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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 5, 2011 10:22:37 GMT -5
I had heard something of the ways of Ruskovia, but it struck me suddenly as barbaric to deny women the freedom to seek pleasure for pleasure’s sake. I nearly said as much, but given how flustered she seemed even at the mention of these matters I thought I would probably send her fleeing the terrace in horror. Or in tears. Or in horrified tears. And then my pretty face would have to confront her incensed retinue once more. And assuming it survived that, Noelle’s mockery.
But how was I going to seduce the silly girl if I couldn’t talk about anything even tangentially related to pleasure? Perhaps when she trusted me a little more.
Right now, however, I had another problem. She was asking about me. Which was problematic because it meant I would have to tell her something, and, as an added disadvantage, it meant I could no longer look at her unrestrictedly.
Thankfully, at that moment the waiters returned to serve us our drinks. That gave me some thinking time, but I soon realised there wasn’t any straightforward way to avoid her question. I suppose I could have pretended my childhood was simply too tragic and heartbreaking for me to speak of it but that would have been a truly sickening lie. And there are some lines I do not cross, strange though that might seem to some.
“Actually I wasn’t lonely at all,” I said, finally, having mixed and stirred my drink about five times. My attention drifted, largely unseeing, across the banks of flowers, as I gave utterance to whatever came into my head. “I didn’t see my parents very much but that’s natural, and there was simply too much to do. I spent my mornings with the men-at-arms, learning military strategy and swordplay. I had a fencing tutor, a grand master of the blade. And the afternoons I spent with stewards and farmers, learning my land. I had tutors from all over the world to teach me whatever I wanted to know, music, astronomy, history, languages, philosophy, mathematics. I'm sure I was shamefully indulged. But I was …” I nearly said ‘so happy’ but the words caught in my throat and threatened to choke me. Cold as ashes now, all that boyhood passion. Worthless and absurd.
I caught myself staring into the past like a dreamy half-wit and hastily re-focused my attention on my companion. “It was a long time ago,” I said, with a dismissive shrug.
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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 13:13:40 GMT -5
Gauvain was talking and talking about his childhood, and I tried to imagine it. It seemed he earnestly thought that it was normal to grow up without other children about. Without friends, then?
I tilted my head, and thought, he must have been so lonely, even if he claimed he wasn't. My heart swelled with sympathy – I couldn't imagine a life without my brothers and sisters. Even exiled, half the family was here, and even exiled, I knew they existed. I would write to Alexei, soon – to tell him of this wondrous afternoon, of the dashing prince and the butterflies, of his rescue of the child and the tragically quiet figure he could cut, betimes.
Of my plan to educate this childlike d'Angeline duc into better manners, too – I mustn't forget that, and tell him about cruelty to others, and how little it amused me. Not until I was sure that my opinion mattered to him, though. Not until then.
It was a very forward thing, and I didn't think of it as my hand reached for his, settling a cool touch on his larger hand.
“I understand,” I said, “I think we all were, in our childhood, one way or another.” I smiled a little bit, timidly. “But it wasn't so long ago, was it? You don't look so aged to me, that you might claim half a century's distance from such a past....” I tilted my head, and having listened, I asked, again, sweetly, “was the sword your favorite discipline, then?”
I thought it might be – he had... such grace, when he'd taken his steel out and danced out of Borodynya's reach! He was so dashing.
I imagined he must also be a delightful dancer – and suddenly, I wondered how the D'Angelines danced. I figured it would be something graceful, something also more intimate than the raucous of dancing lines and spinning twirls of Palace Ruska. Some thought it might be boring, perhaps. I thought it would likely be enthralling.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 6, 2011 16:40:48 GMT -5
She brought her hand to rest on mine – cool and soft as a snowflake landing, and I found myself staring at the meeting of our skin. It seemed so insubstantial, I thought that if I didn't see it happening, it might not be happening at all. It should have been perfect trap. In a seduction such as this you want the prey to touch you first. It helps them forget you're a danger to them, and makes them complicit in what follows.
Except this brought me little triumph. In fact, I do believe she pitied me, a prospect that seared my soul like poison. I wanted to shake her away, and show her who, and what I am, and how little her pity meant to a creature like me. But then I would lose her. So I sat, frozen beneath her touch, a monster enthralled by a maiden, trapped in my own game.
