“I don’t know how many unfinished works I have at this point” - he said to the queen, staring at the manuscript of Roman’s memoir.

It was the first time he broke character. Every clumsy move, distracted look, half-baked joke - they were necessary for his part. He played the bard, and that’s what the bard did. But today, looking at these inked papers, the man behind the curtain showed himself.

“I’ve got a pile of books next to my bed - first pages, last pages, opening chapters, reveals, ideas, and one-off sentences torn from the soft spots of my mind. And none of them finished. But this one… this one is complete now.”

Bleeding thumbs with chewed out fingernails kept the memoir together. A sign of a job well done.

“He suffered greatly because of his deeds, and I’m not sure what he even wanted out of them” - Bozmaroff said.

“What Roman wanted and what he needed were two separate things”

“He got more of the former than the latter”

“A man who lives in dreams is hard to satisfy with land and gold. Can you believe he was even worse when he came back from the last war? I expected… no, hoped that he’d finally be content. But something wasn’t right.”

“Because he finally turned to what he wanted.”

“Maybe”

For a moment, he could forget his insecurities and Roman’s unfinished dreams. He could finally enjoy the empty night sky outside and the soft light of the candles, painting a picture of his compaion. Her slit dress flowing down her body like water, giving away just enough not to leave a question about her beauty. Even at this age she threw shade over most young women he’d seen at the inn.

Was she aways dressed like that? He paid no attention to her the previous times. She could’ve come in naked and he still wouldn’t have noticed. The work is all that mattered. Only now that he was done, and the memoir was in his hands could he take a look around.

And for the moment that lust that he’d forgotten about locked in the czar’s study kicked in. You don’t get to try your luck with a queen every day. Or in a lifetime. His eyes danced between her tight lips, gentle neck, down her crossed arms, to a thigh that was barely showing. Would it be too troublesome if they shared the night instead of a dead man’s story?

Maybe she thought the same. That weary man barely holding his head upright was her last link to her husband, and the only living man who could say he understood half of what she went through as a wife.

“Would you like to hear the end now?” - Bozmaroff said abruptly.

Because you don’t get close to someone like the czar without becoming a little bit like him. Pleasure is for those without dreams. The queen stood silent for a moment, looking in the bard’s eyes and the pages in his hands.

“Please” - she said and pushed the bottle of liquid courage toward him - “You look like you could use a sip”

Oh, he definitely could. Having in mind what he was preparing to tell the queen, hell, he could use the whole bottle.

“Would you like some?” - Bozmaroff asked and looked around to find a clear cup.

“I’m good for now, go ahead” - the queen encouraged him and the bard took a big sip directly from the bottle.

“Wait, before you start. How will you name it? The memoir” - the queen interrupted him just as the spirit made his lips wet.

“Do I get to decide?”

“As long as there are no profanities”

“Broken statues” - he said, after a moment’s pause - “That’s what started it all and that’s how it finished” - he said and pointed to the window, outside of which you could see the half-built stone statue of czar Roman.

“Broken statues” - she repeated, her voice carrying a weight of sadness and perhaps a hint of relief, as if the title had unveiled a truth she had long carried in silence. Her eyes met Bozmaroff’s, and in that moment, he saw a reflection of the czar’s own tragic depth, a shared history of love, loss, and unfulfilled dreams.

He lifted the bottle again, and the ale burned down the demons that stretched their hands from Roman’s journals, together with his fears of reading the last chapter. Having witnessed murder and sieges, the horrors of this world weren’t new to him. Yet spending the last weeks trapped in Roman’s mind was a different kind of torture.

It was time to finish the story now.