The weight of her words hung in the air, and the room, so grand and opulent, suddenly felt cold and empty. Bozmaroff, for all his eloquence, found himself at a loss for words. He sobered up immediatelly, but the news of Roman’s passing hurt his head even more. How? When? They haven’t announced it yet, he would’ve heard the bells. This meant that he was one of the first to learn about it. But why did they need him of all people?

“I see your confusion mirrors my own” - she began with a cold expression, continuing to twirl the wine cup - “For the life of me, I never thought that you of all people would be one of the first I’d talk to when my husband passes, but one of the last things the czar discussed with me was his memoir. He wanted you to write it”

“Your highness…” - Bozmaroff began, his mind still heavy from the weight of the news - “With all due respect, but… is this so pressing? Who will succeed the czar?”

But the queen’s stone expression told him that’s hers to worry about.

“The sooner we get this over with, the better. Once the matter of succession is brought up I expect to have little time or patience for stories” - she replied.

“Are you sure he wanted me to write it?”

The queen looked at him almost as bewildered as he was.

“Do you think I would’ve picked a whoring tavern entertainer?” - she continued - “I offered him renowned bards who’ve spent their lives in noble courts, I offered him song-writers and legend-crafters who’ve raised generations with their stories…”

“If you’re dissuading me, there’s little need. I’m not dying to take this up - just say the word and I’ll be gone.”

The queen smiled.

“Has the way you were brought here left any doubt as to whether your desires have any importance?”

Bozmaroff left the rhetorical question unanswered.

“I’m stressing the importance of the task. This is no mere tale to impress village girls who haven’t seen the sea or soldiers, drowning their sorrows. It was my husband’s final wish and I’ll honor it despite my concerns.”

“Your highness, if a story can’t win over a drunk tavern crowd, what good is it?”

“Make it worthy of my halls and I won’t mind if drunks mumble it passed out on the table.” - she said and headed to the door.

“And how am I to write the memoir of someone I barely know?”

“I’m glad you asked” - the queen replied as more guards stormed into the room, carrying piles of books and scrolls.

“Oh no…” - the bard sighed.

“The czar was a prolific writer. He journaled religiously, almost every day. At war, in peace - his quill was his most trusted confidant. You get the privilege of being his first reader.” - she said, nodding to the scrolls.

“He wrote…”

The bard looked in horror as the mountain of inked paper grew on the table, forming a nightmarish tower that almost hid the queen out of sight. It was every writer’s biggest fear - having to make another’s words sound better.

“How am I to take all this home?” - Bozmaroff asked.

“This is your home now, bard. At least until you’re done.”

“Hold on, hold on…” - he started, letting out a nervous chuckle - “You don’t seriously intend to keep me here?”

“I intend to have this memoir finished in a timely manner. Forgive me if I can’t trust a drunk to do his job without supervision.” - the queen said, sealing his fate.

His eyes jittered in disbelief, looking at the vast collection of the czar’s writings.

“You will be provided food, water and any necessities - except for spirits and other… distractions. I’ll check on your progress in a few days.”

“So, I’m a prisoner then?”

“Consider yourself… creatively constrained.” - she said and the guards shut the door, leaving him alone in the room.

Outside, bells started mourning the czar. They marked the end of Roman’s life. And, in a way, the end of Bozmaroff’s life as he knew it.