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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 11, 2011 16:02:49 GMT -5
I'd fled my own estate.
What with the lady of the manor being recently deceased, the place was doom personified. All the servants and the peasants adored my mother, so it was black everywhere, long faces and ill-concealed accusations. Why weren't you there? Why didn't you care? Leaving your mother to die alone. For shame! And the man I'd been ten years ago would, indeed, have never borne the shame but I've learned a few things about shame since then and, trust me, this was nothing.
And, of course, there can't be a dead woman anywhere in my vicinity without stirring up a lot of tired old rumours about Carlota's accident. Even ex-animate, the bitch haunts me.
So here I was in Marsilikos, with nobody to see, and nothing to do, except pass time and tell myself I wasn't hiding. I'm practised at idleness, a veteran even, I can happily sink hours, even days, into a haze of decadent oblivion but enforced idleness is something else entirely, and I have no tolerance for it.
Noelle, of course, hadn't responded to my letter. Or perhaps she had written, but, knowing my desperation, had charged a snail to courier it across the land.
Dearest Vain
How delighted I was to receive your letter, for Denis has at this very moment accidentally stabbed himself in both eyes with a broadsword and now I am entirely free to disclose my burning passion for you, you, only you, as I should have had the good sense to do on the twenty or thirty occasions you were drunk enough to hint that any advance I chose to make would not be unwelcome. I will come to you at once so that you may sheath your own mighty weapon (significantly mightier, by the way than the slender poignard poor Denis has been unable to wield to my satisfaction) in my eager, trembling flesh...
Hmmm. Maybe not.
I was loitering in a cafe, or rather outside a cafe, since they had a terrace bedecked in flowers, offering views of both the sparkling azure sea and the bustling streets. Sickeningly picturesque. I had a passed a fair few hours hours here since breakfast, starting with coffee and working my way slowly up through wine to whiskey, inspiring increasing degrees of disapproval from the serving staff. But it was not yet midday and the day looked as long as the sea was deep from here. And about as interesting.
I had a book of poetry with me but I didn't feel like reading. One of my mother's favourites, actually, and not unappreciated by Carlota either, but even looking at it made my stomach tie itself in knots. Better not to read and just keep drinking. Let the edges of the dull world blur themselves to something like beauty. Things are loveliest when you don't see them clearly.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 11, 2011 18:39:04 GMT -5
Marsilikos was many things – but if it was one of many things, it was hot.
It was too hot, in fact, and though I could see the ocean from my room, I found little comfort in the view – what figures could I form, if Tabiti ever kept the waters awake? I'd wondered if the winter was as clement as the D'Angelines claimed. The answer had made me nigh sad. So long as I was here, there would be no skating, no inward flight for me to take to. No dreams made flesh – and only those of the mind.
It was made more potent by the heat's effect on my body. I breathed with greater difficulty, I felt constantly faint. My clothes were hardly appropriate for the weather, too, even those of summer.
It broke my heart.
I'd been reading on those D'Angeline bogs of theirs, or rather, their angels. So it seemed we were in the land touched by Ayjysyt herself, or maybe by her sister, Eisheth. The lady of childbirth, the guardian of womanhood. The healer, too. Perhaps, I thought, I would be able to obey Father, here, and come home a wedded wife.
It would be duty, but it was hardly something I longed for.
I'd commandeered, after fretting over it a whole muggy afternoon, an escort to go outside, and the carriage ride from Lessa's home to the commercial district had made me doze. I'd dreamed a little, of white swans and their gentle feathers, of their flight over the Odessa. I wanted to be one of them, betimes. When the ride ended and Anton Illitch Borodin, a surly but kind retainer escaped it and held his hand out to me.
I thanked him with a kind word in our language, and finding Tabiti's sun too unkind, I opened a sun umbrella under which to hide and looked about, squinting with mild curiosity. I'd found that looking outward, not inward, made things more bearable at times, if I looked at it as a source of inspiration for the fancy stories I weaved at night, before sleep claimed me.
By many ways, I felt like I'd stepped in Buyan itself, and that I walked among the Fae – or I would, if their home weren't as warm one of the seven hells, I dared not think which.
I left those thoughts behind, though, as I looked at the city and its flowered terraces, and sought with a distracted eye for a place where I might purchase a new wardrobe to fit my new... home.
Was it home? No. Olga would never forgive me, if I thought of it as such, and neither would Alexei.
My new abode, then.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 12, 2011 10:07:35 GMT -5
Strange, isn’t it, the way the infinitesimal moments that change your life, catch you at your most heedless?
The sun had climbed high into the sky, bright and merciless. I’ve always had a surprising tolerance for the heat. I soak up sunlight like a snake, and I even enjoy it. Sometimes I think I would like to see a desert – yes, I’m one of those men, dreaming of a cruel, gold land amidst my lush green acres. Perhaps I have a natural affinity for days like these because so much of my boyhood was spent outdoors, managing the estate and practicing my swordplay, or perhaps it’s because my soul anticipates a future in hotter climes altogether. But scorching summers remind me of lost innocence and simple pleasures, even though nothing remains of the child I was once was in the pale, elegant gentleman I am today.
All the same, it would not do to bronze myself like a yokel, so I slid my chair back a little into the shade. And that was then I saw her.
Saw is a strange word for it.
I think I almost sensed her first. Like a soldier, who feels his death upon him before he sees the blade. It gave me such a start, I almost expected to see blood on my shirt.
I’d drunk enough already that my world was a little fuzzy but I saw her more clearly than I think I’ve ever seen anything. Just a woman, yes, like any other surely, but no: a pale-eyed snow angel, standing just below me in the busy street, fragile and intricate as frost lacing upon a window pane.
It was the look on her face that drove me instantly to madness – she had such a pure, sweet gaze, dreamy and soulful all at once, as if she had never beheld anything ugly or cruel in her whole life, as if all the ills of the world just slid from her, like silver water from a swan’s wings. She was a single perfect note, ruining all the music that wasn’t her forever.
I had to have her.
I would die if I didn’t.
I had to have her because I had to destroy her.
This is a world for people like me. Not for people like her.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 12, 2011 15:37:50 GMT -5
Anton Borodin reached to take the umbrella from my hand, offering to carry it for me, and I looked up at the older man, smiling at his gruff face.
“You are so gracious, Master Borodinya,” I said in a sing-song tone full of the rolling inflexions of my country. “Your helpfulness is unwarranted, but I appreciate nonetheless.”
He gave me a stern look, as if he feared even the sun's kiss might soil me.
“Your brother would find this highly irregular, Kzajina,” he said with dour deference, “and it's only because you pleaded that I am here. I shan't let any of them D'Angeline fops touch you, though. The Czar himself would take it amiss, and have my head on a pike.”
I gasped, eyes wide, then broke into a quiet laughter.
“Father would never do such a thing, Borodynya, of course not! He would not hurt my favorite retainer, not when it would make me cry.”
We started to walk along the street, and I paused every so often to look at a flower, or at a dress on display. I was amazed at how much skin their style showed – and prayed I might find someone who sold dressed that were proper enough for me to wear.
Finally, we stopped by a shop, called, Isra Cohen's Lady Wear, which I deemed might do well enough, and after some hesitation, I entered, followed by my retinue.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 12, 2011 16:17:40 GMT -5
Transfixed, I leaned so far over the terrace rail that it was a wonder I didn't topple into the street but, even mildly inebriated, my sense of balance is excellent. Her parasol went down, and the sunlight itself recoiled in shame from the glory of her chestnut hair. She was talking to some sort of sour-faced bulldog of a servant; I couldn't catch what she said, only the crystal-clarity of her tone, and the foreign inflection of her words. To his gruff mumbling I paid no heed whatsoever, studying her instead with the avid hunger of the unobserved. I craved a better angle, and a closer distance, but I could construct her in snatches: the delicacy of her wrists as she motioned with her hands, the cream-pale curve of her neck drawing the gaze downwards until modesty intervened, the determined set of her shoulders beneath her dress. All of her, unassailable and immaculate.