In my head, I desperately recast the scene as I would describe it to Noelle. How had I intentionally made myself the faerytale prince of a young girl's fancies, and lightly spiced the illusion with tantalising tragedy to draw her deeper.
Instead of the insufferable truth, which was I had told her in all honesty of my happiest times and still she thought to pity me.
“I merely meant to imply,” I said, with a smile that felt all artifice, “that much had changed – not that I am a fossilised greybeard.” I'm losing it. I must be losing it. I am a master of subtlety and insinuation, and yet I'd made myself sound old to a slip of a girl.
“And you're right,” I went on, “I did favour the sword. There are two disciplines, really, one for show and one for, err not.” One to kill – but I could not say that to her. “The latter is not pretty, I'm afraid.” I made another frantic attempt to seize the reigns of conversation. “But, tell me, what do you enjoy?”
Rainbows and bluebirds probably...
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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 6, 2011 17:18:36 GMT -5
Behind me, there was a little groan, and my title whispered, like a reminder that my hand had strayed where it should not, but it was faint in the background, like an echo of something forgotten, a song or a rhyme lost in the distance.
He protested, and I let it go, though I was still convinced that Gauvain must have been my age, perhaps a little bit older, but not by much. Mayhap he thought me very young, though – many did. I shook my head, giving him a sweet and patient smile, and let him then shift the conversation topic from his person to mine.
It was a pity, really. I'd have loved to hear about his feats, and to be told the difference between the two types of swordsmanship. Why did one learn such a thing only for show? It didn't seem very sensible to me. Hm. Though perhaps I should ask Alexei in my next letter, too.
“I – had a discipline to favor of my own,” I admitted, “but I fear I do not know the word in your language. It is – in my country, one can dance on ice, with cutting shoes – it is called katatʹsya na konʹkah ,” There was a certain amount of adoration my voice as I rolled through the name of my favorite sport, my favorite art. “Though as there is no ice here, for me to... practice,” I went on, “I favor also poetry and lore. Novels, too – that is just another modern form of lore, in my view.”
I shrugged a little, and tried not too look too sad - for truly, what I missed where the spins, the jumps, the few seconds of flight I could steal from it. “But it will never really replace my desire to dance on ice.”
I gave him a little smile, and added, “Oh, forgive me. I babble too much.”
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 6, 2011 17:58:31 GMT -5
I never thought I'd be grateful to the Bearman but it seemed Ruskovians aren't permitted to touch each other, or something, for she let me go. My hand didn't quite feel like mine any more, and I clasped my fingers together in front of me to try and reclaim ownership. I'm surprised her hand hadn't left a sprinkling of fairydust upon my skin.
When she told me of her pleasures, I nearly laughed aloud. Typical. It was just so bloody typical. I know women are as varied as the stars but I had to set my sights on the one who liked … what in Elua's name … dancing on blades on frozen water? What?
As any practised seducer knows, an invaluable strategy is to provide, or somehow, embody a desire or a passion. How in the world was I going to be able to provide a frozen lake for her. It was impossible. I think even if I raided all the ice houses in Eisande the best I would manage would be a small puddle on which, I supposed, she could pirouette. I didn't know which of us was madder – she, who apparently took pleasure in this bizarre practice, or I who was hopelessly trying to indulge her in it.
Still, people are vulnerable when they speak of that which they love...
“I think,” I said, softly, “this dance of yours is some magic I would like to see one day.” And it wasn't a complete lie either – I imagined her in white fur and silver moonlight, spinning, spinning, spinning like a pure, impossible dream. “And it's not babbling to speak with passion about something that moves 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 Aug 6, 2011 19:38:11 GMT -5
My hand retrieved, I kept it on the table, feeling odd about it – home, I'd have had gloves, and perhaps then the contact would have been socially acceptable. Here, it was too hot for gloves, and I felt as if I might have suddenly been terribly forward.
Not that Gauvain seemed to mind – or to notice, if that was the case. It was a relief.
