Infinity Aria ; Prologue

infinity aria ; prologue

fyodor dostoevsky x gn! reader. synopsis: two souls inexplicably intertwined, only for one to kiss death again and again, and for the other to stand witness. throughout the lifetimes, he watches you seek him out, curiously watching you seal your fate. read on ao3

warning : canon typical violence, mentions of death

author's note: holy SHIT i'm doing a series for once. this fic is set in the past, but eventually will become canon compliant. this is a reincarnated! reader fic. the chapters will be considerably longer (i'm aiming 2.5-3k words everytime, but this one will be short because it's a prologue. 

Unnerving.

  That was the first word you could think of to describe the feeling that seemed to crawl like a spider up the webbings of your veins when you entered the hall; this giant, grotesquely adorned opera hall with ceilings high enough to make one feel infinitely small, the arches too high to properly glean at the painted reliefs on them. The marble floor of the hall remains empty save for a few groups of guests. The linen note you received yesterday crumples in your tight grip. It states clearly in cursive, inked with clarity— that this was, or rather, should be the correct time and place for you to be here. With your best attempt, you try not to look lost, not keeping the eye or conversation of anyone for long enough to be able to feel the full weight of their gaze. Unremarkable people in their own right, yet the stateliness that their haughty gazes carried made their gaze a weight that rested heavily on your shoulders. Somehow, their superimposed, silent pride had made it a lot harder to freely move, every action carefully noted and judged, as if they were the sole authority worth doing so. Tonight only, they were all birds of a feather.

  You usher yourself into an adjacent room, pushing a heavy door on the far right side of the hall. Pinching at the hem of your opera gloves, your velveteen fingers lock the door behind you. When you turn around, you see the sender of the note in your palm, with his hands clasped in front of him. A pale young man, gracile and willowy in build, with unreadable yet deep eyes and pale pink lips curled in a sardonic, yet cordial smile. He was dressed in the fashion of the times; a violet cravat neatly tucked into his shirt, matching to the dim shade reflected in his eyes, a small brooch in the shape of an angel’s wings. Owing to the harsh weather, a winter overcoat was draped over the fineries, lined with fur— understated and respectable, yet not standing out. A glint of silver shines under his sleeve, hardly noticeable; not that of a watch or a bracelet, but the tip of a dagger.

  You have no reason to believe that the reveal is not intentional. 

  In your life, you have only ever met Fyodor Dostoevsky four times in person; your correspondence has been limited to perfumed letters that are burned soon after they are read. The first time was in a chapel, his form sitting in a pew with unmoving tranquility, like that only ever found in placid, glacial lakes—counting the beads of his rosary although his mouth had not once moved in prayer. You do not recall why you spent so much time watching him, yet he seemed to command your attention with not so much as a word. He could keenly feel your observation, but for some reason you could not tell, he only glanced at you with a knowing smile, whispered a morning greeting, and left.

  The second time, it was in midst of the crowd that followed a public execution, though you remember not what misdeed had led that young man to the scaffold, barely of age. A short drop; you saw the deadly tie placed around that man’s neck, the force not immediately snapping his neck, but rather slowly cutting off his breath, leaving him hanging limp off the rope. You did not wait long enough to see him pass away, but you heard the man next to you mumble something about how 'there's no hope for them, there's no hope for any of them…’ Rather than sadness or contemplation, there was a tone of cruel, self aware irony in his intonation.

  Fyodor had stayed behind, observing the condemned man a few minutes more. 

  The third time, it was through an associate of yours. While you could not fathom why a seemingly devout man would associate with criminals, especially those that specialized in the matter of political assassinations, you did not question your new patron much. So long as he provided his support, it would be unwise to question generosity out loud. It would not be the first time people wore religion like a disguise for their actions, a pretty accessory that could be discarded at will. It wasn't until the past three months that he started becoming more actively involved in these…projects of sorts, and while you could not help but wonder how he seemed to convince your usually suspicious and steadfast superiors so quickly, he had still not given you a reason to question him. That first night you had worked with him is only a fuzzy memory now. By the time you had even reached the location, he was already leaving. When he closed the door behind him, he only expressed formal concern about the late hour and your return home, suggesting that he shall fetch a coach for the both of you. 

  While his back was turned, your fingers reached tentatively for the doorknob, silently opening it. In the dim candlelight, the glimmer of still warm blood shone on the floors, the limp bodies of around five men with their eyes blown wide lay scattered around the study. You were no stranger to bloody sights, however, the reason your mouth had become dry and your head felt heavy was not the slaughtered bodies of those targets, but rather the one in the centre. 

  Fyodor Dostoevsky, laying decidedly dead, with a bullet lodged in the middle of his eyes. 

