𝒹𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒶 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓈

Welcome to my writing blog!

Daria, 29 y.o.

I'm in love with cinema, especially with old films. 

I mostly write about my current obsessions, all of them dedicated to films and sometimes tv-shows. I have new ao3 profile where I'm publishing my works and duplicating them here. 

I make edits and I publish them on my main acc, tagged under dariasedits.

my fanfics masterlist

my edits masterlist

my ao3

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 39 (Final). Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, Op. 18: II. Adagio sostenuto (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

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Third person point of view

Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya-Lermontova were never parted. The woman had never forgotten the day when she joined his travelling ballet company of, still being unsure but full of hope of grand changes in her life, eyes filled with excitement. And impresario would always remember the moment he saw ballerina first, when she danced Odile with impossible fire, waking up his heart. He never stopped looking at his wife since then. And she danced only for her husband, when the world followed every step they made.

For every balletomane and young dancer, the couple was an unattainable myth no one could touch even if they ever dared. Names of Boris and Vasilisa were spoken together in articles of newspapers with undoubtable reverence, as every new ballet ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ was the equal power of impresario’s vision and ballerina’s flaming moves.

Countless ballets were performed: ‘La Bayadère’, ‘Scheherazade’, and ‘La Esmeralda’, the most sensual and profound performance Vasilisa had ever danced. During interviews when asked about ‘La Esmeralda’, she always said:

“To dance her properly one should have the passionate and yet, broken, haunting heart.”

Not only the classical ballets were performed by prima, as Boris and Vasilisa created new masterpieces together: ‘White Nights’, ‘The Snow Queen’ and ‘Anna Karenina’ had been discussed excitedly and breathlessly among balletomanes and critics whenever and wherever the company travelled next. Every new production was a love letter hidden in music and choreography, born in whispers of late-night conversations in the couple’s room and in every curve of Vasilisa’s silhouette by the candlelight. And every new ballet impresario and ballerina had always dedicated to one another, when the woman transformed into anything both she and her husband desired for new ballets, relying on each-others trust, devotion and love.

One of these bold steps was their ‘Serpent Dance’. Vasilisa drafted the libretto and asked Igor Stravinsky to write the music for it. But only prima ballerina was the one who choreographed the whole performance, and it turned out to be new, fresh and sharp, but at the same time too bold, unusual and erotic. Of course it was dedicated to the woman’s love: her impresario and husband Boris Lermontov.

Critics called them Paire de Platine* (*Platinum couple (fr) of the ballet: the genius and his forever muse and lifelong devoted companion. Their names and ballets were the history of the dance. But for Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya-Lermontova it was something simpler: the morning coffee in their quiet and bright Paris’ apartment, the way she looked at him with admiration and trust, their understood silence, the way he pressed his lips to her wrist before every opening night, the late hours at the studio, and soft deep talks in the night, when they both were lying in bed in hands of one another.

Boris and Vasilisa had met at a time in their lives when both seemed almost desperate for the redemption long-waited love could provide. No matter what kind of illusioned image of character both ballerina and impresario showed and millions accepted as being true one, that representation had at last played them false. They had loved one another in silence, ache and restrain, ardently and irreversibly. And now they finally loved freely, just like two Russian hearts that had finally melted, no longer being afraid that love could destroy their art, as it became clear that it was, indeed, love that deepened art of the ballet.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 38. Symphony No. 4 In F Minor, Op. 36 – 1. Andante sostenuto – Moderato con anima – Moderato assai, quasi Andante – Allegro vivo (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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Third person point of view

The air of the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow was filled with expectations and whispers of balletomanes and general public who came to the opening night to see the most personal and profound ballet of Boris Lermontov’s company, where his wife, Vasilisa Novinskaya-Lermontova, would be crowned as Tsaritsa.

But in the eyes and inside the heart of impresario, the ballerina was already his queen, the real queen of his heart. And that night her dress represented every aspect of it: crimson velvet bodice, corset-fitted, like imperial armor with golden embroidery resembling the silhouette of a double-headed eagle over it. Romantic tutu was layered in red and black chiffon, hand-painted with hints of fire flames, as the representation of power of reign and passion of love.

Epaulettes with sheer gauze sleeves decorated ballerina’s shoulders, her long hair decorated with jeweled kokoshnik as the representation of history and culture of her origins. Gold chocker, decorated with ruby and pearls, and engraved arm cuffs decorated the woman’s neck and wrists, ballet shoes, dyed with same rich colour were now on her small toes as she made final steps of warming up before entering the stage as if it was her kingdom.

It was, indeed, Vasilisa’s truthful kingdom, but her grey-green eyes neither for the public, nor for her ballet partner, not even for the limelight: they were always searching for her husband, the one who shaped her into what she was destined to be, exposing one another’s soul and heart, fearlessly and tenderly.

And of course the woman knew where to find ‘The Genius Tyrant’ as she could feel captivating lingering gaze of grey eyes even behind closed velvet curtains, across the orchestra pit and darkness of theatre’s space, which stopped their breaths before the triumphal of the dance. Boris Lermontov was sitting in the private box, where peeping eyes of balletomanes couldn’t see neither him nor his wife when they attended operas and theatrical performances around the world. But beautiful eyes of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’, and the man knew it with every sense he once buried, would always find the right path to him.

His hands, folded tightly before his mouth, were now trembling slightly: he had seen her dance endless times, but that night at the Bolshoi Theatre and their first performance of ‘Tsaritsa’ were their story, their dedication to united love and acquired long-awaited happiness after their sufferings of restrain and suppression.

And when red velvet curtains had finally opened and the first notes of Dmitry Shostakovich’s music for ‘Tsaritsa’ filled the space, Boris’s heart began to pound even louder that the music: Vasilisa entered the stage as if the melody was drawn from her elegant moves and sharp fouettés, eyes shining with extasy of the dance, heart burning with violent fire of passion and desire. The stage belonged to the ballerina utterly, and so did the story of despair and the rise of luminous and unbroken tsarina. She moved as strong as an armor, as soft as the silk, as sharp as thorns of the rose, her body both the steel and the wind.

And her eyes were looking towards her husband through entire performance. From first arabesques and pas de deux to the final significant fouettés, Vasilisa Novinskaya-Lermontova danced not for critics or balletomanes but, as always, only for Boris Lermontov. Every gesture of longing, every impossible lift carried their love: tendered confession, the passion of the first kiss in Venice, the quiet wedding, nights and mornings spent together, their trust and devotion. For them not any other soul existed.

Thunderous applause stormed even before the music ended, echoing across the walls of the theatre. White roses, purple peonies and soft pink eustomas rained from every corner, filling the stage like the softest carpet. Boris didn’t move as if he was petrified with what he had just witnessed. He could only look at his wife, as the limelight caught Vasilisa’s glimmering eyes, her body and heart trembled with excitement, chest rose and fell with a deep breath.

She bowed once, and when she rose her eyes – they found the softest glance of her husband’s grey gaze. Soft smiles passed between the couple like the whisper of gratitude and admiration. That night they had danced for each other in their own beautiful way.

Of course, there would be new ballets and opening nights. And after triumphant ‘Tsaritsa’ maestro Shostakovich would write the music for their dance adaptation of ‘The Idiot’, inspired by immortal novel of Fyodor Dostoevsky, where Vasilisa would be Nastasya Filippovna, as it was her desire to dance such complex character. Every vision of Boris and Vasilisa would become a masterpiece, but for then, on that opening night, under the limelight of the Bolshoi Theatre, Tsarina truly took the throne of the stage, together with her Tsar.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 37. The Gadfly Suite, Op. 97a – Romance (Dmitri Shostakovich)

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Third person point of view

Vasilisa Novinskaya had danced the swan, the ghost of naïve peasant girl, the mermaid and the countess, but when the most tender and memorable day for both of them had finally come, the woman was accepting, with great pleasure and joy, the most important and significant role she had ever dared to imagine: the wife of Boris Lermontov.

One morning, under still warm sunlight of October, during their wedding ceremony, impresario

recalled how ballerina changed her surname from Acton to Novinskaya when she joined his company. He knew it had been made as the dedication to late Anastasia Nikolaevna Novinskaya, her grandmother and famous prima of Mariinsky Theatre. But from now on Vasilisa’s surname became double: Novinskaya-Lermontova.

They were wed in the chapel close to one of the picturesque areas of Venice, hidden from peeping eyes, The Church of San Clemente, close to the water, which soothing sound could be heard outside. Only the closest people from the ballet company attended the ceremony: the ballet master Grischa and ballerina’s dance partner Ivan, set designer Livy, and Vasilisa’s closest friends Lida, Olga and Kathy Delve, who arrived to Venice with the first morning train, straight from London.

The church seemed to stand outside of time itself, where the marble floor, white decorated walls and captivating fresco on the ceiling and light, filtering through stained glass windows in soft hues, were holding the whisper of vows of the past and the senses of devotion and sacredness.

Vasilisa looked graceful and almost luminous in her wedding dress, designed especially for her by Pierre Balmain: silk satin gown with long laced sleeves, fitted bodice and bateau neckline. Layers of georgette and organza were catching the weightless essence of prima ballerina and fingertip veil, fastened with pearled Juliet cap, framing the woman’s long brown hair in soft waves. Pearl earrings and bouquet of dusty-pink eustomas were the final elements of her captivating appearance.

Boris, his hand holding hers in front of the altar, was wearing classic black tuxedo with satin peak lapels, ivory bow tie and dress shirt, boutonnière with white eustoma on the jacket as the reverence to the bride, glancing at the woman with an awe that made his heart ache. And when the priest declared them husband and wife, impresario leaned and kissed Vasilisa softly, as if he had realised that he had been waiting for her for all his life. And she looked at him as she had never looked before, with the assurance that she would never let him go.

After vows were pronounced under the breath, when the church fell silent except for the soothing sound of waves outside, the couple stepped out into the fresh air, arm-in-arm, fragrant with the scent of autumn leaves and Piave rivers, leaving behind the congratulations and soft smiles of the guests. It felt like they were in the secret garden, performing the most intimate, personal and sacred ballet they had ever created together when they were walking down the stairs of The Church of San Clemente.

Though the ceremony was small and quiet, art section of the evening newspapers was full of articles about their wedding. Boris and Vasilisa never minded it. They never minded others who looked at them when the couple found a quiet table in the corner near the window at Caffè Florian where they decided to celebrate.

And when people were clapping them, captivated by their luminal presence, as the couple was waltzing outside the Caffè, close to each other, to the song of Dinah Shore ‘Anniversary Song’ playing inside – Lermontov and Novinskaya-Lermontova never minded that either. The world seemed to linger just them two, welcoming new life-long performance to unfold in reverence to Boris and Vasilisa.

Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed

We vowed our true love though a word wasn’t said

The world was in bloom, there were stars in the skies

Except for the few that were there in your eyes

Dear, as I held you so close in my arms

Angels were singing a hymn to your charms

Two hearts gently beating were murmuring low

My darling, I love you so

The couple was inseparable since their wedding day. They settled down in great apartment in Paris with a view on the Eiffel Tower, but Vasilisa and Boris were always on suitcases, as the company was never at ease, always moving, always travelling with new performances to various countries and continents, and it was the normal life as husband and wife and as impresario and prima ballerina, it was something that both of them could never leave. They’ve travelled to Vienna, London, New York, and Paris together. And, once, in the end of 1948, with ‘The Queen of Spades’, ‘Don Quixote’, ‘The Golden Age’ and ‘The Nutcracker’ in their repertoire, the company had finally arrived to Saint Petersburg.

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Vasilisa’s first-person point of view.

December had always been the most magical time of the year for me. The world was becoming quieter, people more tender, the spell of approaching Christmas and New Year is swirling in the air together with snowflakes. I used to dance a role of Clara in ‘The Nutcracker’ every year when I was in British Rambert, and with this production, but only under captivating eyes of my husband, we were gladly invited to continue the ballet season in Leningrad and Moscow, arriving from Vienna.

It was very unusual, even sacred, to set foot at the train station in the city where my grandmother used to dance, being prima of the Saint Petersburg Imperial Theatres. Her invisible protection and guidance filled the crispy cold air that I breathed and her voice could be heard in the silence of the hotel room, moments before I fell into the depths of dreams, head on Boris’ chest. I knew that my beloved babushka and my parents were looking down at me, they were my guarding angels. I was safe, and my soul was finally at peace.

Welcoming reception for me and my husband felt like a breath of profound history and gratitude. Snowflakes were falling outside the big wooden windows with dark-red velvet curtains in the gorgeous reception hall of the Mariinsky theatre, turning Leningrad into beautiful Russian fairytale. Before the celebrational dinner, the concert of Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s 4th and Dmitri Shostakovich’s 7th symphonies were presented to guests, conducted by maestro Shostakovich himself.

No one knew what thrill I felt when I found out that I would see one of my favourite composers with my own eyes, conducting such powerful and breathtaking symphonies, no one but Boris, who at that time got to know my inner soul entirely. And perhaps, he heard how my heart began to beat faster with every new step we made towards our private box.

My glance fell on us in the reflection of the mirror before we entered the space: I was wearing black evening gown in a deep jewel tone with fitted bodice and fluid skirt below. Pearls were in my ears and on my neck, when a brooch in a shape of the star, the dearest gift from Boris decorated my dress, settling close to my heart. Long brown hair was in a polished updo, when hands in opera gloves, were arm-in-arm with my husband. When my husband, as always, was the anchor to me, always polished and classy in his black tuxedo, crisp white shirt and black bow tie.

And I could finally understand why papers were writing about the power that we were holding in our silent presence as I sensed it myself, under the light of chandeliers, where the air was filled with tensed expectation of magic to be revealed. And Boris was always there with me, even when I was rehearsing: he was always watching me, as if it was a reminder that no matter what rooms we entered, we did so together, not as impresario and ballerina, but as equal partners, as husband and wife. 

Shivers ran down my spine when the first triumphant notes of the music sounded in my ears, and my watered eyes lingered on the conduction of Dmitri Shostakovich and how he masterfully controlled the baton in his hands, how the orchestra followed his directions, driven with tremendous force of performing the symphony.

As my mind was transporting me into the world outside of theatre, back to the past, to the place, where mine and my husband’s roots came, in the huge and gorgeous lands of Tsars and Tsarinas, I sensed Boris’ hand covering mine, his grasp soft yet confident. I turned to look at him, when his eyes were already on me. He looked as if he wanted to reassure himself of something that was on his mind, and I understood this glance almost immediately: the desire to create new ballet, inspired by Tchaikovsky’s 4th symphony, captivated the mind of my husband. And I was his silent supporter of this mutual alliance as our minds, as well as senses, had become equal when we pronounced our vows one sunny October morning somewhere in Venice.

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Snowflakes were still falling from the night sky, as if there were some kind of winter fireflies, when guests were gathering for the welcoming dinner after the concert. I was standing in front of the big windows with long dark-red velvet curtains in the gorgeous reception hall of the Mariinsky theatre, glancing at the scenery outside the theatre, when a vision of myself appeared in the whirlwind of snow and tremendous music of the symphony ran through my veins. I was in the red tutu with big epaulettes and the crown on the head, dancing elegantly through fire and sorrow, commanding the army, torn between love and duty, between being who people needed and who I really was. Strong and delicate, fearless and respected. And the ballet would tell a tale of destiny, passion and sacrifice. It would tell a story of Tsaritsa.

This would be the deepest, the most profound and personal work me and Boris would ever create together. And as if by the inner command inside my head, my husband appeared in the refection of the window, coming closer to me and kissing my hand where the pulse was beating passionately.

“You will be Tsaritsa, Vasilisa”, thumb brushed knuckles of my hand accurately, though the restrain of kissing deeply in front of the guests was unbearable for both of us.

Tsaritsa.

My heart dropped inside the chest with loud echo right after I heard him pronouncing this title. I had been waiting to dance her. Perhaps for my whole life. For a second all the voices of guests muffled down, when only our words remained, the same way as it happened the second time I met Boris, at Savoy, in springtime when first sparkles ignited inside our hearts.

“I knew you would read my mind one day”, I smiled gently at him, meeting the gaze of his captivating grey eyes, fingers of our hands laced fully together, no longer restrained by any kind of circumstances.

His eyes, which used to always search for hidden truth inside myself, were know sure and confident, because both of us had finally opened our souls to each other, fully, without doubt and fear, and love pounded between us like steady endless stream.

“And I’m glad you let me do so, my dear”, the whisper of man’s rich sonorous voice sounded even softer than silk, when cold shivers ran down my spine as if it were millions of snowflakes.

We were soon invited to dinner, which was set for guests in the big hall with portraits of famous Russian ballerinas, theatre actors, opera singers and composers on the walls, decorated with small candle lamps, ceiling decorated with gorgeous mural with angels. Long table, with variety of dishes of meat and fish with vegetables, fruits in decorative crystal vases, and bottles of champagne, was standing in the middle of the hall, and when me and Boris reached our seats, it turned out that I was placed between my husband and Dmitry Shostakovich. If it was not a destiny than I didn’t really know how to explain such coincidence.

At first the man was observant, composed, as if he was writing the music for new production inside his head already. But when the champagne and food were served, welcoming speeches were pronounced, glasses clinked, small conversations began, that was the time when composer turned to us:

“I have seen your ‘The Queen of Spades’”, Shostakovich began, “And I must say that I don’t remember when was the last time I was overwhelmed like that, perhaps, never”

Composer’s voice was quiet though sharp and confident, the one that belongs to very intelligent man. His eyes lingered on me as he nodded slightly, as if in gratitude:

“You’re truly the queen of the stage, missis Lermontova. And my compliments on the music. Igor Stravinsky captivated your gorgeous dance ideally: haunting and captivating at the same time”

Boris smiled, and placed his hand on mine, which was rested on the table, with that smile of his he kept for close friends and members of the company:

“We’re glad and pleased to hear it, mister Shostakovich”, he squeezed my hand slightly, as if he wanted to reassure me that our private talk about dream project of us could now become true, “And we’re hoping that you’ll like our interpretation of your ‘The Golden Age’ ballet.”

“Yes, I am eager to see it”, composer smiled excitedly, and it made my heart skip a beat of anxiety and fear what he would think of my performance, “And it’s always inspiring to see your own project under fresh air of innovation.”

