormwood, and hemlock gathered during spring, there were plenty ingredients for the Firebird to kill a man if he so readily chose to, but even as they scurried around, Asa could sense the weight of curious gazes - none more readily than the cook as Asa pulled apart rinds of lemon from the fruit itself. “Are you sure about this? If Papa Koschei finds out...” “If Papa Koschei finds out,” Asa says, adjusting the fur on his shoulders as he considers the tea infuser in his hands and the mix to be put into it. “I’ll tell him it is for his own good. You’ve seen how he looks, how he won’t sit, won’t sleep,” he explains, a frustrated sigh just behind his lips as the cold still seemed to cling though not out of lack of effort to warm even deathless bones, “even now.”

Koschei didn't need sustenance at all, truly. No need to sleep, no need to drink, no need to eat. None of it mattered, he thought. He could go on living forever without any of it, could go on taking the next breath, propelled by the magic, the deal that animated his body. To him, he seemed fine. He had gone out, had come when he was summoned, had killed when needed, had spared a few here and there. He had come home to his firebride, they had been together for hours both in polite company of others and in the last few hours, not quite so. It was just that something was telling him, however distantly, he wasn't entirely fine. He's not sure as Asa's fingers card through his hair. He's sure he was trying to get him to calm down, to sleep earlier through both the company of each other and some of the teas. Except he wasn't tired so why was there a need to? He didn't mind waiting for Asa to reawaken, he didn't mind having to stay around the castle for awhile, so. Why? (Of course none of this acknowledges the irritation he'd had with a servant who had simply tripped on his cloak that he had turned into a scared little mouse with the snap of a finger. Or that he'd killed so many men earlier in the day that he had taken a long time to wash it out in the cold river that ran through Buyan. Or the fact that he had skewered an ally over being tardy by two minutes. Or that he had bluntly told a visiting witch that he would take her tongue if she didn't adjust her tone.) (Or the fact that he hadn't slept in what was climbing up to be months.) He doesn't think there's much to worry about as he lies in the bed, his cold, old bones soaking up the warmth Asa left. There's a twitch in his fingers, a need to get up and start pacing again the way he had done hours ago. Thinking of battle plans, of creatures that needed his attention, of things to be fixed. He doesn't see the way he looks closer to fifty than thirty three, the way his skin cleaves to bone. He has no reason to as in the kitchen, Jai frets a little even as Asa reassures him. "Are we sure it will work? To... poison him to sleep?" He glances around as domovoi scatter around or watch, utterly curious at the idea of a bride poisoning their master out of... care? "I know I've seen him come alive through other means. But this is powerful." He glances at the hemlock again, nervously.

Try as he might, calming hadn’t happened and the pacing had been incessant, a back and forth metronome of steps that Asa just as well hadn’t been able to stop - not with teas meant to soothe the nerves, not with the comfort of warmth that he could so readily give, not with ushering his dearest to bed in an attempt to tire him out, certainly not the last in line of considerations, but where he had thought it would be foolproof - would work without a doubt - still he was sure Koschei was awake, his mind abuzz, always thinking. It helped not that his ire had been so short, quick to light and just as quick to burn down to the smallest of fuses; and it didn’t matter how many servants had been turned into objects, inanimate and not, nor how many men had been downed by his hand, his sword, his ways and means of combat as it presented itself nor how much blood had been cleaned out of his hair and away from his skin and out from under his nails. He was still restless and it showed - it showed so deeply and though Asa knew he would, ultimately, be fine, it did little to dissuade him. He had his own tricks after all, his own means to ensure that all Koschei endured was slumber - dreamless or not - in a few tears shed to be added to the equation. Though the poison would ultimately do what it was intended to, it wouldn’t be without warmth, without rejuvenation, without something to help no matter the nefarious means of going about it. “He will be fine,” Asa assures Jai further, taking the reins of preparation as he considers each leave and just how much to put in of a certain type, how strong to make the brew, and just what he may have had to do if by some twist of uncertain fate, Koschei didn’t wake up. How troublesome, the idea that such a thing could happen, but what would if he didn’t. “He will sleep soundly and warmly, as if never touched by the cold, and when he wakes up, he’ll feel better, look years younger, be himself,” which wasn’t to say that this wasn’t Koschei, but he knew there was a mood better. “I have tried all other options,” he adds, “and I’m running out.”