He seemed a bit confused, perhaps it was the Ruskovian I'd spoken, and I felt the urge, suddenly, to paint the last time I'd indulged in my art for him. It would be a retelling, of course, and I didn't know if I could even do it in his language. I wasn't yet so good with D'Angeline, metaphors and similes were still a bit obscure, and I feared mine, translated, would be odd-sounding.
“One day, mayhap,” I said softly too, and I didn't think anyone but us could here the conversation. But my heart was swelling with hope, and I had to ask... “How cold is the winter, in this country? Do lakes freeze for months? If so... mayhap...” though it was folly, I'd packed my skates at the bottom of a trunk when no-one was looking. I shrugged, then, looked down a bit sadly, because I feared my hopes would be crushed. “... it's not magic, not really, it's just – just a silly dance, but one that can – I wish I could show you, it's so hard to explain it ...” and a deep breath, and I said, like I'd just admitted something terribly embarrassing...
“It's like flying.”
It was a sentimental thing.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 8, 2011 9:06:33 GMT -5
Dancing on water. And flying.
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with her?
How was I going to win this creature of fancies with my poor, frustrated earthly self? Why did I persist on wanting to? But whatever hold she had upon me, whatever spell she had cast, showed no signs of releasing its hold. I was about as capable of walking away from her as I was of freezing the sea for her dance upon. And if some power had at that moment offered the choice – freedom or the frozen sea, I cannot swear I would have snatched for my liberty.
I despised her for her sentimentality, her innocence attracted me only insofar as I wanted to tear it from her, and her girlish banalities held no appeal for my sophisticated palate ... yet ... somehow ... she had me in chains. And she did not even know it.
But perhaps all was not entirely lost. She was still here with me, after all, and her eyes were sparkling with more than the mere pleasure of recollection. She had touched my hand voluntarily – albeit in pity – and was starting to confide me. Maybe I had not gone so far astray as I had feared, if only I could make myself a plausible performer of the role she had envisioned for me.
“I’m not sure our winters will allow it but I will hope for frosts,” I said. “And I do understand. I may have never danced upon frozen water but I have felt those moments when the body, and the mind and the...” oh Noelle would be dying of laughter to hear me now “... soul have been united through activity. Though it is not an instrument of peace, with a sword in my hand I sometimes feel at peace nonetheless.”
I’m personally convinced I have no soul; and if I ever felt like this at any moment in my life I have long since forgotten what it might be like.
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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 8, 2011 23:19:05 GMT -5
Gauvain had a way, in the way he spoke, that every word seemed to be delicately chosen – it was as if he were proffering a bouquet with everyone of his interventions, one well assembled, in which every element had a keen reason to exist.
Oh, but he must be a writer, secretly, I mused. The thought made me smile.
“You say your sword is not an instrument of peace,” I said thoughtfully. “Though certainly, the fear your bravery and skill instill in your foes must put them to resting their animosity, is it not so? And would that alone not be enough to consider that indeed, your swordsmanship is or can be an instrument of peace?”
I smiled a little, but did not reach to touch his hand again, instead tucking it lightly under my chin, and I examined him for a moment. Oh, yes, he had something about him, something that told me he could do wonderful, beautiful things, if he wished. I took a sip of my drink, nodding politely in appreciation, and pursued my line of thought.
I could imagine well that he must be an apt dancer – the way he'd moved, ready to engage in combat, had been full of the grace of one who has complete mastery of their body. “Is there not art in everything that you do? And are you not, then, because your soul is that of the artist, making your warlike ways an art, of sorts, and therefore something worthy and beautiful?”
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 9, 2011 5:51:33 GMT -5
Oh Lord. Seriously?
This was the moment, I knew, when I stole a few steps closer to her heart – all I had to do was agree with her. But I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it, not only because her picture of me was so terribly wrong I couldn’t bear it, but also because the reality of bloodshed was a brutal thing and it did no-one credit to have it turned to poetry.
“The blade itself incites to deeds of violence,” I murmured, forgotten scholarship coming to my aid.
There was nothing for it here. I would tell the truth. Yes, it might hurt and bewilder her a little now but it would help her in the long run. A virtuous act, perhaps the only I have performed in years. And I need not tell Noelle – it would simply be a moment of madness, a moment of mercy, another of my unspoken secrets. I would let my snowflake whirl away into the storm, and she would meet a boy, with clear eyes and a pure soul, who matched her, and was worthy of her.