He then leaned closer to us, eyes shining behind his glasses with a light of mischief:

“And I would love to write new ballet for you precisely…If you have something in your mind, of course”

My breath caught somewhere after his words. Dmitry Shostakovich, my most favourite composer whose symphonies I listened breathlessly, wanted to write a music for the ballet my husband would make and I would dance with sinking heart. That was beyond my wildest imagination.

“Oh, we always have new productions in the head, mister Shostakovich”, Boris smiled with a small laugh. I bet he knew that the composer would say his offer, as I believed, the man could always read someone’s mind, but never mine before I let him.

“And I hope you know what we’re always searching for in the ballets we make”, he finished, still holding my hand, brushing knuckles with his thumb.

Dmitry Shostakovich smiles understandingly, the sparkle in his eyes was still lingering behind his glasses. 

“Oh yes, and I see where you find your greatest inspiration, mister Lermontov”

Composer’s gaze returned to me, and for a moment it felt that composer understood me and my impresario without words, just by looking at us. It was the man who would capture sacrifice, triumph, love and devotion between me and Boris in the notes of his haunting and monumental music. My husband leaned closer to me, and said with his low, always captivating voice, intimately, fingers laced fully with mine:

“You know, my dear Vasya, that ‘Tsaritsa’ will be merciless for both of us.”

I finally met my husband’s eyes: the once cold grey eyes of the man who had been my restrained love and impossible longing were now burning with desire and passion. I was not afraid anymore, and Boris knew it: I was always ready for challenges especially when they were groundbreaking and devouring:

“Then let us be merciless, Boris”, I whispered, grabbing his hand confidently.

The space was filled with sounds of evening celebration once again: voices, laughter and clinking glasses were floating in the air with magical feeling of upcoming New Year and Christmas, but Boris and I remained inside our own quietness of the triumph and anticipation of creating the most personal ballet that we had ever made.

The night seemed to fade into blossoming dawn

The sun shone anew but the dance lingered on

Could we but relive that sweet moment sublime

We’d find that our love is unaltered by time

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We left the reception with a soft hush, wrapped in coats and peace of knowing that our ideas were gradually taking shape. The snow brushed my cheeks with cold, covering the road and roofs with white blanket and muffling the noise of our steps and passing cars.

Boris opened the door of the automobile, letting me inside, his hand on my back as if protecting me from the snowstorm outside, when I carried it with me, this certainty that tendered and caring love was not the distraction of creating the art of the ballet, but in our case, being the part of it.

“He’s not afraid. He sees you, Vasya”, babushka’s voice whispered in my head words she said to me before the train drove me from her towards then unknown word of Boris’ ballet company. How right was she, in everything she said and taught me.

The car was gliding through the night streets of Saint Petersburg with frozen canals, beautiful bridges and captivating statues of lions which protected the city’s sleep. And we were a part of this mysterious fairy tale, ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’.

I turned my head to my husband, and he was already looking at me, telling me the story just with the look of grey captivating eyes. When our eyes met, I knew that his glance could read the depths of my soul and I gladly let it to, without hesitation, because I knew that Boris would understand me without words, listening to the beat of my heart.

“I will never stop dancing for you, Boris”, I whispered as if it was the most precious spell, just for two of us, as we knew the value of the passion towards the ballet, which would always be a significant part of ourselves, until the day we die. Oh, how deep and warm were his eyes then, burning with fire of tenderness towards me, openly, without restrain that we buried on our wedding day.

He kissed my opened palm and closed it accurately, as if he wanted to keep his sweetest kiss in my hand longer.

“And I will never stop creating for you, my dear Vasya”, his sonorous voice sounded like the melody, whisper even, the whisper of promise we would both keep, as well as our love.

I leaned on Boris’ shoulder and closed my eyes; fingers of our hands intertwined as the sign of secured reassurance. He was there, close to me. We had shared ballets together, and now we were sharing our love. It was the beginning of new chapter, written in tenderness and passion, shared forever by the two Russian souls united together by love and art.

Dear, as I held you so close in my arms

Angels were singing a hymn to your charms

Two hearts gently beating were murmuring low

My darling, I love you so

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 36. The Sleeping Beauty, Op. 66, Act 2 “The Vision”: No. 17, Panorama (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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Third person point of view

Quiet morning seeped through the curtains, just like the hush of the empty stage after the ballet performance, into the hotel room of Boris Lermontov. Not even the sound of people walking outside, stepping on cobblestone or gondoliers who began to sing their captivating Italian songs would disturb the stillness of those precious moments between the dream and the real world before waking up completely. Especially after the most memorable night ballerina and impresario shared together.

The man opened his eyes, still heavy with night’s dust, and within few moments the gaze found Vasilisa, as she lay curled up next to him, breathing slowly. Lermontov’s grey eyes studied her face with precise accuracy, trying to memorise every detail, how still it was, how her long brown hair tousled along the pillow like the sea waves, how few strands covered cheeks and eyes, how she folded her hands under the cheek, just like she always did when sleeping.

Boris leaned forward and accurately put strands of her hair off the face, brushing cheek softly with his fingers. Woman’s eyes fluttered open slowly, as if the swan was waking up from the deathly sleep, back to life. How deeply green they seemed then, as if they knew everything the world was holding in its shadows and deepest oceans.

Their eyes met with the softened look when both of them realised that they truly saw one another. And how sacred it seemed then, this magical moment of looking at someone being so unguarded, so close to the heart as never before. It was the purest beauty they cherished: that neither the mystery nor unspoken secrets would disturb their quiet happiness which they finally acquired.

“You awake”, Lermontov’s words seemed more like a warm matter of fact rather than a question, soothing smile appeared on the man’s face.

Vasilisa lifted slightly; sleepy eyes were finally awakening, body aching pleasantly from most precious feeling of having been cherished by someone she loved:

“I don’t want to miss a moment”, her voice still hoarse from the dream that lingered around her like the perfume.

“We’ll have the whole time of the universe, my dear”, Boris leaned and kissed the corner of the woman’s mouth, sweet as honey.

Ballerina smiled softly, placing her hand on the man’s cheek. How close they were now, when the distance finally disappeared with the remains of the night that changed everything between ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’. She then rose, wrapping bare shoulders in the robe, and walked quietly, as if she was moving en pointe, and stood in front of the big window, opening it slightly to welcome the autumnal air to fill the room.

She stood still for some time, like the statue of renaissance epoque, untouchable and priceless, dark brown hair falling softly down her back, weightless sunlight falling on her bare shoulders, hands around the waist. Her close presence left Boris almost breathless, the same way he felt whenever ballerina was on the stage, right from the first time he saw her, performing in ‘Swan Lake’. Her body was holding the secret beyond this world, the mystery which would be a part of her persona, even for the man, who desired to be fully hers from now on. Vasilisa Novinskaya would always be the myth.

Without turning the gaze of grey eyes away, Boris put on the robe and reached the woman, wrapping his arms around her from behind, kissing her accurate elegant neck.

“I can’t get rid of the fear of losing you”, the man whispered, burying his muffled voice in Vasilisa’s hair, “The fear that one day you will vanish…”

It was the confession the man was afraid to say out loud, this thought that felt too heavy inside his chest, was still trying to darken everything he was about to create together with Vasilisa. The woman tensed up for a slight moment, as if before performing fouettés, and turned her head towards impresario:

“But I’m not drowning anymore…”, her voice was warm and slightly hoarse from recent awakening. Her hands only tightened their grip on impresario’s arms, which he wrapped around her like a shield.

With a quiet sigh the man kissed ballerina’s shoulder, though his heart ached with the memory of that day, when he saw her laying in hospital’s bed, after the stormy night filled with turmoil of dark emotions of their hearts.

And Vasilisa sensed this fracture beneath impresario’s strength, and she said softly, as if protecting themselves:

“You don’t have to be careful with me, Boris”, her voice was soothing and reassuring, “Not anymore”

“Oh, Vasya…”, his rich sonorous voice seemed even deeper, as he tightened the grip of his hands around her, as if protecting from the whole world, “I will never let you go”

This stillness and comfort of everything that surrounded them seemed so familiar to Vasilisa: the same warmth that sparkled at first when she suddenly fell asleep in Boris’ cabin on their way to Paris. Everything started there, under the dimmed light of the lamps and soothing sound of train wheels’ rattling. That night her eyes were studying the man’s face secretly, but now they were looking at him openly, without pretending anymore. His beautiful hands, restrained then were now covering her body like wings.

No words could possibly capture their quiet relief that finally fulfilled their souls, when the desperate ache of being together despite strict discipline and restrain of the ballet world seemed to vanish.

Of course, the company had been waiting for them for the celebratory breakfast and upcoming journeys of performances. Of course, the world of ballet would remain, as forceful as ever, but from that night the world for Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov would be different: more sacred and tendered. Just like new ballets, new seasons and premiere nights – everything would be shared only between two of them.

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The great and gorgeous antique dining room of Baglioni Hotel Luna was filled with quiet whispers of guests, ringing sound of porcelain cups and divine smell of freshly poured coffee filled the air of unique perfume.

Dancers and members of the crew were sitting around big table with white linen and silver cutlery and steaming coffee pots, freshly baked sfogliatella pastries in the basket. Iced bucket with champagne bottle stood near the table, glasses of celebrational drink shining brightly under the sunlight from opened windows.

Someone was talking quietly about the triumph of ‘The Queen of Spades’, someone was reading an article from morning newspapers out loud, but they all fell gradually silent when they saw Boris and Vasilisa entering the room together. In that moment everyone knew that they were witnessing something extremely new, as if the air itself shifted when ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ were coming towards the table, rhythmically choreographed, but this time these were the moves of serenity.

The ballet company noticed that something shifted radically between impresario and prima: the space between them was more intimate, while their bodies seemed to radiate soft and tendered energy that only people in deep love could. It was something the crew had secretly hoped for.

And how elegant they looked together: ballerina was in her tea-length emerald dress with flared skirt, warm black peplum jacket covered her shoulders, black leather gloves in her hand. Small tilt black hat with white ribbon was the final charming detail of the look. When impresario was wearing charcoal grey double-breasted suit with broad shoulders and tapered trousers with felt hamburg hat and leather gloves. Camel hair overcoat was in his hand: the couple was planning to have a stroll around the center after the breakfast.

Boris pulled out chair for Vasilisa to sit near him, hand gently held her lower back. As they sat, side by side, the man’s hand found hers on the table’s surface, and she turned her palm up to meet his, without hesitation, as if it was their secret language.

Everything in their small moves was holding the deep understanding without words and tenderness that they were not hiding now: how he poured a coffee into her porcelain cup without asking, the way their fingers touched when she passed him the basket with pastry, everything was speaking about the world they shared together.

And when Lermontov opened the newspaper, reading the reviews of critics, Vasilisa caught Grischa’s winking at her, smiling cunningly. But she just theatrically looked at the ballet master reproachfully, though, of course, her heart was pounding loudly with overflowing joy.

Igor Stravinsky came last, morning newspaper in his hands, nodding to company members, and when he reached the couple’s side of the table, he briefly placed a hand on Vasilisa’s shoulder.

“Bravo”, he said in triumphally, “You were extraordinary, miss Novinskaya. Imperatritsa* (*The Empress (rus)) of the stage!”

“Thank you”, the woman replied with her steady and soft voice, taking a glass of champagne in her hand.

The composer folded the newspaper accurately, and sat down, his gaze drifted towards impresario, catching Boris’ grey eyes. A glance of knowing passed between them, just like an invisible note of an approval. And impresario returned it, and glanced back at ballerina, reaching her hand once again, fingers intertwined neatly.

Throughout the whole whirlwind of cheerful breakfast of the company, the woman felt her heart fluttering in a way it had never done before, more reverently and loudly, whenever thoughts of pure happiness devoured her mind, happiness, which was free at last, for both her and impresario. When for the man every touch of her delicate fingers, every soft glance of grey-green eyes, every small gesture reminded him of what he had finally found. It was the purest and deepest soul of the one who he ardently loved.

And even in the buzzing noise of conversations, laughs, toasts and clinking glasses, it seemed like Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov had their own quiet and more intimate celebration of something deeper than success of the ballet.

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The porter opened the hotel doors, escorting ballerina and impresario towards the sunlight of Venetian autumnal day, just like velvet curtains were finally opened before the audience of the opening night. The air carried the scent of the water in the canals and the gentle sound of gondolas sliding through.

Without saying a word to photographers and reporters gathering in front of the entrance like annoying flies, but only giving polite smiles and nods, ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ began their stroll along the canals, the man’s hand around Vasilisa’s waist, her head leaning on him, as if she had finally found the anchor. Though it felt like they were always belonging to each other – for Vasilisa and Boris this simple act felt more significant, as they were finally unafraid of showing their certainty of their love to one another and to the whole world.

And as passersby glanced curiously at them, the couple didn’t care about other people either. Let them see it, let them see their gossips and guesses becoming true, at last. Neither ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ nor ‘The Genius Tyrant’ cared about what others were thinking about them, not before and not now. Let the world be the audience witnessing the sacredness of it.

During that sunny day it felt like the city itself existed solely to hold the two of them together. And when the couple settled into the gondola, Vasilisa leaning slightly into Boris, being protected by his strong embrace, their united perfumes creating unique and deep smell, sweet and sour at the same time, Venice became the stage of their own performance of love and devotion, the silent promise of eternity.

In one moment, silently, ballerina raised her head and looked at impresario, as if being afraid that she had dreamed everything. But he was there, close to her, his breath choreographed in unison to hers, when her body was dissolving in his strong embrace gladly. The woman touched his cheek, accurately, vanishing inside Boris’ grey captivating yes. Features of the man’s face had smoothed under the sunlight, even eyes were now burning with softest light as of the candle. Warm smile was on the man’s face, which Vasilisa always found beautiful.

She trusted him, more than she had ever allowed herself to trust someone like that. And it was equal, as Lermontov felt the same way. He leaned and kissed her closed eyes, holding her even more tight, as if being afraid to let her go, fearing that the ballerina would turn into the little mermaid and disappear under the deepest and coldest sea. But such thoughts were erased gradually as Vasilisa put her head on Boris’ chest, listening to his heart beating at unison with hers, desiring to stay with the man forever, gliding through the soft waters to the destination somewhere beyond the world.

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The celebrational dinner of the ballet company, with laughter, clinking glasses of champagne and congratulations in Russian, French and even in Italian, transformed into the third and final act as the stillness and sacredness of the night approached Vasilisa and Boris with a soft hush.

They entered Lermontov’s hotel room quietly, though the echo of their shared laughter during dinner lingered in the silvery patterns of the moonlight, seeping through tulle curtains. The couple stood near the big window, where the silver light touched ballerina’s hair and made her skin look almost transparent.

Perhaps, they still couldn’t believe that they were finally together, united not only with their love towards ballet, but more importantly, their love towards each other, with equal thoughts and desires. And when hands of ballerina and impresario met, in the darkness of the hotel room, it felt like the electric current ran between them. Their first shared night seemed like the flame of devotion, rushing with their confession and deep desire to be as close as never before, destroying the restrain they had had for far too long. But now it was different: softer and slower, deeper and more sacred.

Finally, as if driven by the invisible force, they turned to each other, wishes of their souls lingering in the corner of lips, waiting to be pronounced out loud. With a soft smile, Vasilisa raised her hand, tracing Boris’ cheek, then lower, until the palm was resting over his heart, hearing how it pounded loudly, so close to the woman.

“Boris…”

For ballerina his name was no longer something she had to whisper. She didn’t need to reassure herself of his closeness any longer. And in that dimmed light of the moon he looked younger, almost boyish, without the weight he carried so elegantly in the daylight.

“Yes, my dear?”, impresario’s voice, so rich and sonorous, sounded just like the silk inside the ears.

The woman placed her second hand over the one on the man’s chest, her own heart pounding as fast as never before:

“Do you know that I’m not afraid of loving you any longer?”, she whispered as if to herself, but her eyes, her grey-green eyes were then glittering with the same sparkle of pure joy they were holding every time when the woman was on the stage. But now they had been at Boris Lermontov.

The man smiled, touching her check with the back of his fingers, as if he still couldn’t really believe that this beautiful creature was ever real. The woman’s breath caught for a slight moment as she leaned into impresario’s hand as if it was the feather, and then, slowly, she reached up and covered his fingers with hers.

They leaned into each other, foreheads touching and heartbeats choreographed under their breaths, when the world beyond the room seemed to fade into nothingness.

“I love you, Vasilisa”, Boris whispered under his breath as if it was the most dangerous and powerful spell on Earth.

The kiss that followed was the passion itself, deeper, full of every word they had to keep inside their souls, every moment the couple shared in silence behind curtain calls, rehearsals, interviews and travels, their secret deep glances, the ache inside chests when they saw each other. Everything had finally opened.

The man was holding the woman close, one arm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. Ballerina melted into his embrace and into heart. Boris Lermontov was once Vasilisa Novinskaya’s impresario, then her secret and deepest love, and now, he was more than either of them had dared to admit until last night that united their souls together. They had finally found one another after an endless separation, kisses never leaving their lips.

Venetian night was holding them not as prima ballerina and impresario, not as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’, not even as lovers, but as two souls who had waited through seasons of silence, longing and despair and had finally found the peace, sharing breaths, low whispers of names and the choreographed extasy of desiring the same wishes. And it belonged only to Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 35. The Nutcracker, Op. 71, TH. 14 / Act 2 – No. 14a Pas de deux: Intrada (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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Third person point of view

Their eyes met instantly even in the darkness of autumn evening, and everything reflected there: their notes and letters to each other, long glances, secret tenderness, the tensed silence and restrain which was now trembling on the edge of being destroyed. Vasilisa stood in front of the man, catching her breath, when Boris looked like he had been waiting for the woman forever.

“You found the note”, the man said confidently, with his rich sonorous voice, never leaving the gaze off the ballerina. It wasn’t a question, but the confirmation, as it was written in the eyes of the woman.