Jai's nervousness persists even as Asa takes over. There was knowing Koschei couldn't die -- and there was testing it. Yet, well. He still had to live with the thought that maybe, Koschei might lose his temper. He might send Jai back home or do something worse to him: turning him into the many trinkets around the house. Or worse, an animal. So he nods and allows Asa to help him making the tea that would be slipped to Koschei. "We have to get him in better spirits." There was an underlying fear that it could turn on Asa as well and of the two of them, he preferred Asa to be alive. Which was to say that Koschei suspected nothing as he did get up again. He paces the long windows without anything on him, uncaring of the cold, could hardly feel it. The pacing is quick, sharp, as he runs over battle plans, the thoughts running in circles around his head. Mongolian invaders, the roads for the fur trade, the little lords and kings all were dancing around his head. To say nothing of the Khans. A scowl crosses his face, glancing at the glass. The fact that his reflection looks more skeletal, doesn't tip him off. It just makes him more aware that maybe he hadn't shed enough blood that day. As he lowers the heat on the tea, Jai glances at some of the foods. "Should we... offer him food as well?"

To Asa, it was all in dosing. The amount made the poison – whether it was for the intention of slumber or far worse purposes he had never thought to perpetrate against Koschei, but had to very well keep in mind as a possibility in the gentle rifling through materials. There wouldn’t be enough hemlock to cause asphyxiation, but enough to lull muscles to sleep; not enough foxglove to affect his heart rather relax what tension might have been building; and added components of less volatile function would take care of the rest like lavender, chamomile and ashwagandha which, on their own, wouldn’t have done the trick. It wasn’t hastily thought – that would kill a man if not leave question of survivability – rather fastidious and thought out. Still, that didn’t mean his husband wouldn’t be angry – it would certainly be a point of contention had Asa any intent in running off with or without that long-standing thorn of chivalry in Koschei’s side – but with his own fingers guilty of such a concoction and not just the water to brew it, his own mind the one to blame, Asa knew where it would likely - hopefully - fall. “I’m one man,” Asa said, canting his head a second in amendment – one man in appearances, but a being of considerable magic beneath when it was so readily used. “I’m one being and even I can’t see to it that he stops his mental toil. Back and forth, over and over – I’m sure he is pacing already,” and Asa didn’t speak of why he found that to be rather surprising and exasperating. “Perhaps even a proper lashing with birch branches would do the trick,” he said with a small tsch of his tongue against his teeth, but he wasn’t ill and how there was still any vodka left in the palace was hard to say, “but it wouldn’t hurt him to eat, try as he like to avoid it. Zakuski, maybe.” He didn’t feel the sweeter of delicacies would entice as readily as something savory, hearty; fresh bread, warm in contrast to the spread of salted butter and rich caviar or the bitterness of pickled herring, the snap of pickled cucumbers an added punch to sauerkraut, and kolbasa with peppers, potatoes and onion a far more enticing spread to the firebird’s choice canapés. And all rounded with a vodka tea he was already considering the delivery of. It would be, after all, strange for Asa not to drink and perhaps more uncertain than poisoning Koschei was what it might have done to him.

The mention of a lashing -- the best way to get rid of a cold here -- made him wrinkle his nose. And there was the thought Jai had that if anyone were brave enough to do it, it wouldn't be him. But Asa had a point. "He hasn't been down here in over month alone," Jai comments, and turns his way to the cabinets. He works swiftly as he can to compile the meal together, getting the bread, the meats together and arranged on a circular platter inlaid with gold. Seeing Asa was normal, and sometimes Asa and Koschei were together but rarely was it Koschei alone. There's always bread to made and even the domovoi seem to understand how serious this as as they don't hinder them. They instead help to gather the smaller dishes, assembling the cups and small plates accordingly until the only thing needed was the poisonous tea itself. None of which they even wanted to touch, simply waiting on Asa. And still, not knowing what was going on, Koschei paced the room. He had a half mind to find battle plans, to call up generals but he also wanted to go out into the snow maybe. Find something to kill and bring back for a meal. Or... His hand rubs at his cheek, mind stretched into too many directions. He wonders where Asa is for a moment, whistling lowly. One of the older domovoi slinks out from a corner, nervous as Koschei turns a burning gaze on him. "Is the house in order?" "Yes, my lord," it squeaks, not wanting to join it's kins man from days earlier as a pile of twigs. "All is well."