“There is nothing beautiful in what I do,” I said. “Kzajina … I … you … you’ve misjudged me.” Where were my words now? They were squirming away from me like insects stuck on pins. And there she was, watching me, her chin propped upon her hand, such a pretty picture, I could hardly force myself onto the rack of honesty I wanted her so badly.
“I like this picture you paint of me, but I … I cannot lie to you. I have not lived as well as I might have done these past years. I do not wish to deceive you further. I think my soul is a little too … corrupt … to have much artistry left in it.”
Truthfully, I’m not even sure I still have one.
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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 10, 2011 11:38:45 GMT -5
Such a wise man, too – and a man who knew the limits of his art. I did wonder, had he ever killed another? I shuddered to think of it.
He seemed to have a heavy weight on him, though, spoke slowly, as if at a loss for words, and my heart swelled with concern.
“My lord,” I said when he was done, “surely you jest – for I have seen all the good in your person so very soon, and though you have y our faults, as we all do, I can tell you are a kindly soul.”
Was this a attempt to fish compliments from me, or reassurance? Was it true modesty, or some ill-placed self-loathing? Whatever it was, it worried, me, for I was finding myself growing fond of this man, finding him... endearing, and charming, and now, with this vulnerable side of him showing...
Oh, I wanted to help him, so very badly, it hurt.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 16, 2011 6:29:07 GMT -5
Hah – so heaven scorns my proffered virtue, and casts me once again to the hell of my basest inclinations. It was a strange sort of liberation, to know myself so thoroughly lost to goodness that I could not even perform an honourable act when I tried. My path then was set: villainy, and cruelty and despair, and there was no turning from it.
“Well,” I said, with a smile that felt strange even to me, “you can’t say you I didn’t try to warn you.”
I cast a glance at her from beneath my lashes. She had a rather melting look on her lovely face, as she showered me with compliments so unlikely and ill-deserved it was almost laughable. Pity, again, perhaps but this time, because she pitied only a pretence of me, I found it less galling. And it was something else I could surely manipulate. Also I’d seen women look that way before – not at me, admittedly, for I play the dashing rogue, but at men they wanted to save through strength of love alone.
An absurd notion, of course. I’m not sure I know what love is, let alone what it can be expected to achieve by some strange alchemy on the human soul. Thankfully this has never been an attraction to my sensible, heartless Noelle. Gods knew what madness she could have wrought in me had she ever sought the subjugation of my tarnished heart. But, no, we play far safer games, and that’s precisely why I adore her as I do.
I made a graceful gesture – as if to dispel the tense and melancholy mood my momentary, ill-placed qualms had produced. “Forgive me, Kzajina, I am dull company, always talking of myself. I don’t think I ever asked what brought you so far from home?”
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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 16, 2011 11:19:17 GMT -5
Ah, of course – he was half-breaking my heart with the way he smiled meekly – or was it self-derisively? I couldn't quite well tell. Too much time in books, and I had trouble reading faces when they weren't my kin's. I gave him a small, quivering smile of my own, and let the topic be dropped.
A moment and a sip of my refreshment later, I turned my thoughts to my visit to this strange country.
“Ah,” I said, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. “I suppose the fame of your country is not enough to justify it, is it?” My fingers drummed against the table – I didn't like to hide the truth, but what had befallen my brothers here was not to be shared, at least, not as far as Aliosha's fate.
“As my retainer told you before,” I said, “my youngest brother just wed the Lady of Marsilikos a few months gone. He travelled here with her, and it seemed like a good opportunity to see this famed land.”
I paused, and smiled a little more, though there was a touch of melancholy in it, too.
“But it was also a chance to see my brother Sergei. Surely, you've heard of the injustice he suffered at the hand of the Crown.”
This, at least, I could bring up. I supposed that the terrible accusations which had plagued Seryoga's reputation were public. One is not accuse of having poisoned a monarch in secret, and Vladimir's quest for repairs was not unknown either.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Aug 30, 2011 7:09:57 GMT -5
Urgh, politics, a topic as conducive to desire as a corpse floating down a river.