Already I was half-constructing my next letter to Noelle, clothing, as best I could, in the futility of words this vision of agonising sublimity. My most perfect prey.
And then she laughed, and the sound drifted up to me like the trace of a lingering perfume, swift and deadly sweet, a poisoned blade. Her joy flayed me exquisitely.
I tossed back the remainder of my whiskey on pure instinct and by the time my throat had stopped burning, she was getting away, leading a crocodile trail of servants and lackeys away down the street. Clearly, she was someone of note but that didn't matter. I was, after all, some one of note as well. She could have been the Empress of Ch'n, and it would not have given me a qualm. I practically ran from the cafe, which was no small accomplishment on a day like this, on the liquid breakfast I had already consumed.
A sneering waiter intercepted me at the door, and refused my request to send the bill to be settled by my estate. I suppose drinking yourself to oblivion in the early hours of the morning isn't particularly ducal. I shoved a gross overpayment at him instead and skidded into the street, just in time to see the entire absurd retinue disappearing into a lady's dress shop further up the street.
Two more seconds of delay and I'd have missed them.
I checked my appearance in a shop window. I was a little dishevelled but not catastrophically so. Perhaps it even added to my air of devilment. Swordcane in hand, I strolled along, as if I had all the time in the world, and casually stepped into Isra Cohen's Lady Wear, wondering what scene I'd find within.
It was hard to imagine my snow maiden surrounded by d'Angeline frippery. I suspected hers was the sort of beauty shown to best advantage by a plain dress. In sackcloth and ashes, she would have been radiant.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 12, 2011 18:25:25 GMT -5
The store wasn't as dour as those I was used to. There were large windows, which let the sun in, but in its shade, the warmth of the Eisandine afternoon was more bearable.
The clerk, a middle-aged woman, came closer, and curtsied low, which was something that always made me blush.
“My name is Sarah Cohen,” she said, “my husband tailors fashion for all high-born ladies. How we may be of service?”
“Dresses for the Princess,” Borodynya said in his raspy, pidgin D'Angeline.
I laughed again, amused and chuckling.
“I am Kzajina Svetlana Romanova,” I purred in my practiced D'Angeline – that I would be able to speak it, and with one who wasn't family, that made me smile. I envied her the ease with which she purred her r's, when I always found myself fumbling and rolling my own.
“And I seek a new wardrobe for the summer, though I should like something... appropriate,” I said after some hesitation.
“Something not as revealing as the evening gown in the window,” Dame Cohen said understandingly, approvingly, even. She had features that were razor-sharp, and I realized she was not D'Angeline either. Yeshuite, perhaps? I'd been told that they were close to us, in some of their ways.
“Da,” I replied, nodding. “Will you show me your offerings?”
Satisfied that the lady was not being lecherous about me, Borodynya didn't seem to be bothered, and so he let me walk with her in the store, my sun umbrella still in his hand, as ill-fitting as a pink bow on a bull's head. The thought made me grin, as I was shown gowns that were simple, tasteful, and though a touch more revealing than I was used to, acceptable, perhaps.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 13, 2011 13:44:52 GMT -5
This was hopeless. Had my snow maiden been anyone else I would have thought her a practised coquette for her skilful evasions, but I believed she was truly oblivious. Seeing her occupied with the dress-maker at the far end of the shop, already half-concealed behind a rack of rainbow fabrics, I slipped back out into the street. There is simply no way to contrive an introduction to a virtuous lady you intend to seduce if said lady is currently in a women's boutique. It begs, too obviously, the question of what you're doing there in the first place, if not shopping for a Mistress.
Besides. Women and clothes. She was going to be in there forever. Spending a small fortune if the Yeshuite modiste had anything to do with it.
I strolled across the street to a booksellers, pretending to peruse his wares while I thought about the situation. There had to be some way to turn things to my advantage – that was, after all, the sort of thing at which I excelled. I hadn't even spoken two words to her and already she was getting the better of me. But once I managed to put her jewel-bright eyes out of mind, it didn't take me long to hatch a plan. Noelle would have loved it. It was, even if I said so myself, a little piece of wicked genius.
Keeping an eye on the shop, to make absolutely sure she didn't escape me, I ducked into one of the darker alleyways. A group of feral youths eyed me speculatively but I'm not a pigeon to be plucked and they thought better of it. It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for, a ragged child scrabbling for scraps in the dirt. I crooked a finger to summon him, and reluctantly he came, although to my surprise it wasn't a boy, but a rat-like girl, her scowling face as hard as a clenched fist.
“How would you like to perform a service for me?”
“No me, Monseigneur, I don't do that.”
I flinched, shocked that I was still shockable. “Blessed, Elua. No. Nothing like that. What's your name, girl?”
She hadn't fled but her body was as tense as if she intended to at any moment. “Navet, what's it to you?”
“Well, err, Navet, what do you know about socio-economics?”
She glared at me. It was quite a glare.
“Here's the deal: I can either give you, right now, or at least, immediately after you've performed a task for me, more money than you can probably imagine.” To prove my point I produced a shining golden ducat, whisking it away before she could snatch it from my hand.
She stared at the empty air where the ducat had gleamed. “What do I have to do?”
“I'll get to that. I've just explained your first choice. But the thing is, Navet, if I give you more money than you can probably imagine, what do you think might happen?”
“I'll be rich.”
“Yes, until word of your good fortune spreads and then what?”
“They'll beat the crap out of me, and I won't be rich.”
“You're clever, I like that. Now, alternatively, I will give you enough money to travel in comfort to the Duchy d'Alegre, which is my estate. And probably also enough money for some food, and a bath and some clothes that aren't crawling with lice. And then you can present yourself to my Steward, tell him that I sent you, and you will be provided with the opportunity to make money for the rest of your life through gainful employment. You will not be rich, admittedly, but you will not be a repulsively smelly street urchin. And don't deceive yourself into thinking this means I give a damn about you, or your future. I have no interest in you beyond the service I require of you today.”
She thought about this for a moment or two, her eyes like arrow slits. “What do you want done, then?”
“There's a lady, currently in a shop over there. When she comes out of it I would like you to … intercept her, steal her purse or her parasol, whatever, I don't care. I will be standing on the other side of the street. Run past me, I will take whatever it is you have stolen, and allow you to escape.”
“But if they catch me, they'll cut my hand off!”
“I will not allow them to catch you or cut your hand off. I promise. Do you trust me?”
She looked at me long and hard. “Fuck no,” she said.
“That's wise. But I won't let harm come to you. On that, you may rely. This is your chance to change your life, my dear. Most never have the opportunity. You should make the most of it.”
“Well...” She grimaced. “All right then. But you give me one of them gold coins first.”
“And what's to stop you running off with it and not helping me?”
She took a pose I supposed was meant to represent me. Her mimicry was worryingly good. “The chance to change my life. Duh.”
Outmanoeuvred, I flipped her a coin. She caught it from the air, looking shiftily around to make sure nobody else saw, bit it and then secreted it away about her person. “The rest will be waiting for you with the landlord of The Sea Change,” I said, naming an inn at which I was a known and appreciated guest.
As we made our way back to the main street, she remarked:
“Why don't you just tell this girl you like her?”
“Well, if I did that, then she'd had no reason to like me, would she?” She gave me a look I can only describe as pitying.