“Which is a month of not eating, not drinking with the intention of sustenance,” because he could appropriately say that drinking had been commonplace nevertheless, “and one could argue requires some sort of intervention lest he become just as hollow as the bones of birds.” It was nary about appearances – Koschei, he knew, could change at a whim if he so readily wanted to – rather well-being, and though Asa was thoroughly attempting to convince the domovoi of this pathway to it, he perhaps was just as readily attempting to convince himself for that final push, no matter what might have been on the other side of it. It was too much to say it was for Koschei’s own good, but truly, it was. What sort of combatant could he be if he didn’t look out for himself once in a while? Rather than delegate the task of tea to the domovoi who had already taken care to the plates and were equally presented with reward for it in spared slices of bread and onion and slices of lemon, it was Asa’s hands to grip the tea, seeping silently away not in a kettle, but glasses – one for him which was decidedly not of the deep, warm variety and erred towards summer fragrances, and one for Koschei which was, any offending bitterness hoped to disperse with an intended splash of vodka. With the domovoi taking care to delivery of the food – even a bird only has two wings and Asa only two hands to carefully carry one such tray – he turns out of the kitchen, through the halls, peering room to room as if expecting Koschei to have disappeared within one to further addle his mind; but it doesn’t take long, even so, to find him and their nervous acquaintance. “You worry too much,” Asa says boldly, though further elaborates. “I can see it on your face and recognize it in your hands and how you pace back and forth despite knowing well enough you’re running on steam, so before you say no, sit,” he says, separating the tea and adding the intended splash of liquor to each, “and eat.”

The instant Asa enters, the little domovoi darts back into the shadows. Koschei turns his head to focus on him, eyes narrowed but a little less manic than before if only by a hair. The food, the tea all do smell nice, fragrant but the appeal is the vodka splashed in the cups. "It wasn't worrying," he argues only minimally, striding to the bed. With a yank, he pulls one of the cloaks from the trunk at the foot of it, wrapping it around him. Even if the option to eat without anything was there, he'd be more annoyed if he burned himself by accident. "Just thinking of plans. There are more Mongols to deal with every day." He grouses, coming to to the small table they have in the room together. Snow falls outside -- Buyan always being a hair colder than places outside of it -- and not suspecting a thing, Koschei goes for the bread first. It still doesn't entirely appeal to eat, though, as he scoops up some caviar onto it but doesn't bite. Instead his other hand darts out for the cup of tea, unaware of the trap he was falling into. "They don't seem to tire, and they always have men to sacrifice. And the generals..." He wavers, still not eating or drinking, eyes on Asa, half waiting for him to eat first as he continues. "I don't suspect they have their minds focused."

He wants to point out the mania in his expression, wants to point out the slouch of his skin and protrusion of his bones, but he doesn’t and instead focuses his efforts on setting the table – a job he doesn’t have to do, but it provides ample distraction when partnered with the conversation at hand and Koschei’s movement through the room. He sits, but only just as he adjusts the robe around him, more for modesty than warmth not that there is any reason to be. When Koschei sits, now he knows there is a battle of wits at play and he doesn’t linger too much on the fact he hasn’t eaten though he had prepared and he hasn’t taken a sip of the tea though his hand remains around the glass, expecting full well gesticulation with hands full rather than putting it into his stomach. He remains calm, collected, a slice of bread set on his plate, salted butter to follow with a few simple slices of herring to top it. It isn’t the rich caviar, but to its own, the flavor seems desirous in the moment. “With as many cities that fall, no, it doesn’t seem like their minds are focused,” Asa says, utensils taken up for a far more delicate means of eating that, truly, wouldn’t get the smell of fish-laden pickling brine on his hands. Suffice to say, he wasn’t entirely without his narcissism. “And I would present to you that your own may not be long for focus either if you continue to let it addle you. Dwelling over and over,” he says with a pause for a bite and a beat to finish it, “won’t bring the answer to defeating them sooner rather madden the mind – not to speak so airy about it, but you must take care of yourself – even if it is just a piece of bread and cup of tea once in a while.” Overindulgence just made for softened tactics and equally soft chances of survivability by the time the Mongols reached the gates, and Asa knew Koschei couldn’t abide by that either. “If you must, be hungry enough to fight for more, not to be given no choice but fall.”