I had heard of the incident she mentioned – although I’m not sure it was entirely best described as “an injustice.” And given what I already witnessed of her retainers’ eagerness to commit violence upon my person, it seemed likely that such uncivilised inclinations were common to her race. Not to my lovely snow maiden though – her gentleness would shame flower petals. But I was sure whatever her kinsman had brought upon himself he had likely deserved.
However, I knew well enough how to handle such conversations, and I mustered my very best semblance of sincerity, my eyes as warm as I could make them.
“Ah yes,” I murmured, “politics can be cruel. I’m sorry for your brother’s suffering.”
Not that I gave two hoots about the fate of some trumped up Ruskovian with delusions of grandeur.
I lent forward across the table, preparing to turn the subject back to the one that interested me: her, her, always her. She could have been reciting the alphabet in that sultry voice of hers and I would have gazed, enraptured still.
“Are you enjoying your travels? You speak of your brothers and your ...” oh what had she called it “ice-dancing with a touch of homesickness, I think?”
I took note of the fact that she had least two brothers. I would have ensure I was well out of reach by the time I was done with her, for they would likely want my blood. That edge of danger, if anything, only heightened my interest. It would be quite the coup, and Noelle would surely be impressed at by daring, and my skill. Enough, perhaps, to reward me.
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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 Sept 3, 2011 10:52:15 GMT -5
I would have said then that Sergei being accused of poisoning the woman his brother loved, that such accusations being not only unfounded but profoundly ridiculous, and the fact that he'd been treated as a common criminal was not only cruel to him but insulting to the whole of the Ruskovian empire. Gauvain de Versac, duc d'Alegre, had nothing to do with it, though, and so I accepted his kindness, and the change of topic, though for a moment my heart beat harder still, and I felt myself rise in colour. To find some countenance, I took a sip of my cool drink – which was no longer icy cold but just nicely fresh, and the glass being beaded with water pearls, it was a rather pretty sight – and then delicately wiped my hand on my handkerchief, seeing as it was all humid from touching the glass.
It was hard not to be seduced by the way he was leaning eagerly toward me and murmuring questions that said so much about his kind concern. For a moment I sat there, merely lost in the keenness of his eyes.
“Ah, I may be, but only a touch,” I replied politely. “Your country offers many distractions from such sadness. I do miss my brother Alexei, who was the first to come to this country, some years gone, and who is now home, kept by duty.”
That was a lie – I knew very why Aliosha had not joined Fedya and I on this trip. At any rate, I went on, explaining, “though as my family is currently split asunder between here, and there, in truth, I would never feel complete, lest all my brothers and sisters were again all under the same roof, as we were when we were young.”
Those were the days, really – and I lived in the nostalgia of our childhood, thinking of Sergei and his wild horsey ways, of Olya and how she dotted on Fedya, of Salya and the tales I'd tell her when she was but a toddler, and the peaceful solitude of my dancing in the cold, the beauty of slowly gliding snowflakes and the blissfulness of the frozen lake's silence.
Ah, but in truth, what I missed was not home, but a home that no longer was, nor could be.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Sept 9, 2011 16:41:20 GMT -5
I watched, spellbound like the fool I am, at the moisture gathering on her glass and beneath her delicate fingers. How those little water droplets jumped, eager as lovers, onto her skin. I think I would have gone to my knees there in that damned cafe to lick them from her hands. She would taste of pure water, like sweet oblivion, my snow angel, my mortal saint, profaned by my every touch, until we were left rutting in the dust of the world like the beasts we truly are.
I watched her graceful movements, helpless to resist her thrall. She was making me a clipped copper poet – wishing I were a handkerchief, so twined about her white flesh. Such a waste, when I would have cast aside the last few remnants of my soul to wipe her fingers clean myself. And there it was, a shadow in the sunlit afternoon, the uncoiling of my desire, like a serpent in my stomach. No longer an abstract proposition, a game, a challenge. My corrupt flesh wanted her now, as much as my mind and vanity, and it was poisoning me. Damn her.
I took a steadying breath, and a long swallow of my own drink. The icy edge had gone but it was still chill enough to shock me into some semblance of control. But I thought I might die if I didn't touch her at least once before this agonising afternoon was done.