“I never knew…”, Vasilisa replied under her breath, voice was hoars because of running, “…We were so cold…”

The couple just stood there in front of each other on the white stoned bridge, and it felt like the whole lifetime passed through them, still uncertain how to begin their pas de deux. Then, impresario slowly opened his arms, and ballerina sank into his strong embrace, desiring to dissolve completely in the whirlwind of tendered sensation between them.

“Oh, Vasya, how blind we were, how blind I was”, Boris stroke Vasilisa’s soft long hair, as if it was the wave of the sea, “I thought I was protecting us from love, from its distraction, not realising how hot our hearts were burning towards each other, hotter than the ballet and all the tinsel around it”

The woman raised her head, eyes glittering under the dimmed light of the street lamps. The man released ballerina from his embrace and she stepped back slightly, as if protecting herself from her own dreams. The blow of the wind rustled dry fallen leaves on the paving stones, as if it was the whisper of the Venetian autumn itself, the smell of Vasilisa’s perfume sounded dearly with its notes, too similar to Lermontov’s memory: mandarin, rose and bergamot.

“I thought that I could love only the ballet”, she was running out of breath as if she’d been dancing her 33 perfect fouettés, eyes fixated on Boris’ face, “That the only cold blood is running through my veins, that I am, truly, ‘Ledenaya Tsaritsa’…”

Impresario, without hesitation, stepped closer, taking Vasilisa’s hands in his, gently brushing thumbs along their surface. Only then he heard how loudly his heart was beating inside the chest.

“You never truly were ‘Ledenaya Tsaritsa’, my dear Vasya”, the voice was rich and deep, sounding like the soft whisper of the fairytale, “You were just waiting for someone who could discover burning fire inside your heart”

Vasilisa shook her head slightly, by the instinct, as if she was acting on the stage of her own ballet production, her dying swan for Lermontov’s eyes to see:

“Do you still think that we are able to continue believing in absence of care about love outside the stage, Boris?”, she raised her eyes filled with uncertainty and fear, “Do you still think that we were meant to be alone for the sake of art?”

With a soft smile the man accurately cupped her beautiful face in his hands, brushing cheeks softly, when ballerina placed her hands on his chest, accurately, as if any sharp movement would break everything. In that moment they were so close to each other as they had ever been before:

“No. Not anymore. We don’t need to choose between the art and love. We are the art, Vasilisa”

When ‘The Genius Tyrant’ leaned closer to ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’, miss Novinskaya closed her eyes, hoping tears won’t come from them, fingers trembling slightly. Their lips finally met with accurate precision as if the destiny itself choreographed this precious moment between them. How many days and nights they spent hiding the truth, putting masks of formality and discipline on their faces, building walls around their buried heart. But the love was now glowing in their warm glances, soft touches and rhythmic heartbeats.

Ballerina and impresario carried the deny and restrain for too long. And now they were surrendering with the kiss which became the pathway to one another, like the pathway to something most daring and challenging, most ecstatic and tendered, most longing and most devouring.

Boris kissed Vasilisa slowly and reverently, as if it was the confession he had been afraid to say had found its voice in the end, and the woman kissed him back as if she was finally breathing after eternity she had spent underwater. The sweetness of honey united together with salty taste of the sea waves, his hands cupped her face as if the man feared that his ballerina would drown or vanish, fingertips burning warmly under the softness of the cheeks.

John Farnley was right after all: two Russian lonely souls had finally found the right connection. But, of course, it was a lot more than that: whatever souls of Boris and Vasilisa were made of, they were the same. When their lips parted, hearts beating in the same rhythm of devotion and desire, his forehead pressed to hers, the time of Venetian night stopped somewhere between sensation and sacredness.

“I hope you’re not mistaken about your choice this time”, Victoria’s voice sounded inside impresario’s head, as if Venetian wind brough them from the past long forgotten.

“Oh, no, missis Craster”, the man thought to himself, looking admiringly at Vasilisa’s beautiful face, before putting his strong arms around her, “And I gained so much more than I’d ever dare to imagine”

Vasilisa just leaned her head against the man’s chest, hearing his heartbeat as if it was new haunting but beautiful music for the ballet.

“I told you before that you were made for more than the stage, my dearest, and I meant every word of it”, impresario’s voice broke through the woman’s daydreaming. How soft his voice felt then, as if it was the night whisper of the quiet sea shore, or the touch of softest silk.

“I remember it, Boris”, ballerina whispered, perhaps, only for herself, though these words felt like sharp shattered pieces of an iceberg, “I was just too afraid to believe you then”

Heavy silence of a doubt fell on Lermontov’s shoulders: how could he prove to her his love, blossoming strongly inside the soul, how could she forgive him for everything the man had said and done, unintentionally, maybe, but disastrous. Only by the actions, with the help of time which from now on would stop somewhere in eternity only for two of them.

“You’re fully mine, Vasilisa Novinskaya”, the man’s voice was low and confident, his hands stroking ballerina’s hair, “Not as prima ballerina, not as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’. But as the woman you truly are”.

When the woman heard these words, she raised the head abruptly, eyes shining with realisation: her impresario had read the letter. Only then the ballerina realised that her impresario had read the letter.

Lermontov couldn’t possibly take his warm gaze off her. How could he ever possibly deny the love towards this woman, who was covered with his arms as if it was the shield. He had never made more tragic mistake in his life. And now the chance had been given once again, and he would not let it fly away like the gorgeous but dying swan Vasilisa once danced for him.

“And I hope that, one day, you will forgive me”, he finished quietly, eyes trying to read Vasilisa’s thoughts once again, but this time her soul was revealed in her captivating grey-green eyes glimmering with tears she tried to hide.

“Oh, Boris!”, she exhaled happily, arms wrapping around the man’s neck as if he was her anchor of protection.

Their lips united with the deepest kiss, allowing the longing to be fully fulfilled, tasting the salt of the waves on their surface, arms wrapping around each other as if they were afraid to be lost once again. The remains of the concrete walls of discipline and suppression were finally destroyed, and souls of the man and the woman were now bare opened for each other, as Boris and Vasilisa were dissolving in the autumnal mist of Venetian night, just like covering with invisible blanket of sacredness, when the dark water of the canal was shimmering mysteriously under the moonlight.

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Dimmed corridor of Baglioni Hotel Luna was holding its breath when Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya, silently, hand in hand, walked together along the pathway, followed by the deep shadows on the floor. It seemed like they were walking beyond the dreams, in another more mysterious world known only for impresario and ballerina. Their steps, synchronized with their heartbeats, were leading them, intentionally, to the door of the man’s room.

Boris hesitated for a second, glancing at the woman, but the way of how confidently Vasilisa was holding his hand, snuggling closer to him, told impresario everything. He opened the door, welcoming the night of sacredness to come inside the room together with them.

There they were now, two souls standing in the room illuminated by the moonlight breaking through the fog of the night, in the silence of anticipation which was now talking tenderly, the heartbeat whispering in their ears. Surreal mood of waiting for the inevitable set in, almost like waiting on the backstage for the opening of the curtains.

But now only the luminous truth was between them. No more pretending, no more playing roles of restrain and attitude. The world outside seemed to vanish in the fog of Venetian autumn night, leaving only impresario and ballerina behind, in their own act. The room seemed to hold the sense of a secret which would be kept forever.

Vasilisa slowly walked towards the window, as if the moonlight called for her, Boris’ grey eyes followed every move the woman made, as if he could not really believe she was there before him, his Vasilisa, his Vasya, not the untouchable prima ballerina of his company, adored by balletomanes, not ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ admired by the critics, but the woman who understood the silence and the one who had found the depths of his buried heart.

And as she was standing there, in her tutu of Queen of Spades, the man’s letter inside the cardigan’s pocket, the man could not help but notice how unreal the moonlight made her skin look: too porcelain, as if she was the statue of unreal Greek goddess. But yet for Boris Lermontov Vasilisa Novinskaya was the most real creature he had ever known.

He crossed the room slowly, steps muffled under the carpet, sensing the heat from her body, and the smell of her perfume. The ballerina didn’t turn to him, but every part of her body was feeling how the distance between them was narrowing down with every moment.

“I love you to distraction, Vasilisa”, Boris’ whisper felt almost surreal and yet it was the deepest truth, which made the woman turn and look up at him, the man who she secretly loved despite of everything she knew about him until this moment when their lives were about to be united in the most intimate way.

The woman didn’t need to reply as her grey-green eyes told everything: they were shining with the warmest light, the same one they had when ballerina was performing on stage, in the extasy of performing the art. But that night her eyes were aiming towards Boris’ grey captivating glance. Her chest was raising up and down slowly, heart pounding with long pauses waiting for the next move, lips parted slightly, her whole body was waiting for the next move, trembling invisibly.

They leaned forward to one another almost synchronously as their bodies were moving towards everything inevitable: Boris pulled Vasilisa closer to him, one hand on her cheek, another one around her waist, when the woman placed her hands on his chest to feel the loudest heartbeat of impresario’s heart. The kiss that followed was deeper and even more desperate, as if they couldn’t possibly believe that they were supposed to be separated for such a long time not being in the arms of one another.

Ballerina accurately touched impresario’s silver temples, the ones she wished to touch for too long, fingers slipping to the lines at the corners of his eyes, and the man softly kissed the corner of her lips and underside of her wrist as if both of them were memorizing touch of tenderness.

The ballet company was celebrating the success somewhere outside, in the canals of Venice, when Boris and Vasilisa had their personal world in the stillness of the hotel room, dancing with their own choreography of desire and devotion. Every new kiss was their confession, every touch was new promise, every embrace carried the ache of longing and unspoken hidden truth.

His fingers traced the curve of her bare shoulder when her black cardigan and ballet tutu fell on the carpet, she unbuttoned his shirt with slightly trembling fingers of uncertainty whether it was a dream or reality. As if to reassure herself, her hands ran through man’s soft hair, shining with silver under the moonlight, when impresario, accurately, kissed the hollow at her collarbone, as if asking for permission. Their hands were learning what their souls had always known, slowly and reverently, lips never parting for too long.

That night every part of Vasilisa Novinskaya was the purest art for Boris Lermontov.

Later, when they were laying together in bed, covered with soft blanket, breathing deeply, their bodies entwined, hearts beating as one, the world felt somewhere beyond normality. Ballerina fell asleep first, leaving her head on impresario’s chest, but the man stayed awake a little longer, his memory tracing the glimpses the movement’s she’d danced, every line of the composed music she’d embodied.

And now, she was beside him, in a hush of peace and tenderness, where their choreography finally performed their secret love which was now opened. And nothing, not their own doubts, not the other, not even the critics of the ballet world or anybody else would never shut down the love of ballerina and impresario. Three. Seven. Ace. Vasilisa. Boris. Love.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 34. Swan Lake, Op. 20 Act 1 – Scene 2: Scène (Allegro - Moderato quasi andante) (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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Curtains fell after three encore requests and suddenly, just like after the snowstorm, everything became quiet and almost sacred. Everyone stood there in silence, and only the rustle of ballet tutus disturbed the moment of realization: what the crew did on the stage of Teatro La Fenice was the haunting and breathtaking triumph. Then, just like the blow of the blizzard’s wind, the crew exploded with applauses and loud cheers.

But my heart was pounding loudly inside the corset of the Countess’ dress not because of the exhaustion. And as I was standing behind closed velvet curtains, in the middle of the celebration, hugs and bouquets of flowers from the company, body trembling from the extasy of the performance – all I could think about then was the aim to find Boris Lermontov.

He was nowhere to be seen. Neither with all the dancers and crew nor in the corridors of the theatre. Though somehow I felt his close presence: in the air hovering above, in the shadows behind the curtains, even on my skin.

“No one saw Boris”, Lida, seeing my troubled gaze, whispered into my ear as everyone began to sing old Russian songs on the background, “But he’ll come: tonight is your highest triumph, Vasya”

I couldn’t reply to my friend, as not only my voice was hoarse, but it felt like I had lost it completely, just like the little mermaid did. But that night I never felt I was about to get drowned, because my heart knew ‘The Genius Tyrant’ would save me.

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Even the air of my dressing room was trembling with electrifying thunder of the triumph, when echoes of applauses sounded loudly in my head. The space was now filled with bouquet of peonies and roses: they were on the vanity table, on the floor inside beautiful vases, perfuming the air with their sweetest smell, like the magical spell. Laughter and congratulating cheerful voices of the members of the company sounded distantly behind the closed door as if they were on another land.

I was about to take off my tutu when I glanced at the brooch on the vanity table and stopped: now the unsigned note was resting under it. And I knew it belonged to no one else but Boris. With slightly trembling fingers and heart pounding heavily I lifted the brooch, unfolded the paper and began to read:

“Я помню чудное мгновенье:

Передо мной явилась ты,

Как мимолетное виденье,

Как гений чистой красоты”

At first his words sounded more calm waves on the shore. But with every line I was reading, these waves transformed into the storm of agony of unspoken feelings.

“You belong to the dance, to the silence, to the mystery behind your eyes. And words are meaningless in comparison to what you ignited in me”

It felt like I was inside my dream, floating in the depths of Boris’ soul now, when my lungs were filled with water. His handwriting, accurate, clear and precise, the one I memorized since the invitation to the meeting in Monte Carlo, was confessing everything what my impresario had been hiding for so long: the man’s heart which was once buried.

“And yet, not your dance, but you, my dear Vasya, shifted my breath.”

Every line he wrote stitched inside my heart with threads burning with tenderness. Every pas de deux of our deep glances, suppression of secret sensation of feelings we had towards each other were true. And now the resistance was finally melting down like icy walls both of us had built around our characters.

I never noticed how tears came down my eyes, but it was the sign of the release, the sweet ache of knowing that I was never alone then. Boris Lermontov loved me. Quietly, desperately and maybe, for even longer that I allowed myself to guess. I pressed the letter against my lips, as if desired to kiss the one who sent it, sensing the faintest notes of impresario’s cologne: orange, lavender and rosemary.

“…You have changed me, with the cold silent force, and I was never the same the night I saw Odette dancing gorgeously at Mercury Theatre…”

Suddenly, the room felt too suffocated and too narrow. I couldn’t possibly stay there any longer, as my senses knew that Boris Lermontov was somewhere, waiting for me, and this anxious sensational feeling rushed through my blood like the flame. It didn’t take me too long to put on my black woolen cardigan, never caring to change my tutu but only my ballet shoes, and leave the dressing room, words from impresario’s confession burning inside heart.

“…from that moment – I was yours. Not as your impresario, not as someone in the cruel of the ballet. But as the man. The man, who is desperately and entirely in love…”

Heart beating in a rhythm with the words in the letter as my feet ran down the stairs, rushing through the corridor of theatre, where voices of cheers and clinking glasses created its own melody, out of Teatro La Fenice, to the devouring autumn night of captivating and mysterious Venice.

“…I will tell you, my dear Vasilisa, how I love you, in every possible and impossible way, how I thought I never understood. Most ardently and endlessly…”

I knew where my legs were taking me because I always knew where to find him: the white stone bridge near Palazzo Dandolo, the forgotten memory of the fairytale long gone we both shared, as deep Russian souls. It was the place where we were standing during the masquerade night, when few millimeters kept our lips apart, and the place, where I lost control of desperate emotions, thinking that everything between us was burying deeply in the dark waters.

But now it was going to be the place, where Boris’ and mine lives would never be parted. Senses screaming with anxiety, lungs caught out of breath, the wind played with my loose hair as I covered myself with cardigan, never feeling the cold, but the heat of my desire.

“…As only a Russian soul knows how to…”

Of course I found him, I always did. The man’s figure appeared standing on the bridge, looking somewhere distant, farer than the water with gondolas rocked lightly on its surface, farer than palazzos shining brightly in the night, farer than the world.

My voice, confident and loud, called for him, dissolving in the dark water of Venetian canal:

“Boris!”

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 33. Francesca da Ramini, Symphonic-Fantasy, Op. 32 (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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The dressing room smelled of peonies and Cuir de Russie and was holding the breath of anticipation and anxiety which hovered over me as if it appeared from the place beyond the common world. But this time it wasn’t pressing, but whispering, like soft wind of coming changes. The chaos of final minutes before the storm of the opening night remained behind the door, and the room was the island of security, comfort, and privacy.

Fresh bouquets of peonies, my most favourite flowers, delivered by theatre’s stuff, were now blooming with the sweetest smell in big vases standing on the attire, where apart of other personal belongings I’d hidden some of most tendered possessions: dried pressed rose from the bouquet I received from the first performance of ‘Giselle’ in Lermontov’s company and his photo, the secret possession of mine, which usually remained hidden under the music box or somewhere in pages of the book.

Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s ‘Francesca da Ramini, Symphonic-Fantasy, Op. 32’ was playing in the record player to keep the same sentiment of royalty and power of the ballet, echoing in every sense inside my body as I was looking at myself in the mirror, making final touches of stage makeup, already in the immaculate costume of the Queen of Spades:

Tutu in deep ivory champagne white with layered tulle shaded into smoky grey, with gold embroidery and accents of black, dark emerald and blood-red garnet. The corset-styled bodice was embroidered with crown motifs and spades symbols, encrusted with smoky quartz, black diamonds and antique crystals. But my favourite part of the look was stiffened shoulder embroidery to represent epaulettes of the imperial Queen, and the tiara with red emeralds I put on my long loose hair.

The woman in the reflection of the mirror was finally me: not Odette or Odile, not Giselle or the little mermaid, not even Lizaveta or the Queen of Spades, but fully me, with all grace, egoism, coldness, hidden desires, fear and attitude – everything transformed into a quintessence of who I truly was. Everything stitched inside my heart creating unique pattern of contradictions which developed my persona.

Soft knock on the door brought back my attention, as my daydreams began to drift me somewhere else.

“Come in”, I said, finishing applying eye shadows which glittered on my eyelids.

Boris Lermontov stepped inside the room, lingering for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe that he came there, catching my glance in the reflection of the mirror. The man closed the door behind him like he was protecting us from the rest of the world. I shivered for a slight second, but remained looking at his reflection, as he came closer, bent down to me, and gently placed his hands on my shoulders, stroking them, looking directly at me with his grey captivating eyes.

“The Queen of Spades is ready to rule”, his voice was calm and soothing, though every part of me was shivering because of such closeness with the man who I loved, in spite of what came between us.