As Asa speaks, Koschei never picks up on the brine scent, he doesn't pick up on anything that may be amiss. He hears Asa, sees him eat and as if shadowing him, his limbs seem to remember what to do: taking a bite of the bread and caviar. Chewing at first slowly and then a little more ravenously. Biting, tearing until it's gone, and he swallows the tea he has. He takes down almost half the cup in one gulp, feeling some of it burn down his throat. Not in a way that would harm him he thinks, wiping at his mouth with a hand. He can feel it work through him, and he thinks for a moment it might warm him the way food used to. And as manic as his mind is -- still thinking of how to better defenses, trying to figure out which general he could trust -- he still does notice Asa's tactics. "It won't bring me the answer now. But it still could," he insists, voice dropping a little in step. "Particularly when they keep going." He reaches for more bread, scooping up more butter with it. "It's not the same hunger, I suppose." Another swig of drink, another tearing of bread and Koschei tries to organize his thoughts, to explain. How it felt for battle. How it felt like something was itching in his brain, that he's halfway there and yet couldn't... figure out why he was at the edge. And all the while, Koschei can feel his mouth salivate. Hunger for drink, and he takes another swig of the tea. "Plans usually occur to me better like this," he tries again, putting the tea down, eyes on Asa. "It's a... almost like a lightning strike." He doesn't notice that his eyes start to dilate.

That’s it – some progress, Asa glancing up now and then over the course of his own indulgence to watch Koschei mimic him momentarily before taking the reins on his own sustenance. The bread is gone in what is comparatively no time and the tea follows suit, and he can only hope that the vodka does what it is supposed to in masking the more illicit of additions to the brew. That Koschei might have inkling to his intentions is found to be a beneficial distraction. Yes, he is trying to get Koschei to eat, to drink, to imbibe; and yes, his choice of presentation is in the literal, tangible food in front of him; and all he wants to see happen is for him to rest, to sleep if his mind and body so willingly allow – something that is hopefully on the horizon even as his brain still pokes at thoughts of warfare strategy. He could just as readily be a consort pining for attention as he could be treacherous, but still, he doesn’t waver from his poise and his own cup is taken up, sipped at carefully as if not to burn himself – a laughable thought – or to simply savor the taste which is far more believable. “Just like taking a step back could,” he says, lacing his fingers once the bread and herring is all but finished, languid in movement which might be intentional in thoughtful consideration on what to say or might be the work of the draw to slow everything down. “What is a field of lightning strikes compared to one pointed strike but a number of thoughts too many? You want that action, that concise strategy, to incapacitate and destroy, not those that might hinge on a half-thought consideration that they’ll work.” “I know you know the lightning strike when it happens,” Asa says, nodding his head to the table, “and when it does, some fuel for the fire to come never hurts.”

There's more tea and he takes another mouthful of it, unsure as to why he suddenly felt hunger like this. Very few were able to skirt his temper when he was like that, and the only one who could truly get away with it was sitting opposite him. And the thing was, he didn't particularly ever think of Asa as all that conniving at all. Not in normal situations, and so Koschei brushes aside the fact that his body seems to feel a shift. That he's feeling more thirsty, that his eyes are starting to dilate more as the poison works more. "Half?" His tone takes on a bit of a challenge at that, cocking an eyebrow. "It would be a better margin than half!" He reaches for more bread, ignoring the tremor in his hand. His body did that at times, even if he misses the butter once, and then twice. "This should be enough to satisfy me for another month," Koschei takes the bread, now dripping with butter, tearing into it with a hunger he hasn't felt in awhile. And yet as he does so, a few things occur to him: that the tremble is worse; that his vision is starting to run; that when he swallows, his throat begins to close after it. He tries to reach for the tea cup. "Besides--" the word slurs out of his mouth. And all at once, he drops, flat into the table, head landing right into the butter dish. There's a convulsion, a wet sound and then his face grows blue and his body his goes limp, the remaining bread falling out of his fingers.

“To the contrary, it could very well be less without the proper rest,” Asa points out, not sharply, but still challenging. He sees Koschei eat and drink with a ferocity that only speaks to the near-single focus he has had on everything else but himself, and Asa almost grins prematurely as he recognizes the signs: The thirst, the dilation, the tremors and finally the sudden slam of his head into the butter dish, no amusement shed though there is some appeasement in success. It is a triumph for the Firebird, for a wife concerned about the well-being of his husband, but there was still a problem that, at full height, was but an inch shorter and far more dense in weight and muscle than Asa would ever be. “I’m afraid I didn’t think this entirely through,” he says, watching one of the domovoi peek out from the woodwork which then turns into a few and a few more. “I’ll figure it out.”