But how many siblings did one woman need? It seemed positively wasteful somehow. I'd lost count of them already, and they seemed to have about twenty names apiece. “I understand the value of family,” I said, lying easily, and having absolutely no interest in family, my own or anyone else's, “but it is also important to have your own life, I think. I mean, surely a true bond stands the test of time and distance?” Oh what I was blathering about? I had no idea. But then if a shallow, wretched creature such as I can keep someone close in his thoughts (ah Noelle, it has been too long, look at the mess I'm in without you) it must come as naturally as breathing to a sincerely loving family.
“I just mean,” I went on, carefully, “that if we spend too long looking over our shoulders we miss the lovely things around us right now.” I felt like an idiot saying such a thing but I'd seen the uninhibited pleasure took in the simplest beauties of the world – from the butterflies to the water on her glass. And, smiling still, I tried to encompass all of that supposed loveliness with a single gesture.
Also I happen to have it on good authority that if we're talking earthly beauty I'm rather worth looking at myself.
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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 Sept 13, 2011 1:56:28 GMT -5
There was a moment of quiet during which the Duc drank in his turn, and I fought to regain my niceties, and not sink in the easy and dreamy languor which I was so prone to. Ah, but being in society was so exhausting, betimes! It demanded so much control, so as to remain polite and not seem, as I tended to so easily, to be inattentive or uninterested.
In truth, I was relieved by the slow rhythm of the conversation – it gave me time to both find my words, and snap to attention. And so I did, just in time to hear his musings on family life. Ah, but he did understand the value of family, even if, as he had mentionned earlier, his own seemed to have been of a rather different breed. That made me smile, and the bud of a project came into my mind.
Or rather, a question.
Would such a man be acceptable to my father, or was he too D'Angeline, and more problematically, not noble enough? For myself, I found he heralded all the sophistication and graces that I should hope to find in a party, and more, and I decided that Otets might well be prevailed on, if it came to that.
So long as he was unmarried, though. I couldn't recall whether he was wearing a band or not, and found myself trying to spy his left hand discreetly, even as I spoke.
“Oh, one may well have their own inner life,” I replied lightly, and having failed on my little quest by virtue of being drawn to look into his sagacious eyes once more, I gave up, opting to save it for later. “And yet...”
Softly, to myself, I mused, lost in thought for a moment...
“All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone.”
And shaking out of it, I gave my host a smile. “Forgive me, you are right, of course – there is no point in wishing myself where I am not, and much less so in such company as yours, my lord.”
It struck me that it was an absolutely earnest declaration – for all my longing to be with my siblings, I did enjoy Terre d'Ange, and it was no small wonder that I was sitting here, with him, when I could have refused his invitation. In truth, he was the very embodiment of all I'd ever dreamt, and all I'd never quite seen in my native land. I found that I wanted to see him again, and had no true idea of how to achieve it, although... “And so perhaps it was fate that merged our paths this day, for my sister-in-law is very busy, and so is my brother, of course – if you ever had time of your own to show me all those lovely things...”
Oh, how terribly bold of me. I felt my cheeks burning, and found myself looking away in embarrassment.
[ooc: The poetry's not mine! Whoever guesses its author gets virtual candy ^^. ]
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Sept 13, 2011 11:33:39 GMT -5
OOC: That would be a poet about whom a gently raised young lady like Lana should know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Sept 14, 2011 14:22:02 GMT -5
It was fortunate I had finished my drink for I might have choked on it – or possibly even spat it vulgarly across the table – when she quoted poetry at me. It was not that she liked poetry, and thought nothing of spouting it as part of regular conversation; indeed, that was barely surprising. It was her choice of poet that was particularly startling, an Alban, banned in several nations. As it so happened, being once upon a time fond of poetry myself, I owned a slim volume of his work. It was far from meritless, having a certain rugged vigour and even occasional moments (such as the one she quoted) of beauty, but it was also breathtakingly obscene.
I've never really considered myself an imaginative man but I had a sudden vivid image of her, naked and debauched in my arms, so fair and pale, but stained here and there by the tell-tale flush of satiation. And I – hazy in this vision, no need to dwell upon my wretched flesh – would be trailing my fingertips across her skin, the cartographer of her desire. And when her breath was catching, I would lean over her and murmur: “Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.” And, re-made through my touch, she would merely smile.
