Ink & Ashes // Arcane Fanfiction Viktor x Reader

3

You searched fruitlessly for another few minutes, hoping you might've missed an obvious spot, but it was hopeless.

On your way back, after passing through a small market to buy breakfast, you recounted your conversation with the assistant. The details were fuzzy, but you managed to remember two hopefully helpful points:

One, he was an assistant, but to who, or what, or where, or why, he hadn't said. His attire hadn't offered any clues, either, though the neat shirt and prim waistcoat suggested it was most likely something academic.

Two, he visited the place 'often'. To 'think'. But how often was 'often'? Every day? Every week? Every month?

You decided there was only one way you could go about retrieving it.

That night, after a day of procrastinating and painting, you trekked back to your spot. And waited. And waited. And waited. Until the sky darkened into the colour of deep water; until clusters of stars blinked to life, like shoals of bioluminescent fish.

The man didn't appear.

You had spent a good couple hours waiting, doodling absently on the pages of a small notebook you had intended to use to track your finances.

So. You had one answer, at least: 'Often' wasn't every day.

You revisited the place the next night, then - when the man failed to come again - the night after that. Then the night after that. Every time, you arrived armed with a flask of warming drink and a little pen and pad to sketch on, or a book to read, or lists of orders to log. Every time, you left tired, disappointed and still devoid of your sketchbook.

On the fifth night, as you stood, hand on doorknob, ready to leave, you debated if you should bother anymore - accept defeat, buy another sketchpad (one of less quality than the former - expenses were rather tight), and get on with your life. After all, it was just a sketchpad (An unreasonably expensive sketchpad in which a good portion of your adolescent life was logged and drawn, a little voice reminded you).

And yet...

"One more try," you whispered to yourself, a final promise. One more try, and then you'd give up.

---

You shivered and wrapped your coat tighter around you. The final dregs of the winter months were slowly giving way to the warmth of summer, but the air still had a bitter tinge to it. The echo of your footsteps merged with the rhythmic clanking of the machines above, like hands of a clock (All my time here, you thought, and I still don't know what they do).

Ducking under the final mechanism, you kept your head bowed as you extracted your book from your bag. However, you felt the pressure of a gaze on the crown of your head looked up.

And there, leaning against the smooth stone seat, was a man. The man.

He raised his eyebrows and offered a small nod in greeting. "Hello," he said.

It took an embarrassing amount of restraint not to grin like a madman. He's here! Finally! "Hello," you managed to respond.

He studied your face for a moment, hazel eyes sharp. You strained to keep eye contact. Recognition flashed in his features, and he returned his gaze to the view. 

"You were here last time, yes?" he asked.

"I was." You stepped out of the shadow, into the last light emitted feebly by the sunset, and - after a moments hesitation - sat down on the slab opposite.