“She is always ready, Boris…And I’m too”, my reply was somehow cold and distant, because I meant not myself as prima ballerina, but a woman.

He smirked slightly, lowering his eyes:

“I never doubted you, Vasilisa”

Something in the air around us felt different then, as if the man wanted to say or do something else, what was running through his mind, as I saw how he clenched his hand, the sign of restrain he turned into a habit long time ago.

And as I finally turned to look at him without artificial boundary of the mirror reflection that was holding us apart – his grey eyes were holding the same containment and it was too hard to remain sitting on the velvet bench of the attire instead of standing up and putting my hands on the man’s cheeks.

The autumn wind blew from the slightly opened window, laughter and joyful voices sounded from the restaurant nearby the theatre as the reminder of life outside the room.

“Oh, I think you had lost something, miss Novinskaya”, Boris put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and handed me the brooch, his present, the one which I left in the dressing room the night when my heart was shattering to pieces and I wanted such turmoil to end. I never found the brooch when I came back from hospital.

Suddenly, all the noise outside the room muffled. There was the bitterness inside my throat and my eyes became watery as I raised my glance at impresario: he had, indeed, read my confession to him. My hand felt too heavy as I stretched it out to take back my brooch.

“Boris, I…”, I couldn’t say anything as it felt like a thousand of needles were hurting my throat, as if, like the little mermaid, I lost it in order to have legs, “…I’m so glad you found it”, I exhaled the lie under the breath I’ve been holding.

Of course he understood me then. How I wished to tell everything my senses felt when he was near me, were feeling, but never did. A soft understanding smile appeared on impresario’s tired face, as he gave me the brooch, taking my hands in his, and sat on the velvet bench, our knees touched almost immediately:

“Vasya, my little Vasya”, Boris said softly, like the melody, placing his cheek against mine, “Everything from now on will be alright, believe me. Everything else is so unimportant, and from now onwards you will dance like nobody ever before. There it is, all waiting for you...”

He called me Vasya…He never called me by my nickname, and now, when it slipped so dreamily from his lips it felt like the final icy wall between us melted.My heart was beating too fast and too loud, it took a great courage for me not to cry and ruin my makeup.

“And I will be here with you”, impresario whispered under his breath, as if he was holding these words for too long, thumb brushing the surface of my hand softly.

Our cheeks parted as we turned our heads to look at each other, as if we were afraid to never see one another, with the same passion that was floating around us when we accidentally met in the train leaving London, devouring in the deepest hug.

“You belong to the stage; every breath of the stage is you”, Boris’ words stitched my heart with golden threads, protecting it from being shattered, “And ‘The Queen of Spades’ is everything I haven’t said to you, my dear Vasilisa”

“Watch me, then”, I whispered finally, never meaning only the ballet we both created through misunderstanding, pain, hidden desire and irrevocable destiny.

“Always”, the man’s voice was low and as soft as silk, covering me with invisible warmth.

By then I knew that he would. He had seen me, since the day Boris came to ‘Swan Lake’ performance at Mercury Theatre. And now, in that moment we shared under the lingering whisper of the autumn air of Venice, I wanted to tell him everything. That he never left my mind since the day we met, even on that stormy night few days ago when my heart seemed to be broken with fear. That every thought of him not being interested in me even as ballerina was crawling inside my mind like a disease. Every sense of me wanted the man know that my love towards him wasn’t a distraction, but it was the very reason I kept dancing fearlessly for him.

The silence fell on us, stretching the time around us like a string of a violin drawn to its final breaking and most aching point. The culmination of the melody of our restrain was about to happen right there and then. I followed the moves of Boris’ hand when his hand brushed a loose hair of my bangs from my cheek, then my eyes found his warm glance of his grey eyes on me and my heart began to beat faster.

When we both leaned to each other, slowly, accurately, as if any sudden movement would destroy everything we’ve been dancing towards to. And in these seconds of our choreographed heartbeats, I could hear his breath and feel the electrifying tension between our lips so close, closer they’d ever been, even when we almost kissed standing on the scene of Teatro La Fenice, as it was too distant then.

I closed my eyes…

“Vasya, you have five minutes!”, loud knock and assistant’s voice sounded just like the loudest thunderbolt from the blue.

Oh, Boris and I could have finally turned into everything tender to each other by then, if that traitorous knock hadn’t sounded. I raised my eyes on impresario, smiling lightly, his hands were still holding mine tenderly, lingering for an aching second before letting go. And how I wished that moment would last forever. To never ever be parted: only me, Boris Lermontov, and our creation. It was all that mattered to me.

“We must go”, my voice was quiet, soft, as if I was waking both of us from the dream we shared secretly.

He smiled back:

“Time rushes by, love rushes by, life rushes by…”, his voice, barely above the shuffle of the tutu, sounded more like the silk.

We didn’t move right away, sitting there, on the small velvet bench of my attire, hands still clasped, when the heat of our almost kiss burned around us like the flame that wouldn’t extinguish. And when I finally stood up, not looking at impresario, being afraid that I would just stay there with him, never parting – I felt his warm gaze of captivating grey eyes on my back, finally unguarded and finally melted. It took every sense in us to let go of each other, even if it was just for the heartbeat of the opening night.

“I’ll wait for you, Vasilisa”, tye man’s words made me stopped in front of the opened door. I turned to look at him, my eyes glimmering with hope and uncertainty.

“You don’t have to wait for someone who’s with you always, Boris”, every word pronounced with my lips were coming from the heart, when our gazes lingered for the last time before I closed the door of the dressing room, leaving him sitting beside my attire, not knowing why did he stay there, but it didn’t matter then. The Queen of Spades was devouring me deeper and deeper with every step my legs in ballet shoes made towards the stage of Teatro La Fenice.

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The stage of the theatre was trembling with the anticipation, as if it was holding the breath just like the dancer and audience did. But I stood still, though every sense of me was screaming with excitement. My eyes found my impresario when I took a glimpse from the safe space behind the curtains on the public: that evening Boris Lermontov was sitting in the front row, though he always preferred to sit in the shadows of the box. I always knew where to find him. As the invisible pathway was leading me to him, to the man I loved. By then I knew that he loved me too.

And when magnificent and haunting score of Igor Stravinsky, who was conducting the orchestra inside the pit I knew that ‘The Genius Tyrant’ would look only at me when the big velvet curtains would finally open, welcoming audience to be invisible witnesses of the darkest tragedy of Alexander Pushkin’s novella.

I dissolved in the music and madding possession of three winning cards, when body and heart, moving through choreographed steps, was reaching for him, not as Lizaveta, the countess or the Queen of Spades, but as me. And I swore I saw his hand reaching back, even from across the shadows of theatre box.

Throughout the act every jump, every fouettés every arabesque, every pas de deux and the reach of my arm were only for him. His grey eyes on me felt like the invisible force, rushing though the stage and the veil which had separated our hearts for so long. Whenever I had the chance to look at Boris – his eyes honored me, like the man wanted to offer me a part of himself, unspoken, rough, too dangerous to name aloud even then, after everything we went through.

“I knew it was you, Vasilisa”, impresario’s words he once said were floating in my head and at that time they never meant the ballet: it was my own self. Boris needed me, and, Gospodi* (*God (rus), I needed him desperately.

And when I stood in a victorious pose of the Queen of Spades in the end of final act, cards falling on the floor under the tragical notes of the score – it felt like the air between ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and me cracked with things left unsaid.

Applauses of audience were as loud as they’d never been before, endless bouquet of flowers fell at my blooded toes hidden under white ballet shoes, but all I could hear inside my head were the echoes of Stravinsky’s score, when every sense inside my excited body were beating with extasy of the performance and agony of love towards Boris. And when I bowed, my eyes found Boris Lermontov: his eyes were fully on me, glittering with admiration and proud. But there was something else, and both of us knew that it was the ache of the truth we had both buried for far too long.

It was him. It had always been him.

Both of us knew that everything wouldn’t be the same between us ever again. And if we didn’t speak that night, we never would.

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Third person point of view

Velvet curtains finally opened under the captivating score of Stravinsky, and Vasilisa Novinskaya glided into the stage, which transformed into the streets of wintery and mysterious Imperial Saint Petersburg, surrounded by big playing cards. And the woman was like a vivid royal vision from a haunting story of fate herself: doomed, radiant and terrifyingly captivating.

Boris Lermontov couldn’t take his eyes of the ballerina, the queen of the stage and his world. She was the woman who had once seemed distant, cold, with an inner rod made out of discipline and Russian character, was now holding a will stronger than the steel. And the man’s feelings had nothing to do with protection any longer. They were rooted in helpless awe, deepest affection and love towards miss Novinskaya.

Every detail of her costume, every emerald on her tiara were shining under the limelight. Her performance was holding the quintessence of deepest senses and emotions of someone who’d give up even their soul for the art and the victory. ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ never danced for the audience, but for ‘The Genius Tyrant’, for the man she sensed inside the core his eyes on her. Every pirouette and arabesque were holding her desperate longing and his hidden love.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful”, he thought to himself, eyes shining with admiration.

Impresario had seen the woman dance before: from ‘Swan Lake’, ‘Giselle’ and ‘The Little Mermaid’ to ‘Petrushka’ and ‘Raymonda’, but this was different as Vasilisa had no longer been telling a story written by another author. It was their story. And that night there was something else: the understanding that the suppression was finally destroyed.

“But my heart desired something more dangerous – to be fully yours. Not as prima ballerina, not as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’. But as the woman I am”, Vasilisa’s gentle voice, so soft and tender, sounded as the poem inside impresario’s mind as he clenched his right hand rested on the balcony into the fist. He saw the pain she had been hiding from everyone, what strength and attitude she had built around her in order not to let anyone knew what was on her mind and her heart. She was the myth of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’, trusting impresario with her unspoken truth and her divine grace and glory when she danced as no one else did. He knew what kind of strength and desperation took her to confess her love to him in most heartbreaking way she knew. 

Gospodi, he had almost lost her.

Everything collapsed inside him: the fear, the shame for not speaking, the shame for pretending he could stop this turmoil of emotions. Everything seemed pointless and miserable, for him apart for her. And when their eyes were finding each other throughout ‘The Queen of Spades’, they were filled with love and admiration, as if the fatal serpent dance of rehearsed indifference and cold attitude between ballerina and impresario was finally destroyed. They were no longer pretending.

The night lingered when the big velvet curtains closed and the waves of applause stormed the walls of Teatro La Fenice. Balletomanes and critics would praise the ballet, but all that mattered to Boris Lermontov was Vasilisa’s grey-green eyes, her soft smile, her graceful bow, delicate hands and neck. She was the poem he loved utterly, and she would know about his love the very same night, when the theatre would become quiet, but the celebrations of the opening night would continue somewhere else.

And when he stood up and left the box ‘The Genius Tyrant’ knew that the woman would read the note he hidden in her dressing room when she left it.  It was the same silent confession of impresario’s tormented heart, the one he wrote to her after ‘The Little Mermaid’. He knew that Vasilisa would understand that his protection, admiration and hidden longing belonged only to her.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 32. Swan Lake, Op. 20: Act III – Russian Dance (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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The day of the final dressed rehearsal of ‘The Queen of Spades’ seemed slightly off, as if it was detached from reality and existed somewhere in its own world. For the whole process I had a feeling that I was observing this whole organised procession from the outside. Every turn, every jump, every lift felt like my body was detached from my mind; I heard every correction Grischa said, every note Igor Stravinsky conducted with orchestra but didn’t really listen, as it had been rehearsed mechanically by then.

Neither the press nor the company knew about the incident. The crew thought that I took couple of days off and went to London to arrange my move to Paris, which was partly true. As the ballet master told me quietly, before the beginning of the rehearsal, only he and Boris Lermontov knew the truth, and I felt almost immediately how the weight fell off my shoulders, bringing back my wings and desire to dance as I never wanted to be seen as the broken one.

And I knew that impresario was watching me during the whole rehearsal, sitting in the shadows of the box, like powerful phantom of the theatre, in his common posture: arms crossed over the chest, precise glance catching every detail hidden from the others, thousands of calculating thoughts running through the head as fast as the wind. My senses felt his grey eyes on me, burning my back every time when I made fouettés and pas de deux.

Since the hospital Boris had hardly spoken to me beyond rehearsal necessities. And I wasn’t expecting anything from him, really, as I was ready for the man’s coldness again, and if the kindness from his side was going to be out of the pity – I didn’t care any longer. It was too late anyways, and the opening night of ‘The Queen of Spades’ was approaching.

I refused to be seen weak in front of him, especially after that day, when my body and soul felt extremely broken and abandoned. Despite of the storm inside my senses, despite of my buried heart I had to stay strong. And under the lingered breath of the last rehearsal, I danced, knowing that ‘The Genius Tyrant’ was watching not the stage, not the choreography, but studying the breath I caught inside my chest. I danced more fiercely than ever before, and though the others moved around me, though Ivan and I were too close during pas de deux, when the music and the dance united together in the melody of madness and obsession – I felt only him in those great walls of the stage, when everything else was unreal.

By the end of the final act the dancers were breathless, but everyone knew inside their bones that this ache meant only that the ballet was ready to be premiered next day. The hush of excitement of the opening night energized the air of the stage and cheerful applause sounded in the space: from corps de ballet to the orchestra in their pin. Even our set designer Livy, who always had remarks about dancers being clumsy with the décor he made for the ballet, didn’t say a bad word this time, clapping together with the others.

Though, for some reason, I didn’t want that rehearsal night to finish, pulse inside my head beating with the echoed rhythm of Igor Stravinsky’s score. And I stood somewhere in between hugs from my ballet partner Ivan, Lida and Olga, and the sense of something unreal waiting for me behind the curtains.

“Volshebno*” (*Magical (rus)), the composer closed his score just like the end of the dark but beautiful fairytale, and turned to the ballet master, “And how nicely the moves unite with the music. Your dancers truly feel every note I conducted”.

Igor looked at me with nod and a smile. It was the greatest approvement that I could imagine from the maestro. Grischa clapped his hands and rushed towards me, placing his palms on my shoulders:

“Tsaritsa sceni*” (*The Queen of the stage (rus), the ballet master said cheerfully, then he raised his head to look at Boris, who remained sitting in the box, “Did you hear me, Boris? Vasilisa is the flame! The spirit!”

There was a pause before he answered, as if the man’s mind was somewhere else, beyond the walls of Teatro La Fenice.

“I heard you, my dear Grischa”, he said it calmly, raising from his seat, dropping a fast glance at me, “You’re absolutely right about miss Novinskaya”

His grey glance could be seen even from distance, and when our eyes met for a slight second before the man excited the box, it felt like thousands of needles stabbed into my body. For how long we would play our roles of two merciless serpents? For how long we would suppress each other from reaching out?

When Boris’ figure disappeared behind the closed doors of theatre box, the ballet master turned and asked quietly, looking with confusion at me then at the composer:

“What’s the matter with him today?”

But Stravinsky just shrugged his shoulders, then went over his score, telling quietly a poem as if it was a veiled answer:

“Любить иных – тяжёлый крест,

А ты прекрасна без извилин,

И прелести твоей секрет

Разгадке жизни равносилен”

I knew this poem of Boris Pasternak, and understood the answer: ‘The Genius Tyrant’, indeed, had feelings towards me, still, though he thought he erased them on the day we said to never continue something that was blooming between us. And I thought I heard how cold silence finally breaking down.

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The air still smelled of dust, sweat and perfume when the quietness fell after the last group of dancers left the stage. My legs were still pulsing with the memory of the last moves, Stravinsky’s music was echoing in my head, Boris’ eyes fixed on me flashed in front of my eyes as I was looking at myself in the reflection before leaving my dressing room. Old volume of Alexander Pushkin’s novella ‘The Queen of Spades’ was laying in front of me, as the silent ghost of the queen herself standing behind my back.

I glanced at my babushka, who was smiling at me through the photograph, in her gorgeous ballet tutu from the time long gone. How I wished to hear her mentoring strong voice again, reassuring that life was about to change for good. Vivid sparkle of hope ignited inside me like the first leading star in the night sky. And deep inside I knew that everything after the opening night of the ballet would never be the same, but couldn’t sense in what way.

“Я улыбаться перестала,

Морозный ветер губы студит,

Одной надеждой меньше стало,

Одною песней больше будет.

И эту песню я невольно

Отдам на смех и поруганье,

Затем что нестерпимо больно

Душе любовное молчанье…”

I whispered Anna Akhmatova’s poem like a curse known by my aching heart. Of course it was still aching, though, maybe, not as deep as earlier. Time heals, it always does, but not immediately. And it was hard to sense the exact moment when everything would be indifferent, at least for me. I had to wait, and continue dancing.

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I stepped out into the cold Venice night, tying the belt on the trench coat, wind blowing my hair, but it felt like it was blowing inside my head, loud cold autumn wind. And then, suddenly, my breath caught: ‘The Genius Tyrant’ was standing by the backdoor, with untouched cigarette in his hand. My legs stopped for a moment, as I had been overwhelmed by how quiet the street felt between us then. As if the time stopped once again just for two of us. He moved his head slowly towards my direction, and something invisible pulled me closer to him, as if the man was the magnet.

“You waited?”, the question slipped from my lips though I didn’t want to ask Boris anything. Maybe I was too surprised by seeing him standing there, like a statue: still and impregnable.

He looked at me with that thoughtful eyes of steady watchfulness, capturing every detail with precise accuracy, never forgetting anything.

“I thought, perhaps, you needed someone to walk back”, impresario’s sonorous voice was quiet and melodic, which made it harder for me to turn icy cold. Though I told myself a thousand times that I was ready for the silence and distance from me and my impresario – I couldn’t say anything in protest.

“Yes, I need it”, I walked down the last step onto the paving stone, matching up with Lermontov, not looking at him, and we began our way back to the hotel.

There we were, as if the destiny didn’t give up hope of tying us together, and, somehow, we knew that it was inevitable. 

Before the final day of dressed rehearsal, it felt like we were afraid to start taking apart from impresario-prima ballerina regulations, especially after the hospital. But this restrain disappeared with every choreographed step we made towards Baglioni Hotel Luna, leaving the theatre, where everything collapsed after I confessed to Boris with the dance of The Dying Swan and now it was ready to welcome me back as the reborn phoenix. It was the place where everything could had happened between us.