“And I'll definitely know which one to go for? Posh bints all the look the same to me.”
“Oh yes, she's unmistakable. Skin like fresh fallen snow, lips like cherries, eyes the colour of lapis lazuli and hair like chestnuts in autumn.”
“I can see why you don't want to talk to her.”
“Because she's so beautiful?”
“No, because you're shite at it.”
I opened my mouth to respond but then remembered it was beneath me to bicker with a thirteen year old street rat. "Shut up and do your job," I said, instead. I gestured vaguely towards some shadows for her to lurk in and took up a convenient position on the other side of the street.
I had the feeling this was probably going to take hours.
And I didn't for a single second think it might not be worth it.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 13, 2011 14:39:46 GMT -5
It took a time, to find models I liked and thought would meet the contradictory purposes of making heat bearable and protecting my modesty, respecting the propriety of my people.
In the end, though, I placed a generous order of various gowns, shawls, scarves, skirts, blouses, and many other things, and having found in the shop a shirt and skirt that fit my size, I'd changed out of my stuffy Ruskovian outfit and into them. I liked the skirt, all in light blue and embroidered with darker vines, and the shirt, in loose white cotton, with matching patterns. I felt already much better.
I'd had my measurements taken by Dame Cohen in a room away from prying eyes, and all the while, I heard Borodynya pace on the other side of the curtain, listening for anything that he might deem suspicious, bless his heart.
In the end, though, we were out, I in my much more comfortable clothes, though it was not the case of my security detail, and I promised myself to send them off on a similar errand once I was seen safely to Lessandrie's palace. For now, though, I wanted to drink something fresh under a shade, perhaps some lemonade in that bistroquet we'd passed by on the way.
I'd retrieved my parasol, though its red wings were now garishly clashing with my new attire, and I was about to open it when a young boy ran from a corner, snatched it, and tried to run off.
I yelped in surprised, and felt nigh faint as one of Borodynya' men reached to sustain me, and another took off after the urchin. There was a scuffle, and he returned, holding the boy by the hair. The little scraggly thing was wriggling and screaming for pain, and I felt my eyes fill with tears of compassion.
“Оставь его! 1!” I screamed, immediately, angry, and hurt and worried. In my dismay, I'd screamed in Ruskovian.
The guard was being stubborn, though, and Borodynya insisted on detaining the child.
“Я принцесса! 2” I insisted again, my cheeks marred with tears – half of them intentional, for I knew they were more powerful than harshness. “Он всего лишь ребенок, пусть идет, я могу получить еще один пляжный зонт, да, это хорошо, мне не понравилосьэто в любом случае ...3”
“Let me go, you brute,” screamed the youth, “Or I'll bite you all! Let me go!” He kicked and kicked, and wriggled, red with fear and anger.
“Может быть, мы должны держать его, и жареная ним сегодня вечером,” Borodynya hissed in the child's face, “ Или отправить его на кухню, чтобы вымыть полы, пока зонт Kzajina является возмещение, хм? ?4”
“There will be none of that,” I said in my accented D'Angeline as the boy paled with fear. I took a timid step closer, and said, softly, in D'Angeline, that the child would understand, “Let him go, Borodynya, or I will tell my father that you were untoward.”
[OOC: 1 Leave him!
2 I am Kzajina!
3 He is only a child, let him go, I can get another parasol, da, it's well, I didn't like it anyway...
4 Perhaps we should keep him, and roast him tonight. Or send him to the kitchens to scrub the floors until the Kzajina's parasol is reimbursed, hmmm? ]
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 13, 2011 15:04:24 GMT -5
Well, that didn't quite go as planned.
High drama on the streets of Marsilikos – probably the most exciting thing that had happened on that sun-baked street all morning. On the other hand, it wasn't exactly useful to me. I was more than half-tempted to slither away, and come up with a new stratagem, one that left less to random chance and the agility of street urchins (or rather the lack thereof). Really, it would have been simple matter to break free of such a hold, had she only known the technique … but then why would she know? It was not as though she had been taught anything but the rudiments of survival.
I turned to go but not before I caught the frantic flashing of Navet's pain-filled eyes. And I reflected that it would not be to my advantage if she revealed my role in the proceedings – which, caught like a rat in a trap, she had no reason to withhold.
There was a lot of jabbering in a foreign tongue, not one I recognised unfortunately, though I was once been of a rather studious disposition. From the sound of it, I thought it might have been Ruskovian and they could have been saying anything from “oh the poor thing, look how scared she is” to “we will skin and eat this one later.” My snow angel, however, was positively melting with sympathy. Although I had hoped Navet would not have been stupid enough to get herself caught, I had never really feared for her. This lady could no more countenance cruelty than she could understand it.
There was, sadly, no opportunity to play the dashing saviour but there was, perhaps, another role for me here. One that could be still yet more appealing for my pale saint. I dashed across the street, the picture of moral outrage, interposing myself as best I could between the child and the angry retinue.
“Blessed Elua, this is Terre d'Ange,” I cried magnificently, “where we do not assault children for minor misdemeanours.”
It was so perfect, I could have laughed – except that would have spoiled the affect.
I turned haughtily upon my lady. Even pretending to be severe with her was a strange and unexpected torment. And up close her beauty shone so brightly I could have gone to my knees there in the public street. There were actually tears caught upon her lashes, like tiny, fading diamonds. I wanted to kiss them from her eyes. “Can't you see this child is starving? Desperate?” I said. “Have you no compassion at all?”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 13, 2011 15:29:14 GMT -5
Borodynya was opening his mouth, gasping in appalled protest – being untoward towards me was a rather grave accusation, one that could get him executed, perhaps. I could never do such a thing – the man was like family to me, gruff and harsh though he may be, he had a good heart.
“Borodynya, please,” I pleaded, hands clasped in prayer like a little girl praying to the bogs.
In that very moment, a voice – and one that was silken and charming, even in rightful anger – interrupted my plea.
Oh, Buyan.
Dark hair like midnight, and skin as pale and perfect as Jebean ivory, and a tone of absolute authority that made me freeze in my plea. I blinked, blinded by the sun, or perhaps by the man's beauty. He was like a prince out of a song, coming to defend the helpless, and my heart swelled with relief.
I stared at him, and forced my mouth closed, so amazed I was by the man's courage, appearance and countenance. I'd have sworn, he had Seryoga's swagger and anger, and charm that Fedya could envy.
Oh, Buyan.
He turned on me, accusing me of hurting the child, of being merciless, and my wonder turned to horror. I started to stammer a helpless and inadequate defence, when one of my men slid from the side, to plant himself before the D'Angeline interloper.
“No yelling at Kzajina,” he growled at him. “Princess of Ruskovia. Show respect.”
His name was Boris, and I saw him already reaching for his sword. Meanwhile, I felt sick – my heart was pounding too hard, my eyes were stinging, and I felt as if I might want for air any time then.
Borodynya as well had lost all interest in the child, which was wriggling free of the distracted guard's hold.
“Kzajina daughter Nikolai Romanov, Czar of Ruskovia. Her brother husband of the Lady,” je said, and I knew he meant Lessandrie, and I paled, thinking, oh, that maybe this D'Angeline man was important, too. “Apologize, or die,” Borodynya said again, into the man's face, and I saw him bawling his fist. “I smash pretty face yours, if not,” he added.
I felt my eyes widen to a stare, from Boris, who was ready to unsheathe his sword, to Borodynya who looked like a bear ready to maul the man, and I was terrified, shocked, my chest felt tight, and I thought I might cry for real, for this was the most horrible scene I'd ever seen.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 13, 2011 16:00:13 GMT -5
In good news, Navet was free. She was away through the tangled city streets faster than a shadow at sunrise. Keeping promises has not been something I've felt particularly strongly about of late – not since I was eighteen, in fact, when I made the most unfortunate of my life and stubbornly stuck with it – but I had, purely by accident, kept the one I had made to a street rat from Marsilikos. Life is full of ironies.