  You closed the door the moment you caught a glimpse of that sight. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you. It had to be, for the man you know to be Fyodor was currently not too far ahead of you, standing on the edge of the road and talking to a coach. You wondered why he hadn't locked the door after the deed was done. If he had intended for you to see what you had. The ride home had passed in silence, and you bid him a quiet farewell, head swirling from the events of the night.

  Tonight is the fourth time you have laid your eyes upon this strange man. One who has strangely made himself a recurring thought in your mind, an unwitting parasite. Usually, you had no choice but to curb your curiosity regarding certain people, given that asking too many questions could at best result in a stern rebuke or at worst, pointed violence. In that way, the new patron’s serene demeanor was disarming, yet could not entirely dispel the suspicion you kept close like an old friend. Before you could lose yourself in your silent perusal of his character any longer, the sound of his voice brings you back from your musings. 

  “Punctual, good. I trust you know what we're here for, so let us begin. Have you brought the vial?”

  The glass sits cool near your skin, and with a quick reach from your pockets, you produce the item. The liquid inside was clear, smelling like nothing in particular; the vial itself was shaped like those typically used to store smelling salts; slightly darker in color. A blend of arsenic and atropa belladonna distillates, or so you have been told. The vial he had given you looked worn, your thumb could feel the scratches on the glass and an weathered old apothecary label that read an year and initials. For F.D, 1606.

  These details remain in your memory, but they are like some sort of eccentric joke; disjointed and without meaning. Fyodor takes the vial, inspecting it for a moment, before giving it back. “It’s not full…but it will be enough for our task. Our guest will be in the box owned by his family, number five if my memory serves me. It will be high enough for no one to see you. The poison will take about an hour to act, and by that time the after party would have begun. Escort him down to keep up appearances, then lead him to one of the greenrooms. They will be empty at this hour. Wait till the body drops, and then meet me in the gardens with the corpse.” 

  You nod, movements a little exaggerated to combat the stiffness in your limbs. The stubborn feeling that accompanied the onset of missions like these; an ache in your head that felt as though someone was tightening an imaginary cord round your head. The feeling of bile in your throat that won't yet rise; no, that was reserved for after the body is buried. The danger makes you nauseous with anxiety, always has. Yet even as you hear the details of the disposal of the body, repeated by the man in front of you in a clinical tone, you hold yourself well. Back straight, looking at him directly, words uttered only with deliberation and no syllable empty when you discussed the details with him further; this is what you were made for.

  Your composure is admirable, he thinks, if only you knew who exactly you were attempting to fool. 

  “Are you nervous?” He asks, without pity or mockery.

“No. Does something make you think so?” 

“You are to kill a man in front of half the city, I would expect you to be nervous.”

You shake your head. “It’s what must be done.”

“I wonder if you say so with duty, or with compulsion?”

  You run the words you are about to say carefully in your head, numerous times. Conversations were not a means of amusement to you, but rather a delicate game. The most convincing lies are poisoned by truth. 

  “They're one and the same.”

Fyodor's expression shifts, the slight mocking lift of the corners of his lips disappearing. There is sympathy where the lights meet the cold violet in his eyes. Not the kind of sympathy that results from care, but sort of a cynical disappointment that communicates that he was expecting something different; you recognize it, for you have seen it in several places. In your friends, in the eyes of confessional priests through the wood mesh, in the man you work for. “I must say, it is regrettable that you think so. But for a person in your situation, it was unsurprising. For the time being, this will suffice; now, head to the box hallway, the overture should begin soon. One last thing…”

  “Yes?” You pocket the vial, ready for your cue to leave.

  “... Your hands are trembling. It is unsightly, see to it before anyone else notices.” 

  The tremble of your velvet fingers stops once you begin to think about it consciously. Slightly embarrassed, you place your hands behind your back, clutching one with the other. It’s a strange feeling, for it's not the trembling that bothers you, but the fact that he could notice that small detail when his eyes seemed to be trained on your face the whole time.

  “Understood. Goodbye, then, I’ll see you once I’ve administered the poison.”

“I hope you'll be flawless in your execution this time as well. Good evening.”

  He gives a solemn nod, walking to the exit with light, fluid steps; movements as subtle and quiet as that of a ghost. As his back turns to you, your fingers itch to reach for the dagger on your thigh and thrust it into his neck, then twist and twist until you no longer feel seen in such an uncomfortably raw way. Till the discomfort of the moment fades and you no longer feel eyes in the back of your head even as he has walked out that door. When it shuts once more, you are left to quell the sudden rage that simmers under your skin, remembering what you are here for. 

    Unfortunately for you, Fyodor’s presence seeps into the mind like poison and sticks on it like honey.