And as our figures were walking along silently through the evening canals of Venice, I felt how my body began to ache with loud pulse, though it wasn’t the ache of rehearsal I felt running through me: it was the ache of all my senses screaming inside my body. Our steps on the paving stones were choreographed in their own rhythm, and the silence, always tensed between us, was then gentle and soft, just like waves of the quiet shore during the night.

Empty lobby of the hotel held the quiet whisper, as if it was a part of the dream lost in real world. It watched us go with its invisible gaze as we stepped inside the elevator, and the metal doors, the last detail of reality, closed, and suddenly, it felt like the whole world narrowed down to this small space with soft carpet and dark wooden sofa with green fabric.

The elevator was moving slowly, quietly, humming with a fairytale we couldn’t understand. Neither Boris nor me looked at one another. But our hands, as if following the invisible path, clenched softly without asking for the permission. And the quiet presence and closeness led us both forward to one another. Both of us were not strong enough to resist the desire of our senses.

We finally told each other everything by saying nothing. The soft grab of the man’s confident hand seemed like an anchor, a lighthouse, everything that helped me to find the right path in the storm of my inner senses. The longing pushed inexorably through the remains of concrete walls of our characters and it was too hard to suppress it any longer. There was a tendered tension floating between us. It was warm and sweet, but frightened too, because we saw each other even behind our souls.

In one moment, somewhere between the floors, inside the elevators cabin, I wondered if I was inside reality or outside it. The silence around us, everything around us was lingering. Only Boris and I, in that suspense between reality of the ballet and the endless night were real and substantial.

We turned our heads and our eyes met with a spark of electric current running between our glances. And in the man’s beautiful grey eyes I saw what he had tried to hide behind cold distance: tender and utterly consuming care for me. My heart dropped as Boris moved towards me, accurately, one hand holding mine, another one lifted, as if it wanted to brush a strand of hair from my cheek, but it didn’t.

The man leaned closer, and I closed my eyes, lips parting slightly.

The elevator shuddered and stopped abruptly, like the sobering jolt of reality. Neither of us moved, lingering somewhere between our senses, Boris’ hand still holding mine, my heart still pounding as if I had performed my 33 fouettés. And for a slight moment I believed that we could have stepped past the line of restrictions.

But then, the man sighed, glancing at me with a small smile on the corners of his lips, opened metallic doors of an old elevator, and we stepped out, never releasing our hands, hearing the muffled footsteps on the long quiet corridor, before reaching the door to my room.

“I’m sorry…”, the man began quietly, when we were about to say farewells, “Not just for what I’ve said that day, but for not saying what I should have earlier”

I looked at him and behind his eyes I understood that the man meant every word of it, as if his heart was exposing itself in front of me. Boris wasn’t wearing a mask of ‘The Genius Tyrant’, not even a mask of my impresario. He was just himself. And he looked at me as someone who had almost lost something he didn’t know how to live without. My heart, achingly, began to beat way faster, not caring of silent promise I gave to myself previously.

“The past can’t be erased easily, Boris”, I exhaled my breath I was holding unintentionally, “It is said and done. But the future can be choreographed in so many ways if someone is strong enough to do so”

His hand accurately took mine, the thumb running through the surface of my hand softly, grey eyes filled with tender:

“You’re stronger than all of us, Vasilisa”

And there it was: the same desire hovered between the pause between us, like the music held before its culmination. We stood in a space where we could have reached out, where I could put my head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat, let us be close to each other as never before.

His hand was still bandaged as silent reminder of the moment both of us wanted to forget.

“And you still haven’t let it heal”, I whispered, looking at my fingers on his bandaged wrist, the fear of being burned by touching it disappeared without a trace.

“You haven’t either”, dimmed light of the corridor reflected in his grey eyes as impresario was looking inside mine.

It wasn’t said about the hand and we knew it. And how hard it was to swallow the tears which were about to pour down, to take eyes off the man’s face, and whisper coldly, almost unemotionally:

“Eto proidet. Vse prokhodit”* (*It will pass. Everything does (rus)

I turned and with slightly shaken hands finally opened the door to my room, where the darkness of the night was waiting to dissolve me.

“Please, stop pretending, Vasilisa”, Lermontov’s words sounded as soft as silk, but they stitched my heart with thousands of sharp needles.

I lingered for a moment before turning to him, gripping the keys tightly.

“I’m not, Boris”, my cold voice sounded with indifference, but my senses were screaming with desperate desire to fall into man’s arms, “Only it’s too late to take off the mask of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’. And don’t look at me like I’m about to be drowned…This time I won’t disappear. As long as you see me I won’t”

Our eyes met for the last time that night before I closed the door quietly behind me, shielding myself from everything that was floating around us and we were foolish enough to pretend that everything could pass. The room felt too big, too silenced, and only the moonlight from the outside spilled through the sheer curtains, casting light on the carpet like a river of milk.

I dropped the bag on the floor, closed eyes tightly, letting tears fall from them, and pressed my fingers to my lips as if the memory of the kiss which never happened was still burning on them. We almost kissed…

“Oh, Boris”, I whispered achingly as if the pain of the whole world was in it.

I crossed the room slowly as if was performing adagio, taking off the trench coat, and stood by the big window, opening the curtains and welcoming the night to dissolve my troubled heart. Every sense of my body still felt the man’s presence near me, as vivid as it was when we were standing so close to each other inside the elevator, where everything was possible, even for a slight second. And my mind would always remember the way how reverently impresario looked at me then, as if he could not allow himself to touch yet could not look away either. The pulse quickened, echoing inside the quiet hotel room.

I wondered if the man could feel me thinking of him at that time, allowing myself to imagine how at the same minute ‘The Genius Tyrant’ was sitting in the big armchair by the window in his hotel room, fingers pressed against his brow as if trying to think of anything but me.

I crossed my arms around the chest, trying to save myself from such thoughts, wondering if the man ever had read my note, though I couldn’t find neither it nor my brooch Boris gave me on my birthday the morning I came back after the hospital.

“You’re not ‘Ledenaya Tsaritsa’ – you’re the graceful living emotion which called ‘The Genius Tyrant’ back from the depths of the dark ocean.”, was written there, and these lines echoed inside my mind as I was looking how the full moon disappeared behind the dark clouds.

Oh, how I wished what he said was true.

______________________________________________________________

🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 31. Etude-tableau Op.33 No.8 in G minor (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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The viscous, sticky water made paralyzed my attempts to swim out. And I let my body float helplessly through heavy silence, through the weight of every role I danced and every sense screaming around me like echoes of the terror. My lungs were burning with the agony of suffocation, as if this viscous liquid filled them completely.

But then, I saw a small ray of light above the surface of the darkness of the water and heard the voice, which sounded so familiar that my hands began to tremble. It was his voice. And Boris was calling my name across the depths, across the memories of how he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching and what kind sensation I was feeling whenever we were close to each other. These memories were deeper than the place where I promised to bury my heart.

“Boris”, I whispered to him though I couldn’t see his face. But then I knew deep inside my heart that he finally heard me, through all the doubts that were tormenting us. Boris Lermontov, my forbidden love, could finally hear me.

I moved my hand as if someone touched it, then, slowly, moved my right leg, as if I was ready to make fouettés. And suddenly, I could swim, as if the water itself was pushing my body out of the water. Huge wave rapidly washed me ashore letting me finally gasp fresh, cold and clear air tasted of salt.

Sound of waves became more distant, as if the memory of the dream was fading away, and everything became dark once again. I slowly opened my eyes, eyelids felt too heavy, head was splitting, and the body ached as if I’d been dancing for twenty-four hours without stopping.

The first thing I saw was worried face of my impresario turned in my direction. He was so close to me then that I could see the faint greying at his temples, same grey eyes full of hope of something unknown to me, and I could feel his hand was above mine. Only then I realised that it wasn’t the hotel room where I had woken up.

In every country hospital looked quite identical: beige-white walls, small paintings of bouquet of flowers on the walls, sink with a mirror standing close to the white door. Even the smell of ammonia and medicine was the same. But only the one where I found myself in was holding the feeling of something out of the regular world, as if the time stopped and I was in the middle between the past and the future, standing on the thin line. When my slow gaze observed the space, it dropped on Boris once again:

He sat in the chair by my bed, hair slightly disheveled, and it felt like he had been there for hours as not only his eyes were tired, as if he had never slept in his whole life, but his face seemed too old. Perhaps, it was the worry, as he was looking at me as if I made something astonishing. I had never seen him like that before, even when he spent sleepless nights with production notes. Did he hear me whispering his name? Or was it only in my dream? Though my senses were drifting away again, I still hoped that he never heard me whispering it.

“Boris, I…”, my throat ached and my voice was hoarse when I called for him. And just like in my dream, he heard my weak whisper through all the noise that surrounded me then: sound of the water, boats, people passing by outside the window. It seemed like even the lamp on the ceiling was making loud unbearable noises. I couldn’t continue it felt like my voice disappeared, just like little mermaid’s in the fairy tale, only now it felt too real.

It was impresario’s turn to speak. His rich sonorous voice was quiet, his jaw tightened, but his eyes were fully on me:

“Vasilisa, I was cruel to you…that day”, his hand tightened above mine, as if he was fighting his desire to say something else, “I thought it would be better for both of us to…But it wasn’t”

I swallowed, but it only hurt my throat even more, as if I was swallowing needles. And how traitorously my senses were drifting away to sleep, eyelids getting more and more heavy every time I slowly blinked. Boris had no reason to see me being broken because of him, though the note I left in my dressing room was screaming with it. I hoped Boris had never read it.

“I didn’t want to fall...”, my hoarse voice became quieter, eyes fully on my impresario, to make sure he believed in the lie I was saying to him, “…I only wanted this turmoil to end…”

“Hush, Vasilisa”, the man’s sonorous voice was as soft as the silk, the whisper of the fairytale long forgotten. It felt too dreamy to be true, he couldn’t be there, sitting beside me. I remembered what he said to me that day, I remembered what he said about love…This couldn’t be true that he was holding my hand, leaning closer to my body and I felt how thousands of electrifying lightning bolts ran through me.

“Why didn’t you just let me go?”, I asked Boris out of desperation, fearing that my cold attitude would break and he would see me crying.

He didn’t answer straight away.

“But I didn’t want you to go, I…”, he paused, looking at me with his grey eyes filled with hidden worrying, “I was afraid I had lost you”

I was, indeed, dreaming, and how perfect this dream was. It wasn’t ‘The Genius Tyrant’ who was saying such things too sweet to believe in.

“But you never had me, Boris”, my hoarse voice was about to break, though words were sharp, like blade.

For a moment he looked at me, thumb brushing my hand. Only then I desired to place my hand softly on his cheek, but it felt like my whole body was filled with lead. And I still had a hope that then, in that moment, Boris would finally admit everything that we couldn’t suppress any longer. Because, despite all the doubts and denials, he was the one in whom I found the reflection of my own soul and stubborn character. We were made out of the same material though we never admitted it to one another.

And as if he’d read my thoughts, instead of words I wished to hear, Boris placed two of his hands gently over mine, though the bandage seemed as something unnatural. How did he get it and when? I didn’t ask him these questions, but they were stitched inside my memory like inaccurate treads.

“If only you knew everything, my dear Vasya”, I heard his soft whisper as my eyelids became too heavy to suppress and I drew back into the wasteland of the dream. If only it was the truth, Boris Lermontov.

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The sound of waves hummed softly inside the private boat on the way back to the hotel. My glance was catching glimpses of pallazios and surface of the water, shining brightly under the autumn sunlight, though my mind remained distant, somewhere in the middle between the stage and closed curtains.

I was leaning on a leathered seat, wearing same clothes which I wore that night on the bridge, when the water called for me, neatly dried and ironed by nurses at hospital: black wool turtleneck, beige-green plaid pleated skirt and green trench coat. Long brown hair softly pinned with a hair clip, few strands falling over my face, as if I wanted to hide from Boris, though, of course, I couldn’t.

Lermontov arrived to pick me up from hospital earlier that day, though I never asked him to. The night before the leave I promised myself to finally bury my heart deep inside, so no one would have the chance to break it just how I unwillingly let myself doing so. That stormy night on the bridge was my awakening: never cross the line between ballet, me and Boris Lermontov, at any cost.

He waited for me in the hospital hall, trench coat in one hand, the other was silently offered for me, though I didn’t take it, and when I walked past him – it felt like thousands of electrifying firebolts ran through our bodies, collapsing loudly in the tensed air. But my heart was desperately yearning to be back to rehearsals, back on the stage. It was the air that I breathed and it was everything that mattered to me. Indeed, human feelings and ballet couldn’t possibly live together. Never. It was the hardest lesson I learned in my own radical way.

And still it felt like the distance between us was kept only by invisible thin thread which was about to cut off. We both felt it in the tensed air, but somehow, perhaps, for the sake of the ballet we still kept it, though everything was not going to be the same after the hospital. At least we weren’t the same. Softer, perhaps, as if the concrete walls were finally breaking down, helping our souls to finally clench together.

“The opening night mustn’t be delayed”, I said coldly, eyes fixated on something distant outside the boat windows. All that I desired was ‘The Queen of Spades’. This ballet mattered a lot to me, these roles mattered to me, Boris Lermontov mattered tremendously to me, still, though I’d never reach for him ever again.

Perhaps, the man understood what I’ve been hiding inside my calculated coldness then. Without turning to me, eyes fixed on the water splashing outside, he said, with regularity in his voice:

“You’re tired, Vasilisa”

“I’m ready, mister Lermontov, and you know it perfectly well”, my voice was sharp, even irritated, hands gripping the leather seat, head turned in Boris’ direction, “Please, don’t pity me”

Please, don’t pity me…I said it to him only once. When my soul was tearing apart because of babushka’s death and I had to show him how strong I was. And still, after few months, I had to prove my abilities to hide the pain under the veil of dance.

The man finally turned; a fainted smile appeared on his face:

“Now I recognise madame Anastasia Novinskaya in you”

This sudden comparison struck me like the lightning bolt: I’d never thought that my impresario would measure me so high as my grandmother was my greatest inspiration to dance as magically as she danced at Mariinsky Theatre under the eyes of amazed balletomanes and the Tsar himself.

And yet, ‘The Genius Tyrant’ said it, confidently, eyes founding my doubtful glance, and this time his eyes looked at me not like an impresario looking at his protégé, not like a man guarding his thoughts behind the armor, but someone who had almost lost something he didn’t know how to live without.

“I’m glad to hear it”, I replied, lowering my eyes on Boris’ bandaged hand. Was it, indeed, because of me? He was usually so distant towards human feelings generally, so composed and always calm that it was very strange to see it now. And if I was the cause of it, it only meant that impresario felt something towards me, at least I was not a complete stranger to him.

Did he read my note then? My confession which I, in the agony of desperation, wrote to him. I didn’t ask about it that day, he didn’t say further words, though our hands eventually found their way to each other and clenched softly, when our distant glances were reaching for something which couldn’t be found on the surface of the water in the canals of Venice.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 30. Piano Trio in A minor, Op. 50: I. Pezzo elegiaco (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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The next day after Venetian storm Boris Lermontov entered the rehearsal room, hoping to see Vasilisa there. It was early in the morning, after the sleepless night impresario spent thinking over about what he was going to say to her, what to do, how to explain himself, heart beating loud and fast inside the chest. He knew that within few days before the opening night ballerina came to rehearsals early, dedicating time on concentrating on her gracious moves.

But the room was empty and only silence occupied the space. Boris used to sense her disappearance even when it was just like the quietest whisper, but not anymore. Not after he betrayed her, and he knew it. Perhaps, the woman was still in her dressing room, Boris thought to himself. Where else she could possibly be? He came up the stairs fast, every step Vasya’s nickname the man pronounced only in his mind. His hand anxiously knocked on the door, but no one answered. Only then the man noticed that the door was slightly ajar, as if it was silently asking impresario to come inside.

It felt like the space still held her breath, filled with perfume Vasilisa loved and Boris recognised it without hesitation, because he had remembered it long time ago: mandaring orange, rose and jasmine, enchanting and captivating potion of hers. But this time even the air seemed stiffer, tensed, as if it wanted to whisper something urgently important to the man.

The dressing room was spacious, as befitted for every prima ballerina: big windows with velvet curtains and small balcony filled almost the entire room, walls in turquoise color decorated with oil paintings of sceneries of Italy. But Vasilisa made it seemed to be her own personal room filling the attire with framed photographs, which then glimmered in dimmed light of the lamp: her parents on their wedding day, her grandmother dame Anastasia Novinskaya in graceful posture as promotion of the ballet ‘Giselle’, Anna Pavlova as The Dying Swan, Alexander Vertinsky in Pierrot costume, and some of cinema stars she admired.

The vanity was filled with her personal belongings that were very special to the ballerina: very first pair of ballet shoes she wore during first performance as prima in British Rambert, a miniature brass samovar, matryoshka doll, a music box shaped like a ballerina, Chanel’s Cuir de Russie perfume bottles, Vasilisa’s significant scent, and a silk scarf embroidered with Russian floral motifs.

One of Novinskaya’s portraits taken by Cecil Beaton was standing on the top of old volumes of ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ and ‘The Queen of Spades’ laying on top of each other in front of the mirror. Boris almost reached right hand, wishing to brush his fingers along frame’s surface, but instead, he clenched it, understanding how he, ‘The Genius Tyrant’ himself, who got used to command the orchestra of the ballet, one of the most powerful impresarios, was now utterly helpless in front of the torment of his love towards Vasilisa.

Out of anger the man lowered his gaze and only then he saw a corner of a photograph, hidden in the book. He accurately pulled it out and saw his own picture, the one which was taken for the first article about Vasilisa as prima ballerina of his company. How long ago it was…Though, it seemed like miss Novinskaya had always been the heart of the company, as if neither Irina Boronskaja nor Victoria Craster existed before her. They never existed for Boris Lermontov now.

And this woman, his Vasya, secretly admired him. The photograph of impresario she was having in her possession as her deepest secret was the silent evidence of her love towards him. At least that’s what the man was thinking, looking at the photograph.