Speaking of ironies: my current circumstances. The members of my lady's retinue hadn't looked quite this tall, or broad, or psychotically violent from a safe distance. And now they had me cornered, seeming about ready to carve an apology from my flesh for my insult to the daughter of the Czar of Ruskovia.
There's something rather exhilarating about physical danger. It distils life down beautifully into the things that are important: power, strength, cunning, survival. Everything else is mere distraction from the simple brutality of man. When you take away all the pretence, we are nothing but animals; lesser beasts, in fact, because we do insist on deluding ourselves we are otherwise.
The scene around me had slowed, images coming to me in indistinct flashes: my lady, sublime in her distress (distress for me, oh bliss), a great growling man threatening me with death, various others readying their swords. My heart was racing, but it was not a fearful rhythm, it was a giddy one. I felt … for the first time in a very long time … truly alive.
It was entirely reckless of me but it was pure instinct that had unsheathed my sword. And muscle memory rather than conscious thought that shifted me effortlessly into the hanging guard in seconde. There was no way I could hold them off for any sustained length of time, but I could certainly make their life difficult, unpleasant and potentially bloody in the short term.
“I beg to differ,” I said, smiling sweetly from behind my blade, “you may try to smash my pretty face.”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 13, 2011 16:25:06 GMT -5
It seemed – and I wasn't certain, mesmerized as I was by the scene – that the child might have run out of reach, perhaps running off to safety. But if the truth must be told, I was much too fascinated by the scene – and its potential horror – to detach my gaze from this man who had suddenly skipped, or danced far enough from my guardians to withdraw steel of his own.
My brothers were warriors – oh, I thought of Sergei and his horses, and of how he'd have been such a great Kazakh himself, had he stayed home, and I thought of Alexei, of Vladimir, of Fydor, all accomplished swordsmen. I gasped, though, to see it – I'd never indulged in such things myself, never engaged in watching them either.
Blood. There would be blood, and if I didn't do something, that blood would be on my name, spilt in my name, for the grace of me. Someone else might have revelled in it. I found it disgusting and terrifying. All the man had done – and his smile was disarming, how could Boris still hold in en garde, with such a smile? - was defend a child from my guard's anger.
He and I had done the same thing, but with different means, and he perhaps did not know this.
“Stop!” I said, loudly, shaking with the emotion and distress conjured in me by the situation. I don't know by what miracle, but my legs, which felt like cotton a moment earlier, had suddenly taken me at the center of the fight.
“Boris,” I said quickly in D'Angeline, “take this sword down, lest I run myself through it.”
He blinked, and muttered my title, but took a step back and lowered his sword. “And you, my lord,” I said, turning to the smiling duelist – the man who smiled like an angel, even as he was about to shed blood, “I forgive you for your discourtesy, and applaud your chivalry. I made the same request as you did, but as I suppose you do not know my language, you cannot be faulted for...” I waved in the air with some exasperation, “this. Now pray put this away, for I've seen enough violence this day to last me a lifetime.”
Around me, the retinue was stirring already - fearful, perhaps, that he might take his steel to my throat. For myself, I saw no ill in this dashing swordsman, and I was convinced that it was all a misunderstanding that would be easily cleared.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 14, 2011 15:01:13 GMT -5
Perhaps it was a peculiar thought but the notion suddenly swept upon me of how pleasant it might be to die like this. Cut down in the street by some ignorant Ruskovian peasants while valiantly defending a street urchin who was less than nothing to me. I liked it precisely because it was so absurd. There was a poetry to its meaninglessness. And my angel would weep crystal tears over my fallen body, believing me always the hero of this moment, instead of the man I am. A truth which, one day, I am cursed to show her, and she is cursed to learn.
For a giddy moment I was so tempted by the vision I almost lunged for the bear but this there is another truth I've learned and that is: death is always ugly. And I recalled that I was here to destroy her, piece by beautiful piece, not martyr myself out of desperate, unfulfilled passion.
Before I could act, for good or ill, out of sanity or madness, she had put herself between the blades. Of course, I should have known she would but all the same peril, and the promise of violence, merely enhanced her fragile loveliness. I noticed then, she had shed her heavy clothes for the latest d'Angeline summer fashions, or at least the modest ones. The blue of her skirt was no match for her extraordinary eyes but the style suited her well enough.
When she moved, which, of course, she did with singular grace and a touching determination to protect me, I had to put my sword for fear of hurting her. In response to her direct address, I performed as elegant a bow as I could manage in the current circumstances, and did my best to conceal how profoundly her proximity affected me. Facing down angry servants wanting to smash my pretty face was nothing compared to the power of her presence, and all the twisted, half-adoring, half-hateful yearning it inspired in me. And top it all off – the final hilarious cherry on the irony cake of my destruction - the voice that came rolling out of her dreamy mouth was pure sex.
But I had a part to play here. I part I had thus far played convincingly. I couldn't ruin it now. I mustered my most courtly ways.
“Please accept my heartfelt apologies for my ill-manners,” I said. “I should never have drawn steel before a lady. Not understanding your language, I'm afraid I feared for the child's life. I find beauty of person but rarely accords to beauty of soul; however I should have believed my eyes and trusted you.”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 15, 2011 14:38:18 GMT -5
His steel put away, the level of tension within our group came down dramatically, and I myself felt a knot of pressure untie itself, when I hadn't even realized it was there. I struggled not to roll my shoulders in response to his address, and looked at him curiously, trying to piece out his flowery language.
For a moment, that was all it was, I, looking at this odd, courageous, generous and beautiful man, and he looking back at me with a smile which I could hardly decide what to think of. Was it a devil's smile, or an angel's? It was said that angels and devils were the same, and was he not born of them, as the rest of his folk? I found myself suddenly curious about him – as I'd rarely ever been about anyone, truly.
“Beauty is a grand word, my lord,” I replied, “and one used and flung about with little care, betimes. My thanks nonetheless for the compliment.”
One of my guards moved again, opening the parasol and holding it up over me, and incidentally, over the slightly disheveled gentleman talking to me, casting over us a strange pink light. I looked up, smiled a little, thinking of sunsets and sunrises, then looked at him again, tilting my head in curiosity.
I was thankful for it – perhaps it would hide my blush and the sudden pleasure his words had given me. It took me some effort, not to twist on myself as I did, when I was a little child in the white plains of my home, and Sergei tickled me to giggles.
I managed to utter a response, which I tried to make as distant as I could, trying to imitate Olga's ways, or to react as she would have.
“It's often fair to introduce oneself to a lady, prior to complimenting her, is it not, my lord?”
Hm. Olga probably did not smile that way at strange men on the street. Probably not. Well then. So much for following my sweet sister's perfect example.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 15, 2011 16:21:49 GMT -5
One of the servants, who moments ago had been threatening to gut me in the street like a rabid cur, had now cast the parasol protectively over our heads, engulfing us in a pinkish kind of glow. I suppose this was how my snow angel saw all the world: rose-tinted. She certainly seemed to be enjoying it, looking up at the fabric with a faintly quixotic smile. But I'm pretty sure pink isn't my colour.
Of course, because I had dared to give her a compliment, she felt obliged to be severe with me. I had expected a rebuke but to be accused of being unoriginal rankled more than I had realised it would – dreamy eyes, sharp tongue, a piquant combination. That's the paradox of woman, though. They all love to be called beautiful, yet complain when you do (and, for that matter, complain when you don't). In this, then, my little saint was not so different from the rest of her sex. That was somewhat reassuring, to know she had her little games and her little vanities like the rest of them. Did it bring her a little closer to the dusty earth, upon which I crawled and toiled? I hoped so.
