Work Text:
Clothes are like armour to them.
In different ways.
For Aglaya Lilich, her Inquisitor uniform speaks of herself before she even utters a word. It brings to the table much information, and connotations enough to imbue fear in the minds of everyone who has ever heard about the insititution she works with.
The very same insitution that shall disown her soon, pressed by the actions of the Powwers That Be.
There are times in which she survives this.
Times in which she allows herself to hang that black coat and become someone else. Someone quieter, someone that the world is not able to read at first glance.
Others, she dies in this oatt, and the image of an Inquisitor stays and clings to her like somethingthat she willnever be ablee to escape.
A reflection in flesh, blood, and thread of her very own tragedy.
And yet, even in the endings where she is unable to ditch those clothes that speak so much of her for something new, something in which she finds the true Aglaya, she is not angry.
It is her armour, after all.
(And the Costume Department is delighted to note that Aglaya always keeps it in pristine conditions, even when she has to die by order of the script and of Mark Immortell, they barely, if ever have to restitch it.)
It doesn’t matter to her, even if she doesn’t tell anyone.
Aglaya Lilich, Inquisitor and one of the once-leads of this story, will find herself, whatever clothes she is wearing.
Artemy Burakh, on the other hand, knows that he will ditch his own clothes at the first chance he has.
They carry certain memories with them that he'd much rather be done with. Of blood, war, and sickness. The only thing that keeps him from burning them is how useful they are when going on in surgery businesses.
Except for Lara's sweater. It is too comfortable, even with the pieces that are falling apart.
Even with Lara offering to knit him another one. And even if he knows that he will have to take up on the chance sooner rather than later.
(The people of the costume department know too well that they are going to need to slide in a new one, if the faces the Director make when he sees the one that Artemy is wearing currently are anything to go by.)
(And the commentaries, because, after all, Mark Immortell is not a man to shut up when it comes to anything related to his play.)
But it is just too comfortable and making himself accustomed to a new one might prove hell for him. When it happens, it happens.
But Artemy Burakh, lead of the story and Menkhu of the Kin, would much rather not think about it until it happens.
In the meantime, they will let their costumes speak, and only they will know the truth each other carries under those layers.
Only they will be able to touch each other’s heart.