“Oh, Vasya, what have we done?”, the man whispered to himself, looking at his own reflection in the mirror, his injured hand ached through the bandage.

Boris blinked and his gaze fell on the brooch he gave Vasilisa as the present on her twenty-nineth birthday, but what made his heart drop loudly was the folded note with his name on the surface, hidden beneath the brooch. His fingers were shaking slightly as the man lifted the brooch, heavier than it had ever been, and unfolded the note:

Boris,

I told you once to never doubt me. To never doubt my abilities as prima ballerina, and I know that they never betrayed. My words about the only love which my senses could give is towards the ballet were always true.

But I never knew that the heart I once buried for the sake of ballet would betray me. Because every moment on stage, during rehearsals and behind closed curtains, every moment my body is giving for dance – my senses dedicate to you. And I still hear your voice in silence. It’s time to stop pretending that it’s not true. Believe me, Boris, I tried.

I am not going to say sorry for my ridiculous confession. Everything that my heart desired to say I danced for you. I would dance through fire and the sea if the ballet demanded it. And how greatly I danced the dying swan? Yes, I danced greatly, as well as other ballets, under your silent protection and guidance. You gave me this fully as greatest impresario, ‘The Genius Tyrant’, as papers are writing.

But my heart desired something more dangerous – to be fully yours. Not as prima ballerina, not as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’. But as the woman I am. As Vasilisa Novinskaya.

Please, don’t look for me. I’m not coming back this time.

V.

Boris exhaled heavily, never believing what he had just read. Every line Vasilisa had written was trembling with her soul finally opened to impresario. The truth was revealed in her adolescent handwriting when between words of trust and devotion the real pain of despair and her loneliness she carried everyday was hidden. And now the inevitable realization washed over mister Lermontov as he understood everything. He looked at her portrait once again, pressing the note against his lips, smelling perfumed paper.

“Fool, a complete fool”, the man thought with the greatest anguish never known before.

He had wounded her. He had wounded her with distance, silence and his own fear of stepping into something deep and tender which both of them felt towards each other but kept restraining one another. But this longing mustn’t be suppressed any longer. Desperate need to find miss Novinskaya, to confess to her, was more than mister Lermontov could handle. Everything else didn’t matter to him, he just had to find her.

Folded note was still in his palm when Boris stormed out of Vasilisa’a dressing room, her brooch burning intensely inside the pocket of his jacket as if it was her heart he hidden instead. With every step he made while rushing through quiet and empty corridor of Teatro La Fenice, filled with dust and smell of the wood, Novinskaya’s voice echoed in impresario’s head just like terrifying melody. Very odd feeling was eating mister Lermontov inside: as if something terrible had happened to her. This unexplainable feeling made his steps even louder and faster and the man almost collided with Grischa in the hall, who looked nervously at impresario:

“Oh, Boris…”, his voice was worrying, eyes full of anxiety.

By the look of the nervous ballet master Lermontov sensed that something had happened.

“Where is she?”, impresario demanded with his sharp, strong voice, “Where’s Vasilisa?”

Without hesitation the ballet master replied with low urgency, so others wouldn’t hear:

“Boris, listen, she is at the hospital…She was found last night near the bridge, a stranger pulled her from the water”

After these words Grischa made a pause, and Boris felt how his heart dropped and every composed sense was shattering inside his chest, when his hand clenched Vasilisa’s note tightly.

“She’s alive, Boris”, ballet master’s voice pulled impresario back to reality like a sharp slap, words echoed unbearably loud inside the head.

Impresario didn’t ask if the press knew, or if the rest of the company had been informed, and he never cared about the premiere of ‘The Queen of Spades’. He didn’t wait any longer. There was enough of waiting for both him and Vasilisa. Without further words, he turned and stormed out of the theatre like an autumn wind, heart pounding achingly. She’s alive. It was all that mattered to him.

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Venetian streets were still covered with puddles of the night’s storm as the evidence of torments of the sky and mister Lermontov’s soul. Memories of previous day pierced him like sharp needles, when the boat was gliding through water: how then he wanted to let cold distance destroy the roots of their love that was blooming secretly between them, how the man trampled Vasilisa’s trust and her soul. He thought the dancer could ignore human nature, those doubtful comforts of human love.

But not any longer. When Vasilisa Novinskaya stormed into his life the man’s surface began to shutter. Boris Lermontov loved her. And he destroyed everything by his own hands. And the thought that the woman was pulled out of this cold water earlier that night, that he was the reason for this desperation that Boris overlooked almost crushed him. What had he done to her?

The man leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes, refusing to let despair settle like heavy shadow. He must see the woman breathe, hear her voice even if it was a whisper, love her greatly, and hoping that she would forget him.

______________________________________________________________

The nurse opened the door accurately, as if it was the beginning of the final act of the ballet, and Boris stepped into the room, where the air felt more fragile, as if the whole world was holding is breath together with impresario.

A few rays of the sun, coming out from behind the gray sky, were playing whimsically on the curtain’s surface, casting light on Vasilisa’s body, as she was laying on the bed, under the white sheets. Her beautiful grey-green eyes were closed, dark-brown hair spread out on the pillow just like sea waves, her beautiful face marbled as of the statue. Ballerina seemed as fragile as never before.

For a moment the man hesitated, as if he was afraid that the woman might vanish if he dared to approach her. But then, as if pushed by invisible force, he reached her bedside and lowered himself into the chair beside her. The hand, lingering for a second, finally settled above hers, carefully, as if being afraid to shatter her. The warmth of her skin under his fingers was enough to break his heart completely.

Boris Lermontov couldn’t tear his gaze away from her, memorizing every part of ballerina’s still face and listening to her quiet breath as if it was the melody.

“My heart desired something more dangerous – to be fully yours. Not as prima ballerina, not as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’. But as the woman I am. As Vasilisa Novinskaya”, her words sounded inside impresario’s head just like the curse, the curse of his indifference, cruelty and cold attitude towards her.

Impresario closed his eyes, lowering the head in silenced desperation, which felt too heavy to burden. Oh, how was he mistaken. And he was punished for his cruelty and bitterness. Vasilisa Novinskaya was the one his buried heart remained searching for even when ‘The Genius Tyrant’ silently promised himself not to. Human feelings over the beauty and ecstasy of the ballet? No, never! But now, looking at ballerina’s beautiful face, the man finally gave up. Her life and heart were at the stake and Lermontov could never put her into such fatal risk. And impresario only hoped that there was still the time to change everything once and for all.

“Boris…”

He rapidly opened his eyes, as if stroked by the lightning, when his heart dropped with cracking sound. For a moment he thought that he was imagining it. But by the gaze on the woman, by the way of how her lips slightly parted – it became crystal clear. He now placed two of his palms on her soft hands.

“Boris…”, Vasilisa’s hoarse voice sounded so quiet that it could be hardly heard. But the man heard her, as he leaned closer, closing his eyes, his forehead almost touching hers.

“Oh, Vasya”, he whispered back, though he wasn’t sure she could hear him, his voice cracking with everything he had denied: his love, longing and care.

Time flew unnoticed as Boris remained sitting there, beside his love, unmoving, holding her hand, guarding from cruelty of the world outside the hospital room. For the first time in years he let himself stop pretending and hiding behind concrete walls of attitude and heartless discipline. Only silent truth remained between impresario and ballerina now: the soft vivid ray of light finally fell on them, showing the way to each other. Velvet curtains were opening, gracefully, accurately, just like the magical spell was falling on their bodies.

And then Vasilisa Novinskaya slowly opened her eyes.

______________________________________________________________

🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 29. Symphony No. 5 in D minor, Op. 47: Moderato (Dmitri Shostakovich)

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Heavy rain with thunders caught me in my dressing room, after the late night of rehearsal, as I was sitting in front of the attire, looking thoughtfully at my own reflection. Raindrops ran down on the window pane as if they were chasing something invisible or rushing away from terrifying sky. Pointe shoes, soaked with blood, were hanging on the wall by the nail. The record player in the dressing room hummed beautiful and sad tango of Pavel Mikhailov ‘Utomlennoe solntse’, but it felt like it was floating through my ears as my mind was completely occupied with our last tensed talk with my impresario.

Утомлённое солнце

Нежно с морем прощалось

В этот час ты призналась,

Что нет любви.

Мне немного взгрустнулось –

Без тоски, без печали

В этот час прозвучали

Слова твои.

Расстаёмся, я не знаю злиться,

Виноваты в этом ты и я.

Утомлённое солнце

Нежно с морем прощалось

В этот час ты призналась,

Что нет любви.

Newspapers nicknamed me as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ because of my known cold character. But that night the icy armor cracked loudly. My heavy eyes closed and I buried my face in hands. This naïve foolishness of mine couldn’t be accepted. Everything should be finished.

I made unforgivable mistake. I placed human feelings on the same place with the ballet and dared to open my heart to the man I secretly loved, knowing all possible consequences of my actions, but had no idea that the fall would be so unbearable. My love was stricken with coldness from both Boris and myself. How it was stupid of me to believe in such confidence or, perhaps, madness.

I raised my head and my glance fell on the photograph of Boris, lying beside the mirror: it was taken for the announcement of the tour in Paris, where I appeared as prima ballerina of his ballet company for the first time. My fingers traced the surface accurately, trying to remember every feature of the man’s face and posture: distant eyes and triumphant posture of an impresario, his whole powerful attitude radiated from the picture. But even then I never doubted beliefs that we shared the same deep silence only two of us understood.

How strange, that now this silence became cold and sharp, as if the invisible ice wall grew between us. Of course, for my whole life I knew how to keep my distance and hide my soul behind the façade of indifference, but it was not the same thing anymore.

“And who knows maybe your two Russian lonely souls will find the right connection”, John Farnley, my impresario at British Rambert, told me once, when Boris Lermontov and I met for the first time. Oh, how I wanted to believe in what he said. But now it felt like a complete nonsense. Mister Lermontov, ‘The Genius Tyrant’, who once made the ballet world brighter now made it unbearable for both of us. I knew how to keep my distance, even when my heart was aching with pain of desire that I had to suppress.

But this misery couldn’t possibly last. I had to remember that and try to control myself even if it hurt unbearably. Nothing lasted forever, really. Neither happiness nor despair. Perhaps there would be time in the future when I would calmly continue dancing, taking bouquets of flowers from balletomanes, looking back and saying quite cheerfully how silly I was. But when would this desperation finish?

My eyes glanced at my parent’s wedding photograph on the attire, near the music box and matryoshka doll. How beautiful and happy they looked, never knowing then how their lives would tragically end too soon. And how I desperately needed their support then, their support and my grandmother’s. I missed them terribly and I couldn’t bring them back to me even when all my senses wished it. I was completely alone.

The lightning, more common for summer storm than autumn rain, reflected brightly in the mirror, calling for my attention. How heavy and tired my grey-green eyes were: their glance was just like a glass, reflecting the hollowness of my soul, I didn’t feel anything but anger: on myself for letting fall for Boris Lermontov, on him for letting me fall, cruelly, just like serpent’s lethal bite. It seemed like I was replaced by the black swan Odile, whose heart was burning with cruelty and revenge. Eyes black as charcoal, but so hollow. And this wicked, crooked smile. Pure anger, and pure evilness of my senses. The swan was abandoned, just like I was now.

Then, suddenly, behind the reflection I saw Victoria Craster. The ballerina who once was dancing in front of the eyes of my impresario. Her shoulders straight posture composed, her eyes too wide, her smile too grinning. I blinked, pressing my palms on the table, and within a moment Victoria and Odile vanished in the whirlwind of black feathers.

Did Boris love missis Craster instead? Did he love someone else? Or did he, really, never had the heart? No, I couldn’t possibly stand it, such desperation, such agony of my senses, such suppressed desire and loud uncertainty, the coldness I couldn’t bear any longer. Not with the reflection of Odile laughing loudly behind my back. It felt like my own wings were cut off, sharply and painfully, never bothering to put stitches where they once were.

I took a deep broken breath and picked up the pen and paper, fingers, always trained to be graceful, were now trembling terribly. I knew that I wouldn’t really survive such cold silence between me and Boris. And he had to know what I really felt inside, behind cold façade, behind our warm glances towards each other, behind our closeness, everything tender and quiet which were now gone, washed away with great wave of desperation.

As controlled hand was expressing my soul on a piece of paper, I didn’t really feel anything but numbness of every sense which my heart was tearing apart. Nothing should be remained between us. Even if I desperately wanted it, needed it, yearning for it, to justify my forbidden love towards ‘The Genius Tyrant’ which couldn’t be hidden any longer. There was only the paper and my mind, as stormed as the rain outside the window.

The first teardrop traitorously fell on the paper. Since the day babushka died, I had already forgotten how to cry. But that night I let the tears fall from my eyes, not letting them stop. Finally, I felt something real, something that was destroying me inside, and yet, so real. I was not ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’, not really her, though I played her role perfectly. And in few hours Boris Lermontov would know it, whether he wanted it or not.

The music on the player ended when the note was written. Silence fell, too loud, too overwhelming and suffocating. I couldn’t stay in the dressing room any longer, couldn’t really stay there any longer, too, when his cold grey eyes burned my whole body. I folded the paper and placed it beneath the brooch Boris gave me as birthday present, running fingers of my hand softly, slowly, as if I was saying farewell to it. Not only to the spark of the tendered summer, but to all the sweet memories which couldn’t take with me.

The door of my dressing room closed behind me as I stepped outside the empty corridor, putting on my trench coat. The air smelled of dust with sweat and my perfume. The walls of the hall were decorated with posters of our previous ballets: ‘Giselle’, ‘Coppelia’, ‘La boutique fantasque’, ‘Petrushka’, ‘Raymonda’ and, of course, ‘The Little Mermaid’ – haunting story of great desire and broken innocent love which was not a fairy tale any longer.

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Venice was dissolving under the storm: the canals were shimmering like crystals in the, lighting flashing across the night sky, the wind ruffled my hair and raindrops were pouring down on me like the endless shower but I didn’t bother. I just keep walking, not knowing there, as I didn’t want to come back to my hotel room. Perhaps, Boris was at the hotel, in his room, checking his notes about final rehearsals, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, as always, when he worked passionately on new production, but I didn’t care about it any longer, though every step on the pavement echoed with his name.

If he could see me then – would he call for me? Would he stop me? Would he even care?

Memories cut through my mind like sharp blade: the way of how Boris said my name with his rich sonorous voice, his warm grey eyes fully on me, how our hands brushed not by accident, how we always found each other being surrounded by others, those travels in the night ferry, Venetian Carnival few days ago…How suddenly, by mistakes we both made everything was now washing away with autumn storm.

My legs, by the sensation of desperation, brought me to small white stone bridge near Palazzo Dandolo, where Boris and I were standing surrounded by the stillness of the night when the magical Masquerade Ball was left behind. Even for a few moments we felt the same tenderness and desire towards one another and if only we could be stronger enough to face the truth – I wouldn’t be there now, alone, soaking under autumn venetian storm.

As if being under the invisible force, I reached the bridge, slipping on paving stones, when tears traitorously began to pour down my cheeks, washed away by heavy raindrops. I was no longer the swan, I was no longer the little mermaid, I was no longer his prima. Fear of losing my passion and desire to dance if he didn’t want to see me on stage fell on me like heavy shadow of every dreadful emotion my senses were feeling then. And if not dancing under captivating eyes of my impresario, if not dancing at all – why to live then?

“What do you want from life?”

“To dance”

Our dialogue in his hotel room echoed loudly in my head just like bitter memory of something tender and sweet which was gone forever.

I looked at the stormy canal with boats floating on the worried surface of the water, dark as the night and then leaned against the stoned railing, breathing deeply. The air was freezingly cold, raindrops felt like billions of needles, loud thunder was tearing the dark sky apart, as if it was tearing pieces of my heart which was turning into the ice. Maybe, both Boris Lermontov and I were not born neither to be loved nor to give it.

Everything ran through my mind in the chaotic whirlwind: the note and the brooch I left on my attire for impresario, how his strong composed hands would read it, if he even cared about such a nonsense, how Boris once said that “…a dancer who relies upon the doubtful comforts of human love can never be a great dancer…”

The art demanded loneliness and I followed this precise rule since the present time…And now, despite of all my strong attitude I failed of avoiding falling in love…Then, maybe, I should vanish just to keep the art of the ballet thrive higher…Maybe…

Head became too heavy, thoughts were circling around my mind like my perfect 33 fouettés, the air seemed to vanish, leaving me to suffocate. I slowly closed my eyes, and the last thing that ran through my mind before dissolving in heavy darkness, was my dance of the dying swan in front of my love, in front of ‘The Genius Tyrant’ Boris Lermontov.

Oh, please, don’t let me drown…

______________________________________________________________

🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 28. Piano Concerto No. 2 In C Minor, Op. 18 – 1. Moderato (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

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The night seemed unbearably long to Boris Lermontov. The wind hummed behind the large windows of the hotel room; thunder and lightning rumbled through the canals of Venice, but they seemed to merge with torments of the man’s soul as it felt like he never noticed that autumn’s weather was crying with of him.

Man’s eyes were distant, as he was sitting on the low dark-green antique chaise, in white shirt, dark-brown trousers, covered in dark-red silk robe with brown inserts. His tie hung loose around the neck, as if it too had grown weary. Glass of cognac was in his tired hands, but Boris never touched it.

Newest issue of Vogue Italia with Vasilisa Novinskaya on the cover, photographed by Cecil Beaton, was laying on the small table near the chaise:

She was sitting in elegant posture, slightly away from Beaton’s camera, wearing column dress in deep red silk designed by Elsa Schiaparelli especially for the ballerina. It was richly embroidered with lions’ motives which represented not only ballerina’s zodiac sign, but most importantly her character of the proud and strong lion. Woman’s long brown hair was styled in polished, sculptured waves. Her delicate hands, with ballet ribbons wrapped loosely around her wrists, were holding a folded fan. Hooded heavy theatrical velvet cloak on her head lined in luminous gold as the reference to mysticism of Venetian carnival.

‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ truly represented the captivating beauty with distance and restrain of the empress, surrounded by surreal dreams of Schiaparelli and avant-garde elegancy of Cecil Beaton’s photography. It seemed like her eyes fixed on the camera lens were now staring coldly at Boris Lermontov, right into the depths of his soul. As if the woman knew that he was looking at her. Dark red lips, half-smiling mysteriously, like Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa were about to part in the whisper, aiming to say something to impresario. Perhaps, something cold and mocking.

The title ‘Il freddo mistero negli occhi della leonessa: prima ballerina nel vortice del Carnevale di Venezia’* (*‘The cold mystery in the eyes of the lioness: prima ballerina in the whirlwind of the Venice Carnival’ (it)) seemed more like the curse: a curse of enchanting woman who captivated the heart of ‘The Genius Tyrant’. How many times he told himself that it was nothing, that every tender feeling and tensed passionate sparkle that ran between him and Vasilisa Novinskaya was really nothing?

Boris looked at her photograph for far too long that night. The man recalled how he stood there, in the empty rehearsal studio, late at night, hands behind his back, notes of ‘The Queen of Spades’ clutching between his fingers, knuckles white with hidden tension. Of course meaningless sketches of the ballet was one of those silly excuses to catch a glimpse on Vasilisa, he simply lied, just because he wanted to see her once again. To prove to himself that he didn’t care for her or, perhaps, that despite anything – he did. Because the man loved her. Ardently, tenderly and irrevocably.

Vasilisa’s vision appeared in his memory: in her usual training clothes consisting of black leggings, black top and white light blouse tied on the waist, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy in the ponytail, strands of bangs falling on her temples and forehead, cheeks slightly reddish, body sharp, precisely full of control, grey-green eyes full of coldness and anger. She didn’t even look at him: just a simple fast glance with detachment of everything that united him with ballerina. And Boris Lermontv and his foolish restrain and pretending his heart never beat as loudly for her as never before for anyone.

Oh, dear Vasilisa…Vasya… Stubborn woman with fierce discipline, cold attitude and calculation, with invisible steel rod inside her accurate spine. The depths and mystery of grey-green beautiful eyes always captivated but never gave away secrets she was taken with her body everywhere. Just like fire, miss Novinskaya was burning with relentless and mercilessly, giving herself whole for the sake of the ballet.

And Boris Lermontov loved her. Yes, impresario had never dared to confess it even to himself, never could he imagine to say it out loud to her. But there was no reason to pretend any longer. Why was he afraid? Why did he continue to torment himself and love of his life? The man put a glass of cognac angrily on the small table near the chaise, clenching fits of his hands.

He had walked away from her, from everything that could be united with them. He said that they had to remain professional.

“You know that both of us are servants of the ballet”, were Boris’ precise words he said to miss Novinskaya which scratched his and the woman’s heart like sharp nails. It hurt his chest unbearably, but he said it anyways, strictly and coldly, when the mind was screaming “What are you doing, you fool? Stop tormenting each other, you’re drowning both of you”

Coward.

Suddenly, ears seemed to hear someone’s laugh, the woman was laughing somewhere in the distant. It was her laugh. Boris turned his head sharply, eyes fixed on the big mirror over the dresser: the sound of laughter came from there. The man stood up, reaching the mirror within few seconds, under the deafening thunderclaps in the streets of Venice. The reflection showed too pale, tired face which was now too open with emotions of despair and anger which were about to explode.

Then, suddenly, Vasilisa’s figure replaced the face of impresario: she was as Odile at first, then Giselle, the little mermaid, the Queen of Spades, and, finally, herself, unguarded, not hiding behind masks of characters ballerina transformed into with greatest precise accuracy.

But her eyes were pitch dark, as if the night was inside them. For a slight second Lermontov lost his breath – her hollow stare looked directly at him. It wasn’t miss Novinskaya anymore – it was the empress of deepest mystery. And she destroyed the armor around ‘The Genius Tyrant’ with silent force of her dance, her look of grey-green eyes, her smile, even of her breath.

And it made the man angry. He had spent years living in cold discipline and precise control of merciless world of ballet. And ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ had changed everything, just like the snow blizzard. She challenged him every new day, not knowing it, not wondering about desperate torments of the heart everyone around thought impresario never had.

Uncontainable senses and desire, united with rage and agony, overwhelmed Boris Lermontov, his right hand clenched into a fist, and, never leaving his cold glance from dark Vasilisa’s reflection, he struck the mirror as hard as he could. The cracking sound merged with loud thunderclaps, floating through the room like a violent exhale, as the glass, shattering into pieces, like both souls of impresario and ballerina, fell on the carpet, splintering dimmed light of lamps into fractured stars across the floor.

The man stepped back, looking astonishingly at his bleeding knuckles, then back his own reflection in the broken mirror, with a storm behind his eyes.

“Chto ti delaesh, bezumec?”* (*“What are you doing, you madman (rus))

For a slight second Vasilisa’s reflection glimpsed in the reflection before disappearing, as a reminder that she was still there, no matter what Boris said to her that day. She was still there, waiting. Waiting for him.

Lermontov tore a white handkerchief from dresser and wrapped his hand, too tightly, and sat back on the chaise, exhaling the breath, bandaged hand trembling slightly.

Even in few hours before ‘The Genius Tyrant’ believed in the myth both he and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ constructed around themselves: that they should remain only what they were for the others – impresario and prima ballerina. But now, under the invisible quiet glance of the Venetian night it became clear that it was a lie. Disastrous lie that, perhaps, drowned them both.

“You love her, you coward”, he whispered to himself, “You love her helplessly. And now it’s too late”

The sound of the rain outside was washing over his chaotic loud thoughts, as if the great storm was thundering inside the man’s mind.

No one ever moved impresario in the way of how Vasilisa did. She was the one who broke concrete walls of the man’s unapproachable and indestructible attitude to human feelings, to love on the first place. Boris knew this woman too well, behind the shield of her ballet parts, of her postures for photographers and sharp replies for the interviewers. Behind this well-constructed image of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ the real woman was hiding from everyone, but always keeping darkest thoughts and secrets behind captivating, but always sad, grey-green eyes. It had always been her, his Vasilisa Novinskaya, his Vasya, as he loved to call when no one heard him.

And the dimmed fire of hope ignited inside man’s chest. No, maybe, it wasn’t too late. Boris Lermontov promised himself to confess to Vasilisa. The next day. This torment of their hearts must be stopped. The pretending that there was nothing between them, though everything, indeed was floating around their bodies, should be uproot from their deep lonely Russian souls. And Vasilisa Novinskaya would understand him, without further words, the simple look into her captivating grey-green eyes, the touch of her hand, such closeness would be enough.

Final accords of thunder rumbled in the distance, along the Venetian canals, as if the man’s heart finally freed from its icy cold armor of impresario’s restless soul. And impresario didn’t know that right the same moment the fate of his dearest one was about to change tragically.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 27. Elegie in E-Flat Minor, Op. 3, No. 1 (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

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Next day of one of the last rehearsals of ‘The Queen of Spades’ before the opening night remained hollow, or perhaps it was only for me. But at least I could occupy my mind throughout almost the whole day, and even the night when I desired to practice movements of Lizaveta in empty rehearsal room which seemed enormous and deserted: just to keep my thoughts away from the events of previous night at Teatro La Fenice,

But if my body was fully concentrated on accurate practicing of Rond de Jambe – my mind was occupied with vivid glimpses of the rehearsal day which were floating inside my head just like the remains of the very confused dream.

I arrived at the theatre early, not even because of the upcoming premiere of the ballet: I simply couldn’t bare the quietness of my hotel room any longer, as I was afraid that everything that almost happened previous night between me and Boris Lermontov would press down concrete walls.

Dancers were discussing something, laughed in amusement, some of them were warming up together with me at the barre, but it felt like my eyes couldn’t see them and my mind didn’t really pay attention to anything that was going on around me. Even when Boris entered the room, followed by Igor Stravinsky – I didn’t turn my head, though, of course, my body felt his strong presence the way it always did.

He remained to be composed and disciplined, dressed to the nines, fedora hat with trench coat in one folded arm, cigarette in another. But I recalled the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, his strong hands looking through notes and sketches, slightly tousled hair which was a sign of hard process of thinking what to add, what to remove, how to replace something. Impresario loved his work, his possession with the ballet which I shared with him. But just like me – never let love jump into our lives. The night at Teatro La Fenice was silent evidence.

As Boris was talking to the composer – his voice was sharp, as always, though then it seemed too distant, as though something inside the man had been locked behind the door over one night. He looked slightly tired. Or, perhaps, he had not slept much, just like me. And I knew that the ghost of previous night and my dance, my confession, our closeness, when the idea of the kiss did not seem as insanity – everything was still floating around our heads, as I felt completely the same: devastation and agony under the armor of indifference.

Once again we were wearing cold masks of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘Genius Tyrant’ but this time more for our own sakes but remained in the rhythm of serpent dance between our souls which was too dangerous to being stopped. And when I moved around the rehearsal space, doing Pas de Basque and Sauté, listening to Grischa’s corrections, my body was feeling Boris’ deep and uncertain gaze on me, burning my spine. But I knew that if I turned and faced my impresario – his cold grey eyes would already be elsewhere.

That’s how one of the last rehearsals of ‘The Queen of Spades’ blurred by in front of my eyes, and suddenly, I was completely alone in the room, trapped in own thoughts of uncomfortable silence between me and my impresario, standing in front of the barre.

Suddenly, Boris Lermontov entered the room like the ghost of the night, waking me up from memories of the daytime, putting my body on tensed control. I didn’t say a word to him. For a slight second our eyes found each other’s glances in the reflection of the big mirror in front of the barre, but such second seemed as wide and endless like the ocean filled with everything we couldn’t say to each other. But it was easy to pretend that there was nothing between us, and I lowered my eyes, fingers of hands shaking slightly.

“I forgot my notes”, was the man’s dry choreographed explanation, “I didn’t know you were still here, Vasilisa”

“But you know that I rehearse at nights as well, especially in two weeks before the opening night”, my words remained cold, though the heart traitorously began to beat faster. It was the first time we were completely alone after the previous night at the theatre.

A long pause was followed by distant answer, as if he was thinking about something else:

“Yes, I know”

This time silence covered us not like the warm blanket, but it more like a merciless snow blizzard was scratching our bodies. It suffocated our throats with unsaid words and blinded our eyes to obvious things we didn’t want to see.

“This must be stopped”, Boris’ sudden words seemed more like a plea rather than a command: he was never commanding to me. But that evening his voice was as sharp as thousands of knifes cutting my heart.

I lowered my head:

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Vasilisa”, his voice was quieter then, but remained distant, as if he wasn’t believing into his own words.

“No, I don’t, Boris”, I said dryly, looking at the ghost of my reflection in the mirror, avoiding his grey eyes, which were on me then.

Cold shivers ran down my spine, but I hadn’t turn to him just yet, waiting for his reply with heart beating as loud as it possibly could. There was no point in playing a fool of myself. Of course the man knew I was pretending I didn’t understand.

“Whatever it is…”, the man continued, stepping closer to me, “You know that both of us are servants of the ballet”

I tightened my grip on the barre, and finally turned to Boris, not letting him reach me. How mad I was at both of us that we kept our strict attitudes so distant from such things like love that we buried our hearts deep inside, for the sake of the ballet. Both of us would give anything to it, though we knew that love was, indeed, blooming dimly between me and my impresario.

“Then let’s pretend, mister Lermontov.”, I looked at him, eyes full of anger and coldness, “Let’s pretend nothing is hovering around us, let’s pretend we don’t feel anything. It’s easier to make fouettés with your eyes are shut”

But our gazes were locked on each other, gazes full of pretentious coldness and discipline yet the remains of warm fire of unsaid passion were burning with small light. His jaw tightened, my hands flexed with silent hesitation of taking his’, though they were folded behind man’s back, as they always were when he was keeping him in check of everything.

“Then tomorrow we’ll begin from the last act, miss Novinskaya”, his rich sonorous voice held notes of bitterness, coldness, as if we had an invisible fence.

“Good”, I replied coldly, eyes still on my impresario, though my mind was screaming “Stop torturing both of us, Boris! You know what we feel towards each other. Just say those words”

Of course, mister Lermontov didn’t hear my silent screams. Instead, he turned to go, lingering for a second as if debating whether to stay or to leave. But then his steps towards the exit seemed more and more far away and when the wooden door closed loudly behind Boris, my body let myself exhaled the breath I never knew I had been holding for some time.

As silence fell on me like dark heavy shadow of everything which was neither said and nor done, screams of my soul became unbearable. But I knew how to tame the desperation of my soul: only rehearsal could save me from drowning.

I sat down on the chair, bending over to tie ribbons on of my pointe shoes. Tighter…tighter that ever needed to. My body was not allowed to stop dancing that evening, not after the way we talked to each other, not after the way our eyes locked with coldness.

“I am stronger than this. I am ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’” I whispered to myself though deep inside my heart I knew that it was a lie. But I suppressed pointless desire to run after Boris and say with all the anger inside my soul to stop lying to both of us, and to be covered inside his strong arms.

Trying not to feel the ache of my heart and scream of my senses, I stood on the center of the rehearsal room and began to practice my Rond de Jambe once again, mechanically, as my senses knew that in order to conquer the flow of thoughts one must burry them in silence by the mechanical movement.

I am stronger than this. I am ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 26. Swan Lake, Op. 20 – Act 1 – Scene 2: Pas d’action (Andante – Andante ma non troppo) (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

note: Particular music to listen for ballerina’s dance: Camille Saint-Saëns - Carnival of the Animals Part: XIII. the Swan

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Vasilisa Novinskaya didn’t know what was driving her senses that night. Perhaps, they dared her to act like she did, perhaps, it was her heart which yearned achingly. Or maybe it was every emotion she felt towards Boris Lermontov, which screamed with desire that couldn’t be hidden or suppressed any longer.

It happened after dinner ballerina and impresario had together at the Caffè Florian, in few days after masquerade ball. Their table with white tablecloth and a candle on its surface was on the back of the restaurant, so they could look around the opening space but not be observed by the cunning eyes of the others. Vasilisa was sitting across from Boris, wearing mid-calf satin off shoulder dress with clinched waist and structured bodice in deep green colour with under-petticoat, her long brown hair was in accurate ‘s’ waves.

“How gorgeously green suits her”, the man thought to himself as he was observing every part of the woman sitting opposite him, looking at the café’s space distantly. Perhaps, the ballerina was thinking about something else at that time, and the man wished to reach for her, silently, with the power of strict calculating mind.

Thousands of thoughts were running in the man’s head when he kept observing his dearest Vasya: somehow, he knew that such strict methods which were built around his persona like concrete walls never worked when Vasilisa was around, so close to him yet so distant. Though it was the first time that distance seemed to narrow dangerously down, leaving passionate currant filling the air both of them were breathing.

And between their quiet dialogue about everything which could be possibly discussed, though leaving most important words being unsaid, Boris continued studying Novinskaya’s face with the attitude of person looking poetically at someone who they were afraid to loose: her profile with slightly arched nose, accurate soft mouth, and captivating grey-green eyes holding a mystery of something hidden deeply inside the woman’s soul. Vasilisa Novinskaya was his gracious sculpture of antique beauty and ache.

Perhaps, something whispered to her ear Boris’ thoughts as she turned to him and caught impresario observing her, smiling softly, but the man didn’t look away. Instead, he smiled back at her, feeling grateful that their eyes finally met when the song of Jack Buchanan ‘Goodnight Vienna’ was playing by musicians at Caffè Florian. For a few moments it felt like the time stopped just for them two,when the rest of visitors and waiters disappeared in autumn mist of the Venetian night:

Enchanted city of Columbine and Pierrot

We know the magic of your spell

Of our romances, you’re the hero

Now is the time to say farewell

“Vienna will be next city where we will go”, the man thought to himself, when his hand, as if by invisible force, slowly but confidently moved towards Vasilisa’s hand, which was resting on the table’s surface, “And Vasya, my dearest Vasya, will dance Columbine”.

Vasilisa let Boris placed his hand over hers, thumb softly brushing knuckles as if it was afraid to break it.

“What’re you thinking about, Vasilisa?”, the man finally asked, never leaving eyes off her.

“I…”, the woman paused for a moment, hiding her truthful thoughts behind the concrete walls of pretentious words of their ballet life. What she truly wanted to say remained known only to her.

 “…I wondered if we could create the ballet about human nature, unrequited love, broken dreams and loneliness, true deep intense loneliness”, ballerina began quietly, as if she was saying under her breath, “The story of few meetings which would build those dreams but then abruptly destroying every hope of such lonely dreamer.”, she finished, looking at Boris with grey-green eyes full of hope that he would hear her calling for him.

Impresario looked closer into the eyes of miss Novinskaya and was amazed: it felt like the whole loneliness of the world was inside them. Deep loneliness of Russian soul, unexplained and broken. And, suddenly, the realization stroked him, like a slap. Mister Lermontov moved back slightly as both of them released their clasped hands:

“But, my dear, are you talking about the dreamer and Nastenka?”

Vasilisa smiled sadly, glancing down on the table’s cloth:

“‘White Nights’ had always been the story which I thought represented me the most. If only someone important to me could understand my character by reading it.”, she said confidently, looking back at the man, the one, who, she hoped, would understand every part of her.

Well of course, Vasilisa Novinskaya was hiding herself behind the pages of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s story, there was no doubt about it. And Boris Lermontov hoped that one day the woman would be an opened book for him, leaving sadness or her cold unapproachable character of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ behind. And he hoped that he would have the courage and will to do so, as he was thinking about his own icy and heartless character of ‘The Genius Tyrant’ less and less with every new day that was revealing between them.

Boris desperately wanted to lift Vasilisa’s head with his fingers, to put his hand on her cheek, to brush it softly just like the warm summer breeze, to kiss her lips, sweet like honey, to take her by the hand and leave the restaurant, leave Venice, leave crucial world of the ballet and be just with dearest Vasya.

“Vasilisa, I…”, the man’s hand twitched achingly and the tongue never let impresario said things which were longing to be confessed out loud, “…I’ll consider your ballet proposal”

The sentence shattered to pieces every magical sense their souls had between each other. Vasilisa, hearing how loudly these pieces fell down on the restaurant’s floor, glanced back at ‘The Genius Tyrant’ with cold disciplined glance she always kept for reporters and strangers:

“Thank you”, the voice was hoarsed, as if it resisted to be so heartless.