I looked directly into her up-turned face, braving the piercing attention of her innocent eyes, as I answered her: “I don't know, my dear. Let me consult my etiquette guide.” I produced, with a flourish, an imaginary book and made a great show of consulting it. “According to this,” I said, after a moment of exaggerated contemplation, “if a gentleman has already had occasion to draw steel before a lady while defending an innocent from potential injustice the normal social rules are no longer applicable in this case.”
I put the “book” away. “That being so,” I continued, “I believe I am entirely at liberty to compliment you as much as I choose. And also to invite you to join me for a mint julep on the terrace of the cafe over there. What do you say?”
Glinting another smile at her - the most enticing I could muster - I offered her my arm. “And my name, by the way, is Gauvain.”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 15, 2011 17:22:27 GMT -5
It was becoming more and more like a dream, with the rose-colored shade tinting everything around me, and the tall and handsome man suddenly proferring an invisible book, as if he were himself a sprite out of legends.
Had he not indeed sprouted out of the sidewalk to come to the little whelp's rescue? Had he not danced out of Boris' possible grasp, and simultaneously defiled and revered me with his words? Had he not, just now, managed to make me an absolutely scandalous offer, which I felt every bit like accepting?
He had.
And I felt strangely charmed – it was hard not to look at that devilish smile without blushing. Thank the bogs, the parasol's red light might have hid it a touch.
“I've never seen that book before,” I said lightly, “perhaps I should peruse it more, my lord Gauvain...” I made a note, perhaps I should ask Lessa about this Gauvain gentleman? He seemed harmless, though, in fact, he seemed goodly, and kind, if perhaps a bit mad. It would have been ungentle to refuse him, really, I told myself. I opened my mouth to say something to that effect, when I was interrupted by Borodynya's gravelly voice.
“Kzajina not take drink with strange and crazy man,” he said. “Kzajina expected for dinner with the Lady and Kzaj Fydor.”
I turned around and looked at him with all the authority I could muster, which was, well, very little. In fact, I felt like a kitten trying to bite a bear, and it was anything but impressive in my mind's eye. In my language, I said, “Borodynya, my sister and brother would like some intimacy, and it is early still. If you wish to coddle me like a babe, pray not do so in front of the D'Angelines, it is not respectful.”
He blinked at me, and then looked at Gauvain with an air of extreme protectiveness, bless his heart, but said nothing more.
“Perhaps your invitation would be accepted,” I replied elegantly, “but I'm afraid I should like to know first what it is that you are offering.”
I had no idea what a mint julep was, and if it was one of those dubious D'Angeline practices in the bedroom, I would have none of it.
Even if he was, well.
The most handsome man I'd ever seen.
Oh, Buyan.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 17, 2011 17:15:46 GMT -5
The bearish servant had the right of it, of course. She should not be accompanying me for a drink, or anything else. It would be far better for her to turn on her heel, and never think of me. In some ways, far better for both us, to have a few fleeting moments of mystery and illusion, than suffer all the torments of truth. But my decision had been made the moment I beheld her, and that made her fall – or my destruction – inevitable. I watched the exchange between the lady and her retainer with carefully veiled curiosity. She clearly had the man tied in a pretty pink bow around her little finger, but it was hard to tell to what degree she recognised it. Women unaware of their power are sometimes more dangerous that women who know how to wield it. But something in her air suggested to me that she was uncertain, and that it took some courage to face the man down.
Also the way she tilted up her chin in defiance was utterly adorable. That was not a useful thought. I was meant to be learning from this, not acting like a loved up mooncalf. She clearly desired more freedom than her servants, and her family perhaps, were willing to give her, and that was a weakness I could easily play upon. It's a simple enough matter to situate yourself in opposition to something already resented. I would be liberty, temptation, and delight, and I would lead her laughing down the path of ruin. A creature quite beyond my reach and understanding, yet she would be mine. As, in my twisted way, I knew I was already hers. Until I was done with her, of course.
This whole business had been a series of calculated risks, and I would enjoy boasting to Noelle of my daring, but now came the moment in which I could, with the slightest misjudgement, throw it all away. Even the idea of failure was enough to make me feel almost sick (or was that whiskey and adrenaline?), but a man never won a woman by clinging to her. It is never enough merely to pursue and pursue and pursue. One must also know when to withdraw. I had to make myself a prize in her eyes – and no prize worth having can be easily won.
A feint then. In preparation for a strike.
I steadied my nerves. Another type of blade dance, this,and one that brings me a similar pleasure to the flash and clash of swords.
“I was offering,” I said, in far colder a tone to any I had thus far employed, “nothing more sordid than a cool drink on a hot day in company with the Duc d'Alegre. However, I can see I have outraged the virtue of my lady's servants, and I have no wish to come between you and your family.”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 17, 2011 20:49:03 GMT -5
Well, that was going quite poorly – my first attempt at diplomacy, and I was already flustering a man of importance, it seemed, if he called himself the Duc d'Alegre.
Hm.
I had not heard of him, but I knew that duke was sometimes used for a Kzajn and did that mean he was a prince, and I'd somehow, already, through cheer force of the Ruskovian way, offended royalty?
I paled, and taking a breath to square my shoulders, I summoned all that I had in me of proud and haughty, and all that I had learned from my stern older sister.
Oh, Olga. I missed her so, then. She would have handled this with far more strength and a better spine to respond to this awful D'Angeline charm. I thought of Alexei, of his broken heart, of how he'd cried in my arms in the moonlit Báshnya of Palace Ruska, he, who could have been fit to be emperor, had birth not dealt him the second place.
“Your Grace,” I said with a touch of truly stung pride, “certainly the fault is on our lack of proper introductions, which I see now is the crux of the matter. Might we please begin again, on proper bases, as anyone with courtly manners might?”
I purposely did not speak to Borodynya, and when he started to stammer something, I raised a gentle finger, just one, to stay his voice.
This was perhaps a matter of state, perhaps even a chance for me to obey my father, and it fell to me, and to me alone, to see how it would be done.
My brother's pain gave me steel. I called upon it, thinking of how he'd been turned away after a courtship long enough to last volumes, were it a tale. D'Angelines were charming. D'Angelines were treacherous.
Like Olga had said, beautiful and kind and cruel, like children. It was ignorance, not evil. I saw none in him, truth be.
He'd given himself over, he, a prince, for a street urchin.
Oh, no evil, no. Ignorance of my difference, only, then – but a heart pure as I dreamed, and eyes to match. A prince.
“And once that is done, my lord, then perhaps a refreshing drink will indeed be most appropriate, and welcome,” I added, smiling just a little, feeling, suddenly, shy like a school girl.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 18, 2011 10:12:17 GMT -5
Ah. I had her. I was sure of it. I had cast my silver line of words and now I would reel her in.
I glanced away, as if a touch embarrassed. It was hard, actually, to stop looking directly at her, to break the intimacy of our gazes. And she had such an expressive face, I found it fascinating to watch. Beauty holds little novelty for me. I have chased it, possessed it, grown weary of it. I am glutted to the point of nausea on it. But the more my angel tried to conceal her reactions, the more she gave away, and the more I wanted her to show me. I felt less like a sophisticated aesthete and more like a small boy holding a sun-reflecting glass over the iridescent wings of a dragonfly, just to watch them twitch and flutter and, finally, burn.