Except that I couldn't quite imagine: her coolly knowing, unshocked smile. Her face was already too set in my mind, the smiles she bestowed on me today sweetness and innocence personified. She blurred in my mind. And then I realised the smile had always belonged to another: my dear, departed wife. It's a strange feeling, to recoil from your own mind, and I believe it manifested as a visible flinch. I shifted position, as if that was all it was.
“An interesting choice of poet,” I said hastily, to distract us both. “But really I think you need the context to truly understand those lines. Owning neither his past, nor his future, all the speaker feels able to offer the lady is his present. Like many of his poems, that one is an anthem against conventional notions of constancy. And a reminder of the importance of, err, these live-long minutes.”
The perfect love poem, really, for a roue like me. In later life, however, he (like I) would come even to doubt to value of the present minute. But for the moment it was probably a sufficiently romantic idea for my companion. And what is the art of seduction after all, but a performance aimed at convincing someone that a fleeting moment is worth the price one pays for it? Which, incidentally, it never is.
I had been so distracted by obscenity, poetry and the past that it took me a moment to catch her embarrassment. But there had, after all, been a shy little compliment hidden in her words, and also, I thought, a trace of loneliness. Perfect. Just perfect. I reached across, as if impulsively, when it wasn't in the slightest, to touch her hand with mine – perfectly decorous, of course, even, I hoped, for a Ruskovian.
“I do believe it must have been fate, playing her nature false to do us a kindness,” I said. Gods, the things she made me say. I had engineered our meeting myself, and if Fate had been involved in sending my snow angel past my terrace that was surely not a kindness. “It would be my pleasure to show a little of Eisande. My estate is near, and it's very beautiful country.”
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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 Sept 19, 2011 21:57:06 GMT -5
I'd spoken my Alban rhymes in a haze – I couldn't well remember where I'd read them, in a anthology of sorts, perhaps, out of context and out of time, just like the lines I'd recited. At the time, I'd found their melancholy fitting, and I liked the sound of the alien language's song. Perhaps I aught to learn more, I decided after Gauvain explained to me his understanding of it.
Already I was flushing with pleasure, for he was a man of letters as much as he was a hero, and ah, Buyan, was there not a discipline or a talent that he did not possess? I found myself feeling a little lightheaded when he reached for my hand and was suddenly grateful that we were sitting.
Fleeting moments offered like a patch of flowers – ah, but the image was lovely, and what did he not do, but proffer them as though they were the smallest trifles.
Hand on hand, then, and I found myself transfixed, eyes in his and lips only slightly parted, utterly unable to resist him and his charm. Ah, truly, I'd wondered what had possessed my sweet brother to love a D'Angeline, but in this very moment, nothing in me would have convinced me that there was not something divine passing.
I opened my mouth to murmur, just between us, “I would love to ---”
“Kzajina,” interrupted behind us the gruff voice of Anton Illitch Borondyn. “Is late. Sovereign Duchess be waiting for you. Vikontessa Azarova also.”
It was as though an unforgiving light had suddenly been shone in the cafe, and I blinked. I'd not realized that my hand had turned under Gauvain's, palm to palm, until that very moment that my retainer spoke, as if I'd committed a terrible crime, which – oh, Buyan and bogs, I was behaving so very – like a harlot, Olya would have said.
I removed my hand as if he'd burned it, and tried to subsume the shame that was starting to consume me.
“Forgive me,” I said, “it seems I have forgotten my place and my schedule both.”
In my trouble, I was forgetting to accept his gracious invitation... which I could hardly convince myself to refuse.
But I should, I should.
Or shouldn't I?
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Sept 23, 2011 16:23:39 GMT -5
Women and poetry. It's like catnip to cats, or Aragonian fly to a man's prick. And to think I used to read the stuff for pleasure like any wilting maid. I indulged, momentarily, a pang of vicious contempt for my former self but then I felt a tremor in the hand beneath my hand and it recalled me to the present moment.
I lifted my eyes to find my angel looking directly into my face, her eyes wide and lustrous as if she beheld some miracle. I almost glanced behind me to see what was happening that entranced her so but then I realised the look was meant for me.