I had pursued with my eyes the faint suggest of colour along her pale, vulnerable throat. I had felt like a whisper upon my skin the steadying inhalation of her breath. And I had traced with the imaginary fingertip of desire the shy curl of her smiling lips. Yes, I could have looked at her forever, and forever, and forever, until she was nothing but ashes beneath my cruel sun.
“I suppose,” I said, allowing just a hint of disappointment to creep into my tone, “it was a foolish hope that you would have consented to have a drink with Gauvain de Versac, for his own humble merits. But, I suppose you are correct. It is much more ‘appropriate’ for..” I let my voice mimic, just a little mockingly, the growling rhythms of the bear, “Kzajina daughter Nikolai Romanov, Czar of Ruskovia” and back to myself again, “to sit down with the Duc d’Alegre, don’t you think?”
I offered her my arm, with careful propriety.
“It is very fortunate we have these rules for the governance of our behaviour, for what we are seen to do and say is far more important than the truth of our hearts and souls, is it not? Let us put my book etiquette aside and take up yours instead. May I perhaps chance a remark about the weather, Kazjina, as we walk to the cafe?"
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 18, 2011 21:21:20 GMT -5
I blinked again, as Gauvin de Versac, duc d'Alegre, spoke to me, chided me, even, his demeanor suddenly cold as the winter of my native land. Had I had the desire to skate, perhaps he would have conjured enough ice with his words to make me a frozen lake on which to draw figures, to dance, to fly, even.
I blinked at him, again and again. His crude and cruel imitation of Borodynya made me stare at him in horror and gasp.
“My lord,” I said, staring at his offered arm. “Why do you mock me so, and why do you mock my retainer, who is doing nothing but his duty, to protect me, and to protect the reputation of my father? Have I somehow insulted you, or broken the rules of your country? Truly, Your Grace,” I went on, “I am aghast and confused, and shocked, that you would speak so cruelly of a man who will lay his life down for a lady, just as you have laid yours for a street child.”
I took a deep breath, because I felt my eyes filling with tears. Children – Olya had said it, and she'd said, too, that their women were haughty, that they were cruel, and thought Ruskovians no more than beasts.
She'd said they'd tried to train my kin. I remembered Alexei, and the moonlit corridor, and his tears, and I bit my lip. Then a decision floated into my mind. One that would perhaps change the course of this disastrous exchange.
He would not train me. I would educate him.
“I am Svetlana Alexia Nikolaivna Romanova, Kzajina of Ruskovia. And be it as it may,” I said, “I believe that we have started all this on the wrong foot, your Grace. We have offended one another, and it is ill done. As we speak, my brothers are in the City, seeking repairs for injury. I will not follow their path, for my ways are not theirs. Allow me to invite you, not to a mere drink, but to a dinner, instead. New bases, perhaps for a new friendship?”
Oh, I was determined to show it. We are not savages, no. We are noble, and brave, and proud, and worthy of respect, just as these D'Angelines were, I was sure of it, regardless of what my siblings said of it.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 22, 2011 17:28:02 GMT -5
To my incredulity, and very genuine horror, the woman was crying again. Because I made a joke. Ye Gods, they grew them fragile in Ruskovia. And she was looking at my arm as if I was offering her a live snake. Noelle would laugh herself silly over this. And she, at least, would appreciate my impression of peasant Ruskovian, which was going to be inflection-for-inflection perfect by the time I'd done with this conversation. I would be able to threaten to smash pretty faces with the best of them. This whole ridiculous situation would make a perfect dinner party story, I just had to find some way to make it a little more amusing and a little less utterly ridiculous at my own expense.
Pride, and common sense, dictated I walk away. She was clearly too stupid and too naïve even to be successfully manipulated.
But, unfortunately, it just wasn't that simple any more. Firstly, I found her utterly irresistible, although at this juncture I was having trouble remembering precisely why. And, secondly, I couldn't face Noelle, having encountered a paragon of purity and singularly failed to corrupt her. Of course, I could simply not tell Noelle but not telling Noelle things was a habit I'd long since forgotten and, even if I didn't, I'd still know. I'd know I'd seen something beautiful, and left it unbroken.
Besides, annoying and entirely unjustified as they were, her tears were profoundly erotic to me.
“There's no need for that,” I said, softly. “I truly meant no hurt nor disrespect. It was a sorry attempt at humour. And perhaps we have started out on the wrong foot, but nevertheless it is a foot that has introduced me to you, so I cannot resent it. Let us take that drink, and then go for dinner, and I will see if I can do better.”
I couldn't help myself. I reached out and caught the first tear that fell upon a fingertip. It glimmered there for a perfect, transient moment and then disappeared into my skin. I wanted to have lifted it to my lips and licked it away but Elua knew what her “propriety” would have made of that.
She would probably have screamed or fainted, or maybe screamed and fainted; and then all of her retainers would have stabbed me simultaneously.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 23, 2011 1:46:52 GMT -5
Oh, but for a moment there was something like silence – I couldn't have told if I had held my breath or not, and had no idea what the men around us were doing. In truth, under the pink glow of the parasol, in this moist and warm summer afternoon, I felt as if I was safe. Was it because this Gauvain de Versac had suddenly spoken softly to me? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was the belief that he'd indeed meant no ill – that he simply had been utterly awkward in his way, and was willing to make up for it.
I'd offered him a clean slate – it would have been incoherent, worse, it would have been below me to offer any less now, by telling him how terribly poor his attempt at humor had been. Perhaps over dinner, then, I might tell him, that mocking a man who is struggling with his language, when he has the advantage of being a native speaker himself, seemed more cruel than fun in my eyes.
Oh, but his voice. Soft and cultured, and kindly mannered, and the compliment he paid me, too. We'd made a scene, and he'd turned it into something better. Something to be remembered, with only a few words.
Though a lone tear had wandered down my cheek, he wiped it, and as his hand reached toward my face, I stilled, unsure how to react to this, remembering, again. He is a child. He means nothing by this, of course not. Around us, there was tension, released as his hand left mine. He seemed fascinated by my tear – as if I'd just cried a diamond, and he'd plucked it gently from my face, like one does a ripe cherry from the tree.
Oh, all for his childish and thoughtless ways, I liked his manners – and I thought him good, deep down, remembering his rescue of the child.
So I found a smile and gave it to him like one does a flower, a token of friendship and forgiveness. A token, too, of the faith I had that he could, as he'd just said, do better.
“It's well,” I said simply, and though it was hardly the way of my people, I gently reached and put my hand on his arm, blushing for it. “Lead me to this place, then, and perhaps, as you know your own country better than I ever will, if you please, you might give me your recommendations, as we go?”
As children, I told myself again. So I would be gentle to him, as I was to my younger siblings. It was a manner I knew, at least.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 30, 2011 13:51:07 GMT -5
Her smile seared me like fire, and I hastily dropped the hand that had captured her tear to my side, lest she see me tremble. It was not merely that she beautiful, and beautiful people look even more so when they smile, it was the openness of it. As if she was handing over her heart . I have plenty of smiles at my disposal. I have a salacious, reassuring, challenging, appreciative, whatever the situation requires. And I know precisely how to deploy them, and how to take advantage of them. But they're accessories, each and every one. They might as well be hats. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say: masks.
I don't think I've ever smiled like my snow angel. Or if I did, it was long ago, before I learned better. And I had no idea what to do with such a smile, such a gift. Treasure it, I suppose. Nestle it in velvet in a rose-lined box in my memory. The day a woman smiled at me with complete faith, as if I was worthy of her trust, as if I were her equal. But then I've never put much store in keeping precious things. I like acquiring them, not owing them. Besides, once I have something precious in my possession, it belongs to me, so it's no longer precious. Just another broken thing. I composed one of my smiles for her and tossed it over to her. Sincere pleasure in her company, friendship offered, a promise of mischief perhaps. I knew it was a good smile. I knew it would show me to advantage. And probably it would make her like me more. But my face felt hollow around it, and I was glad to turn away, and dispose of it.
Carefully – not to encourage the drawing of further steel – I gestured that I would like to take the absurd parasol. I had no intention of letting the bear hustle along behind us, breathing down my neck, as we walked. He could retain, or whatever it was retainers did, at a discreet distance. Besides, he'd probably find another excuse to hustle along behind us, breathing down my neck. I settled her little hand more comfortably in the crook of my arm and spread the parasol over her – perhaps she would fade like frost in sunlight, leaving nothing but her tears behind.
I had no great familiarity with the cafe across the way. The most important quality it possessed was not being the place where I had drank away my morning. We were greeted with all due deference, and shown to a shaded table on the terrace, where there were flowers in abundance. She probably like that. And there were butterflies too, weaving pollen-drunk between the blooms, colour blurring among colour.
I was glad to finally be able to put down the parasol. Rose-tinted was rapidly losing its appeal. And I wanted to see her, my winter angel, in all the annihilating glory of her true self.
“As for my recommendations,” I said, picking up the threads of conversation once everyone was settled, “I think a cool drink would perhaps be in order? They do a concoction of lemons, sugar and ice-water which is very refreshing. But perhaps you're hungry? Would you like to eat as well?”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Jul 30, 2011 18:38:00 GMT -5
For a split moment, there was something – I couldn't quite tell it. Gauvain de Versac, duc d'Alegre, seemed to be a split man, as if he bore inside him something heavy – something... I couldn't name it, but it was, a little bit, reminiscent of the tension I sometimes saw in my suffering brother. His smile, too – though Alexei's had felt more real, more full of everything that was he. But I did not know this Gauvain gentleman, and perhaps that was just his way, so I did not linger on the observation, favoring instead his manner, and the way he smiled back at me, if only for a moment.
He took the parasol for the two of us, my hand properly hooked onto his arm, and I let him lead me, eyes a bit wide at this incredible turn of events, a child stealing my parasol and caught by Anton Illitch Borodyn, my dear old Borodynia, and saved from punishment in the most chivalrous fashion by this dashing beauty with hair dark as night. As it as soft as it seemed to be silky? I reckoned so, very likely, and the thought made me blush as we walked. There were a few whispers in the street, though they were silenced quickly, but I was feeling my cheeks aflame with a sudden moment of shyness at the mystery of this manchild.
It dawned on me, that it seemed I'd been handed a puzzle, and I should unlock it. Of course, the puzzle was this country – I'd come because I wanted to understand how a Queen could offer a Kzajn she loved to be the captain of her guard. I'd come because, also, Seryoga was here, and I missed him, and what had happened to him, Buyan? I hoped to travel to the city soon, to see him. And perhaps a presence more gentle than Vladimir and Sergei's might help, somehow. Even if my word had no value at all, to anyone. And this puzzle, this complicated story that I needed to understand, for me, was suddenly standing on two feet and elegantly leading me about with the grace of a skater on a moonlit and frozen lake. The thought set me to ponder briefly that I always did think that skating in the solitude of the full moon would be a moment of grace. Of course, I never had – it wasn't proper. And now it was over. Terre d'Ange had no such ice. Not even Gauvain's coldest glare could conjure it.
But all this was surreal! And I loved every moment of it – it was the tale I wanted to write, to know, to see unfold, to live.
As we'd walked in, my retinue had been given a table of their own, but right behind us, and I could tell that my good and sweet Borodynia was a bit worried, but I'd given him a quiet word of reassurance in our language, before we'd settled. And then I let myself just enjoy the moment, and get lost in this dream that was woven around me. It was easy.
The cafe was wonderful – Buyan come to life, and I looked at everything in awe, eyes wide, and when a little butterfly came to settle on the back of my hand, I giggled, then looked up at Gauvain with happy, joyful eyes. “This place is magic,” I told him after I'd gently blown on its wings, and let the butterfly fly off, to my delight.
I slipped in my chair and neatly tucked my skirts under myself, then looked around and went on, feeling a bit silly, a bit like a child, suddenly, but not minding, because, ah, so I was. “I like it. It seems as though you are indeed a sprite, come to take me to fairyland – though pray not keep me beyond my time, my brothers would be quite wroth if you did.” But then, realizing my silliness, I tilted my head, and chuckled, “No, not a sprite. It doesn't suit. A prince, then, for your midnight hair and powerful, generous, impetuous ways.” I smiled, pleased, and nodded, but there was not an ounce of displeasure, on the contrary.
And because he was this dark prince, who I could well imagine riding the gentle moon's rays themselves to save the helpless and be the hero he'd shown himself to be, because he was offering me to drink, to eat, and that one never refuses such offers without making a faux-pas, I smiled again at him, this time in gratitude. “I will have this – drink you suggest, and whatever specialty you recommend,” I said, “I only just came, and have much to learn about your country, you see? And so I am happy to leave myself in your capable hands, to learn the customs of Terre d'Ange, Your Grace.”
Of course, I had no intention of letting my learning go beyond the boundaries set by polite society. I was a Princess of Ruskovia, I knew better.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Jul 31, 2011 15:28:20 GMT -5
Watching her in the cafe, I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry or run away screaming.
Of course, a butterfly would come and land on her, fluttering momentarily on her fingertips before she released it once more into the eddies of the slight, summer breeze. She looked positively adorable sitting there, smiling and sparkling, surrounded by butterflies and flowers – like a maiden in the pastoral fantasy of a painter with no imagination whatsoever.
Virgin and Butterflies: symbolising the fleeting beauty of virtue in a cruel world.
Was she a virgin?
She had to be.
No woman who has ridden a man's prick, and lost herself in the savage ecstasy of completion, would be sitting there babbling about sprites and magic.
Either that or she was certifiably insane. Maybe that was why her retainers were so reluctant to let her go out of their sight.
I restrained myself to contemptuous thoughts to repress some secret, shameful part of me that was helplessly, disgustingly charmed. Yes, all good taste told me I should be summoning a waiter for a bucket in which to throw up … but she was so damnably, unnaturally earnest. I would have been completely unsurprised had a flying unicorn appeared to whisk her away to the stars in a trail of rainbow sparkles.
And, despite the arrant nonsense surrounding it, she had paid me some manner of compliment. Powerful, generous, impetuous? Me? Flattery, surely, but I was increasingly certain the girl didn't have an artful bone in her body. Maybe she really believed that of me. I was briefly as flustered as a peasant lass at her first seduction. As far as I'm concerned, pretty words flow in one direction only – from me to others, to gain me what I want. This was backwards, and I didn't like it.
Besides, it made me acutely aware of a deception that, under other circumstances, I wouldn't have cared I was perpetrating. It is one thing to lie, but it is quite another to have those lies returned to you as if they are, indeed, the truth.
“I'm no Prince, Kzajina,” I said. “I'm just a man, with all the flaws and weaknesses of any other.” Elua save me, I actually felt something like heat prickling along my cheekbones. Was I blushing? Please no. I haven't done that for years. I am past such foolishness. You do not live as I have lived the last six years and retain an ability to blush. And she would surely think I actually liked this shit about faery princes.
In a complete state, I called over a waiter and ordered lemonade and sorbet and whatever other cooling refreshments the chef would recommend.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Aug 1, 2011 22:27:08 GMT -5
Oh, but he had modesty, to boot! The way he colored when I spoke was absolutely adorable, and I decided that I wanted to see more of that, more of his sweetness coming to the fore – to compensate for his cruel sense of humor.