I've seen people look at me with desire, with acquisitiveness, with hatred, with heartbreak, with fear, with searing disdain, even, on Noelle's part, with a sort of careless affection … but this, whatever it was, this was new. She looked quite lovely while she did it, and I felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. I wanted to look away and break the moment, but I couldn't, I simply couldn't. What manner of man would win such a gaze from a woman? What manner of man would he become to deserve it?
I could tell I was blushing, and the whole thing was ludicrously awkward, but there I sat, my hand atop hers, staring into her face like I expected to see the secrets of life itself writ across her nose. And for a few seconds I think I half-believed I'd find them.
Not knowing what to do, or how this endless, gaping moment was supposed to end, I was almost grateful when the Bearman came over to drag her away from me. Everybody – my angel included – was looking as though we'd been doing the Ruskovian equivalent of shagging on the table. Oh that we had. What a dreadful country, that a woman feels ashamed to touch a man's hand.
I was conscious of some stunted thing I supposed must have been sympathy. Had I been another sort of creature, made differently, I would have liked to set her passion free. But I was fashioned for taking and breaking, and that was all I knew.
I took refuge in the forms of civility. I stood, and gave a slight bow. “It has been my pleasure, Kzajina." And then, giving her no time to refuse me, or her retainers to deny me, I added firmly: “I will call upon you in a few days time, if you are happy to receive me.” I cast a pointed look at the Bearman. “As is our custom.”
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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 Sept 24, 2011 0:20:21 GMT -5
I still felt my cheeks searing, and so I averted my eyes, but I was not acting coy – in truth I did not know how to do such a thing. Rather, I sought some manner of countenance, and decided that standing, since everyone was towering over me this instant, was the best policy.
Little did I know, after he spoke, my legs were cotton, and I was thankful that the table gave me the illusion of support, just as Borodynia took hold of my elbow and steadied me.
Oh, Buyan! He wanted to see me again, even if I'd acted every part of the fool, every single little one of them. He wanted to see me again, would visit, and seemed to be saying there was no way out of it.
Even if it was for sheer respect of a tradition I'd never heard about, the mere prospect of contemplating his intelligent eyes, of hearing his cultured voice filled me with excitement and glee. I tried not to smile wider than politeness warranted, and finally looked back at him.
Borodynia's hand under my elbow was trembling and I stayed his wrath with a small touch that was intended to reassert that I was in charge, even if he, ah, even if he really was, as far as my virtue was concerned.
“Then of course we must honor tradition,” I replied, “do send word, that I may receive you properly, if you please. It would be a shame to call and find me out.”
I tried to keep my tone even, but couldn't quite make it detached. In fact, I was almost eager to see him go, so that I might let myself go a little. The duc d'Alegre wanted to see me again, and ah, he was so utterly perfect, I could hardly believe it.
But even as I wanted to dance my excitement and sing my enthusiasm, I spoke calmly, distractedly, keeping it all contained inside, as I'd often been told I should.
Tonight, I would write a story, I knew it. All this was inspiring new epics.
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Post by Gauvain de Versac on Sept 27, 2011 6:22:23 GMT -5
“Of course,” I said, maintaining the polite formality – fiction though it was – that the Bearman seemed to expect of me.
But this was no good. It rankled that my behaviour, and hers, was being policed by a mere servant. From the way he growled in her ear and glared at me, it was apparent I could likely sink little lower in his estimation, and that, at least, was liberating. There’s something quite satisfying about living down to someone’s expectations. And it also meant that he was likely to attribute any misdemeanours to my d’Angeline depravity rather than his charge’s wilfulness.
The truth was, I had no scruples it driving a wedge between my angel and, well, anybody else who happened to get in my way but if I was going to get her into trouble it was going to be on my term, nobody’s else.
I breached the space between us, and possessed myself of her hand, half-expecting her to melt away at my touch like a snowflake, raising it swiftly to my lips. It was a chaste salute, really, just a brush of a flesh and breath, but my eyes, meeting hers, were hot with pleasure and promises.
“I look forward to it,” I said.
I released her, as if it had been nothing, but my lips burned from where they had met her skin, as though I were a heretic and she a holy relic.
When she was gone, I would write to Noelle - she would find the whole situation delicious, I knew it.
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