Like a child, again. Adore and cruelty, wrapped in a beautiful, enticing package. I grinned a little more, and vowed in the secret of my heart to beckon more of that, and less of the other. This was much more charming, really. And even if tall and handsome as he was – with the confidence of a protector, of a ruler, which he was – I much preferred that passing moment of embarrassment at a simple compliment.
“Oh, but princes are men too,” I replied, smiling a little more. “I should know, having grown in a home full of them. And they are good, and strong, and weak, and can be hurt, just like any other, of course. To think otherwise would be utter foolishness.”
I tilted my head, and if I'd had something to drink, I would have had a sip, then, just to give myself a moment to find the correct words in D'Angeline. But instead we were interrupted by the waiter and by the taking of orders, which was tedious to me – and so while Gauvain handled this triviality, I set myself to look about, noting a few species of flowers I'd never seen before. It took me a moment to snap back to the conversation.
I added, then, having found the words, “you've shown well enough today that you also have the heart of a prince, putting yourself to the sword for a little urchin, and drying my silly tears. And that is worth taking into account, is it not? Though I reckon, your words have set me to wonder if the differences between our countries do not run deeper than I thought.”
Oh, Buyan. I was setting myself to ask him about something entirely new.
What had taken me over! I couldn't talk about politics! That was a man's thing. But then. He was a man. He would know, and be happy to educate me – it would make him feel capable. Yes, of course. It might even make up for all my silliness. But he looked so flustered!
“--- is there aught amiss, Your Grace?”
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 3, 2011 10:14:03 GMT -5
Politics and faerytales – was there ever such an unlikely combination?
My interaction with the waiter had been enough of a distraction to chase away my momentary confusion, and I was able to meet her clear gaze with equanimity, and a semblance of relaxation, once more. I lounged back in my chair, the very picture of a careless gentleman on a sunny afternoon.
By my companion’s accounting it was a wonder Ruskovia had any Princes at all, if they spent their time running into swords on behalf of street urchins, and dissolving into piles of human weakness at the drop of a hat. But apparently she found that appealing.
But I already knew better than to say anything to challenge her romantical notions, lest she start crying on me again. If anything, I should have been encouraging her in them, no matter how sickeningly absurd they were. But there I was only so long I could play at being a silver prince for her, my nature would surely betray me before long. Or, worse, someone more worldly would recognise me and tell her the truth. My reputation isn’t precisely tarnished, because I’ve been careful, but I have made no secret of my more socially acceptable vices. And I had a feeling my companion was naive enough, and silly enough, to consider any vice unforgiveable.
I would have to teach her all the debased and dangerous pleasures of corruption. Assuming that is, I could get through an afternoon’s conversation with her.
“There’s nothing wrong,” I said, quickly. And, then, to turn her attention from the stupid fantasy of me I had no hope of living up to: “Do you find the differences between our countries very marked?”
This was going to be tedious, I could tell. But at least I’d be able to look at her while she talked, and imagine debauching her.
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Aug 3, 2011 13:09:06 GMT -5
He still seemed flustered, and I was getting confused, but I opted not to press – I could do very little about it, anyway, and what little I could do, I wasn't even sure would be appropriate.
And so I went on to the topic at hand, rolling my r's, and trying to enunciate with as much elegance as I could.
“Oh, yes, very much so,” I replied. “To start, the weather, of course, which is stating the obvious. But not only this, but the mores are quite strict in Ruskovia. Do you know? Even this little outing would be absolutely scandalous in my sister's view.”
I chuckled, and putting my hands under my chin, gave him a little looking, under my eyelashes, because I could and he was lovely.
“-- do you have any siblings? In Ruskovia, it's rather expected to have many children... but we do not have the candle-lighting rituals either, and perhaps that it the reason, too...”
Oh dear, I was babbling, wasn't I? I had to stop myself, and did, a bit abruptly.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 5, 2011 5:52:22 GMT -5
She babbled away at me and I composed myself into the picture of polite interest.
Except.
It took only a second or two but suddenly it wasn’t a composition any more. I was listening, not because she was saying anything that would be interesting to me, but because her hands were graceful, her eyes were bright and her voice seductive. Because, in truth, I had no power to resist her. It was a reenactment of the moment I first saw her – a yearning for her so intense it was closer to pain. Whatever it was, this was a wound she had dealt me. But I knew I would be cured when I took her, when I shattered her.
It crossed my mind just then, as her girlish words bound me like coloured ribbons, that I might have had it the wrong way round all along. Perhaps it was not that she was mine, but that I was hers. She had put out her pale hand and I had alighted, a poisonous butterfly, upon her palm. And now she held me there. My heart, which has long since existed merely to beat, made a sudden motion in my chest; a wretched animal caught in a snare.
No.
Just no. I am in control here. She is my victim, I am not hers.
“Scandalous, are we?” I repeated, careful to keep my tone as gentle as possible as I teased her. “Well, it’s true, you know. Even for d’Angelines the ordering of lemonade is considered rather wild. I’m afraid you are taking the first steps down a path of depravity that might lead you even as far as ices. Do you feel brave enough?”
I wondered what had made her stop talking so abruptly. I’m a fool, but I could have listened to that husky voice all day. “I was my father’s sole heir,” I said, to quickly dismiss myself as a possible topic and turn the conversation back to her, “but what were going to say?”
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Svetlana Romanova
Royal
Kzajina of Ruskovia
Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.
Posts: 106
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Post by Svetlana Romanova on Aug 5, 2011 9:52:37 GMT -5
He seemed so enraptured with my words that I felt, ah, I felt so very much taken into account, it was intoxicating. I'd have lied if I'd said it was something I was used to. Girls are expected to be proper and marry young, in my country – Olga was the perfect example to follow. I, on the other hand, was not – and often, I'd been written off as silly, lightfooted, even as lacking in intelligence, betimes. But I didn't care – if I was pegged for a dimwit, then I could keep on reading my stories and my poems, and no-one would try to marry me off to some Tiberian pompous old man, or to a far-away sultan in a far-away land of burning sands, like Olga.
I didn't care for marriage, if it wasn't for love.
Still, it was lovely – and a bit embarrassing, to suddenly be the object of so much attention, to be listend to by someone who seemed to genuinely care what I had to say. (Of course, my siblings always treated me kindly, even Olga did, though sometimes I wondered if anyone really understood me. Aliocha did, I thought - and more so since he'd returned home. It was only Vlad who was harsh, but it was just the way he was, he was... the weather of our land personified. I could not fault him for it.)
Perhaps it was because Gauvain said he had no siblings that my thoughts were suddenly wandering to mine. I shuffled a little in my seat, a bit timidly.
“-- I – hm, was going to say that I have a lot of siblings, and that I thought perhaps it was because Ruskovian women do not have the gift that d'Angeline women have.”
This, I'd discovered in secret, I wasn't supposed to know, it was sacrilegious knowledge, to read or think of such things.
Oh, Buyan. Why did I bring it up? I needed to skirt away from it as soon as I could. Was it suddenly warmer out here than it should be? I gave a quick, hushed order, and a fan was proffered to me from the neighboring table - oh, bless Borodynia and his quick hands.
Having opened the fan and now using it to cool myself, and perhaps also a little to hide my shame, I went on.
“-- and so, yes, I have, as you know, a horde of siblings, four brothers, two sisters, and in truth I can't imagine not having any. Was it a lonely childhood, for you?”
Of course – besides, I should interest myself in the gentleman escorting me. Not only was it excellent etiquette, but in truth... I did want to know all about him. He was fascinatingly mysterious, and it seemed he knew so much more about the world than I did!
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