The woman coughed and took a sip from glass of wine. Her whisper was almost silenced, as if it was directed to herself, hiding treacherous eyes by glancing at tablecloth once again.

“Spasibo za vse, Boris*” (*Thank you for everything, Boris (rus)

The bitter words were said, and yet, the silence between ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ remained filled with unanswered longing and desire screaming inside their souls. Such silence knew that the moment of action was coming, though something always held them back, souls trembling on the edge of impossible senses. Perhaps, both ballerina and impresario knew that such moment would come that night.

That’s why, when they silently, just like in ideally rehearsed choreography, stood to leave Caffè Florian, mister Lermontov offered his hand and miss Novinskaya took it without fear of being burned.

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Venice held its breath just for two of them, in the space where only shadows and unspoken desire were dancing together haunting waltz of broken souls. Silence followed the couple invisibly on their silent walk back to Baglioni Hotel Luna. Teatro La Fenice which they were passing bylooked even more mysterious in the night, just like dark haunted palace in fairytale, hidden from peeping eyes of strangers. For a moment it felt like its dark whisper reached both Boris and Vasilisa as they stopped right in front of the entrance. It was calling for them with captivating and dark whisper, to dissolve inside something unknown inside the empty theatre.

And ballerina didn’t hesitate any longer, and rushed to the backstage door, knowing that impresario would follow her without asking questions. And he followed her at a slight distance, as if the man heard his own senses and his love pounding louder inside the heart with every step mister Lermontov made towards miss Novinskaya. The doors closed behind them with a heavy hush: theatre welcomed them to the place where only shadows danced that night.

The quietness of the space was interrupted only by the footsteps as the couple moved through corridors towards the stage of tremendous and gorgeous Teatro La Fenice, which would welcome ballerina on the opening night of the ballet ‘The Queen of Spades’, as it was planned to be held in two weeks. How enormous the place seemed then, without audience and theatre workers, when limelight was turned off and all the décor of the stage was hidden backstage. How small Boris and Vasilisa were in such decorations, but their characters, nevertheless, remained holding the space tightly in their hands.

Silently Boris looked at how ballerina took off her coat and black evening shoes she was wearing, leaving them on one of the velvet seats and floor near the stage. As the woman reached the center of the empty stage, when impresario came up the stairs as well – Vasilisa turned to him, barefoot, never letting the man to come closer, grey-green eyes fixed on him, and he stood still, being bewitched by her bare confidence, though mister Lermontov never knew that every part of ballerina’s body was trembling with anxiety.

“Smotri na menya, Boris*” (*Look at me, Boris (rus), Vasilisa whispered warmly and disappeared behind the opened curtains.

Every heartbeat before she appeared on the stage seemed too long. Silence was too loud; waiting was too anxious. But when ballerina floated back to the stage, on the tips of her toes, hands fluttering smoothly like the wings of gracious swan – the time stopped. But it wasn’t Odette she was dancing. Movements were intermittent, the body was tilted as if the ballerina was going to fall, but then she spread her arms with renewed zeal, like a bird clinging to its life.

It was ‘The Dying Swan’, Vasilisa Novinskaya’s dying swan. But the 13th and penultimate movement ‘Le cygne’ of Camille Saint-Saёns wasn’t playing on the stage – gorgeous melody was beating in ballerina’s mind together with her heart. And only the rhythm of her breath and quiet creak of the floor beneath her legs echoed in the space.

Ballerina had never forgotten her promise to perform ‘Dying Swan’ to the man who she would love dearly, without pretend, with all of her heart, hidden from anyone. And she kept her promise. That night Vasilisa performed it for only Boris Lermontov’s eyes to see. The woman couldn’t hide her love towards her impresario any longer: he had to know torments of her soul and senses, he had to understand that for her ‘Dying Swan’ was the saddest and most tender dance of aching love.

And the man recognized every shape of it. How gracious Vasilisa was dancing, barefoot, the dance of pain, the fading thirst for life and love, how accurately her movements showed not only the struggles of the dying bird, but also evoke the ephemeral art of the ballerina which was ‘dying’ after every show. It was the most devastating thing he had ever seen.

Impresario stood on the stage stricken with amazement and awe. The realization stricken the man at the very same moment and his body froze: it was not the simple dance of the dying swan; it was never a simple performance by his Vasya. She was not performing neither Odette, Odile, the little mermaid, nor Lizaveta or the Queen of Spades herself. That night ballerina danced the deepest confession to love the man could not even imagine. And it was a dedication of her love towards Boris Lermontov.

In dramatic and passionate final arc of swan’s surrender Vasilisa’s arms faltered slightly and she sank smoothly on the floor with the softest exhale, folding her arms on straight legs.

Everything became extremely quiet and still. Boris didn’t speak at first: it felt like the man was waking up from the heartbreaking dream he saw as his senses returned, still muffled with whispers of the empty theatre and Vasilisa’s presence. Silently, impresario walked towards Vasilisa, never leaving amazed gaze from her figure, which seemed breathless for a slight second. How desperately he wanted to run his hand down her accurate back, but he restrained himself, clenching fists cowardly.

“Why?”, mister Lermontov asked quietly, his mind didn’t really know what to ask,“““ as everything was beyond questioning, “Why ‘The Dying Swan’?”

Ballerina, still sitting on the floor, raised her head and looked at the man she loved, breathing heavily after the most personal dance. Her grey-green eyes shimmered slightly, but not because of tears, but because of sensation of emotions she finally confessed, in her own way:

“I…promised myself to dance it for the one I’d…love”, on final word her hoarsed voice turned into whisper. Until the last moment Vasilisa was afraid to pronounce such strong word, to confess it loudly to the man who changed her life, who was her secret desire and passion.

Boris felt how achingly the heart dropped inside his chest and cold shivers ran down his spine: it was impossible, simply impossible to believe what words were said by Vasilisa’s lips. And yet, senses were screaming with realization of the quiet truth.

Finally, impresario kneeled in front of miss Novinskaya, accurately touching her cheek with fingers and lifting her chin slightly, asking silently to rise up with him. A lock of her hair laying across woman’s cheek. Without thinking, Boris reached out and tucked it behind her ear, fingers lingering for few seconds against ballerina’s skin, soft like silk, and he felt how the breath caught inside their chests. There they were, two lost Russian souls crawling to each other, yet still wouldn’t dare to open the wounds and let them heal.

There was so much in the air between their figures: longing, intimacy and storm of hidden love trying to being confessed. Only one united breath and heartbeat separated them then. They felt the heat of the stage beneath their feet, crawling inside their bodies like electrifying currant. The impossible space between Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya was aching like muscles after the tensed rehearsal. And ballerina was close, too close to impresario now. It became almost impossible to restrain each other any longer.

“Boris…”, the woman whispered in the remains of her caught breath, looking desperately into the man’s grey eyes.

Her lips parted slightly when Boris leaned forward, his breath caught. Their lips were few millimeters apart when for one impossible moment the couple hovered, lingering somewhere between unbearable desire and calculating restrain. After all, they were children of the merciless ballet world. Precise discipline and their own beliefs never let them close their lips in the kiss. They stepped back as the fear of being drowned if both Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov surrendered to their love.

But masks of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ were put on once again, cold hearts were placed inside the armor, when every sense was screaming in despair, hoping the man and the woman would understand that they were fooling themselves by pretending. Boris Lermontov turned away, not saying anything to Vasilisa – he wanted to leave the place before he possibly could let himself being destroyed in front of her beautiful grey-green eyes which were looking at him with all the pain of the world. His steps echoed loudly, just like a sudden thunder broke out above the bright sky.

The woman didn’t call after him. She just remained standing on the stage where two people had almost confessed and let themselves love each other. But now the space felt abandoned, ghosted, or, it was her who had been. When the song from Caffè Florian echoed in her head, now too broken and worn out, like a record in a player as if the final aching accord of the night which suddenly became pitch black.

Goodnight Vienna

Now lovers kiss beneath your linden tree

The world is waiting on the edge of the day

Just waiting to say goodnight

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 25. Valse-Fantaisie in B Minor (Mikhail Glinka)

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Big gorgeous chandeliers illuminated the Great Hall of Palazzo Dandolo: Carnaval Ball was in the full beauty and mystery, as if it opened the door to the old history full of balls and intrigues of nobility of previous centuries.

Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya entered the Hall together, arm in arm, holding supernatural aura between them: the woman – like a vision born from the snowstorm itself, and the man – like the baron of shadows, mysterious commander of deepest thoughts.

Vasilisa truly looked like ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ as her evening gown was designed for her by Elsa Schiaparelli: made out of layered chiffon and organza in pale blue and white, fitted bodice with sweetheart neckline beaded in icy blue crystals, as the whole gown was adorned with crystals and even diamonds which sparkled like snow under the bright winter sun. Delicate capelet of marabou feathers brushed her shoulders, swaying softly with her movements. Feathered and silver-embroidered mask covered her grey-green eyes, when her elegant hands were covered with almost transparent long gloves decorated with small crystals.

Boris’ look resembled her appearance: midnight blue velvet tailcoat with broad shoulders, crisp white shirt with high collar with charcoal-grey silk cravat, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like stars or frost, hands inside black leathered gloves. Angular half-mask in black and silver covered his grey eyes.

Of course they played their titles given to them by newspapers, but there was something in their presence that was undoubtedly only theirs: silent understanding, demanding precision, and steeled core inside their souls. Other guests of the magical Ball couldn’t help but look at such mysterious and powerful couple as an impresario and prima ballerina were. The myth was building around their personas since Vasilisa joined his company, and by the time the ball happened: it grew undoubtedly stronger.

“Oh, let them think what they want”, the couple thought to themselves, hoping that one day, the gossips about them would become true.

With this quiet desperate hope, with breath caught and rapid pulse inside their chests, miss Novinskaya and mister Lermontov glided into the center of the marble floor, under the shimmering chandeliers: for the whole night they would stop being themselves, letting their senses, magical music and beautiful waltz devour them entirely.

When ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ were about to begin waltzing, woman’s hand in his, the man’s hand around her waist – their eyes finally met. And everything suddenly disappeared: all that remained was the softest brush of fingers and the pulse of unspoken desire and longing, covering couple’s figures with soft silk of admiration.

In her whole appearance, Vasilisa reminded so much of both Odette and Odile – the Swan of tenderness and bitterness, love and hate, humility and defiance. No wonder why Vasilisa told the press once that ‘Swan Lake’ is the turning point in every ballerina’s career: either this ballet would break the soul into pieces, or the dancer would leave it fully transformed. And there was no doubt that miss Novinskaya conquered it. But it left the mark, just like scars from wings being cut off, leaving some feathers inside the skin: it whispered in aching pain which nothing could heal. And ballerina tried so hard at least not to hear it.

That night all that mattered to her was the waltz and Boris Lermontov, her dark sorcerer, her Rothbart, to whom she could give her heart if he asked. There was no point in pretending that Russian impresario captivated not only her desire to dance, but more importantly, her cold heart. With such overwhelming thoughts inside Vasilisa’s soul, she was dancing gracefully around the Hall in mesmerizing rhythm of waltz with Lermontov, under the eyes of guests, who’s focus was drawn to this elegant and powerful couple. Every turn they made seemed perfectly choreographed though the passion, intuition and silent understanding were leading them to one another.

Their waltz was magnifying and smooth, Vasilisa’s delicate movements contrasting with Boris’ controlled presence. They were powerful. Guests could witness how the ice was morphing together with the darkness of cold shadows, and miss Novinskaya and mister Lermontov were the main attraction people talked about in days that followed. They were, indeed, like baron and baroness of their own world.

The room blurred away, and the time, wrapped in mystery, stopped just for two of them, as if it wanted to help this tender moment between impresario and ballerina to linger, as the real world forced them to put on masks of restrictions and discipline, burying hearts in the depths of their souls. Throughout that night their eyes were holding the symphony of admiration and restrain, longing for impresario and ballerina to close the distance once and for all. Yet, both ballerina and impresario stopped themselves, though voices inside their heads were screaming out of desperation.

But the magical spell of the waltz had vanished, and once again, ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ returned to their choreographed roles. Though the inevitable truth remained: during that ball Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov charmed the public once again, but not because of the ballet performance danced by ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’: when they were waltzing – they were morphing into mysterious captivating magical spell. The way he accurately was holding her waist, the way her head tilted as she leaned closer – everything was the unspoken secret they never dared to speak. It was floating around their figures like notes of haunting music.

Applause roared like the wave of the sea, but neither impresario nor ballerina release their hands, clasping together like unbreakable chain. Was it the time and the place to finally release their hearts out of self-torture, to tear off their masks and letting the whole world know what the truth was whispering to Boris and Vasilisa behind curtain calls? This dream flashed inside their minds for a slight second, but then it was replaced with cold façade of discipline: after all, they were still playing their roles without remarks.

Finally, mister Lermontov let miss Novinskaya go, though the bittersweet taste of the moment lingered on his lips, as if the waltz spilled it like the honey mixed with blood. And still, under the whirlwind of masks and laughter, ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘Genius Tyrant’ remained tethered with invisible thread of their love and desire impossible to deny any longer. It was the deepest darkest secret that the Venetian night covered with the veil of mystery.

Suddenly, as if pushed by invisible shadow, the man looked around him and his chest tightened: Vasilisa disappeared, quietly and unnoticeably, just like the magic spell vanished by itself, mingling with the masked guests of the Ball. Where did she go? Back to the fairytale of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’? Was it the Venetian night itself which took her from him even though she never belonged to ‘The Genius Tyrant’. Not really, as only the ballet united them.

Boris’ heart began to pound achingly, when he tried to look for the woman with his grey eyes, walking around the Great Hall, gliding through guests as if he was, indeed, the Baron of Shadows. And when he exited the Hall, sensing a cold draft of autumn’s night air – the whisper inside his head drove Lermontov toward the opened doors of Palazzo Dandolo.

And there she was. His Vasilisa Novinskaya, his Vasya, standing on the small white stone bridge, holding her mask in the hand, as if it was the forgotten memory of the fairytale long gone. The water of the canal was glowing faintly under the moon, singing the melody of the night quietly, as the moonlight was falling on the woman like the softest veil, and for a slight moment she seemed almost eternal. For a few minutes Boris didn’t move, watching his ballerina, being afraid to breathe too loud. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to announce his presence and let the magic disappear, letting the moment of tensed silence between them linger.

Lermontov took few steps further, silently, holding his breath under the heart. Vasilisa didn’t turn as the man was approaching her, though he felt her awareness as he saw a slight shift of her posture.

“Vasilisa…”, Boris whispered with his sonorous voice, as if it was the whisper of the night itself.

Ballerina turned her head slightly towards it, silently allowing impresario to come even closer, destroying the distance between their figures, just like an invitation to their intimate waltz. Neither of them wanted to break that moment by saying anything, as ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ and ‘The Genius Tyrant’ were standing side by side, shoulders almost touching. Ballet company was spending the season in one of the most captivating cities in the world, and yet all Boris could see that night was his dear Vasilisa Novinskaya, sense her perfume which he’d already memorised, and feel the warmth of her close presence. But still, her beautiful grey-green eyes held quiet ache and sadness.

Lermontov’s desire to coup ballerina’s face in his hands, brush her cheeks accurately, destroy uncertainty with softest kiss, and hold her accurately in strong hands, was unbearable. But, instead of doing so, though his soul was aching terribly with longing, the man asked:

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Venezia…City of captivating mystery”, his grey eyes held the stare on Vasilisa’s face for too long.

The woman looked at him, her eyes reflecting the light of lanterns:

“Mystery of darkest tales and loneliest people”, her voice was slightly hoarsed, probably, because of waltzing, “It’s the perfect atmosphere for ‘The Queen of Spades’”, she finished thoughtfully, returning her gaze back to the water. Singing voices of gondoliers sounded somewhere in the darkness of the night.

“Let’s not talk about the ballet just for this night, my dear Vasilisa”, Boris’ hand hovered hesitantly in autumn air, which touched ballerina’s long brown hair. The man sensed her perfume once again: mandaring orange, rose and jasmine. So familiar by now, it felt like miss Novinskaya’s signature, just like her captivatingly cold grey-green eyes.

“But, Boris, you know that I can’t do such thing”, notes of slight irritation could be heard in ballerina’s voice as she turned her head to face her secret love, “It’s in my veins now, it’s following me everywhere I go, just like the queen herself, trying to tell me the secret of three winning cards…”

“Well, you know these cards”, impresario smiled warmly, though he recalled Vasilisa’s words inside his head – to not look at her like she’d drowned. But why on earth did Boris return to such plea over and over again?

“I don’t need to name them to you”, the man continued, forcing his dark thoughts to disappear, “And you don’t know yet what you’re capable of, my dear Vasilisa”, he gestured at the scenery opening for them as if it was the center of the stage, “You belong to this world, and nowhere else”

He paused, finding right words to say:

“And I’m glad that we’re together in such journey, and…I’m glad you’re here, Vasilisa”

Boris’ words were so heavy with everything he never dared to say to the woman he secretly loved.

And perhaps, ballerina somehow knew what truly did Lermontov want to say to her as she looked at him with warm look in her eyes, as if begging “Please, stop pretending. I love you too, can’t you see it, Boris Lermontov?”

“I’m glad too, Boris”, Vasilisa whispered softly, as if saying quiet fairy tale, “Glad about everything…”

They were looking at each other now, sensing the tensed current running between their bodies, but not allowing to break the distance between their strict attitudes and secret love. But with every moment the man was looking at the woman – it became more and more clear to him that Vasilisa was feeling the same rapture of everything that kept them apart. Both of them wished for such forbiddance disappear, but both of them knew they were bound to choreographed rules of the ballet.

Finally, Boris placed his palm on Vasilisa’s hand, brushing the surface softly with the thumb. She didn’t want to put it away. Never. For a moment it felt like the world held its breath, as if waiting for final movements of pas de deux under the last chords of invisible orchestra. Limelight was fallen just on their figures, curtains closed behind, keeping them away from peeping eyes.

For a moment it felt like the world held its breath, as if waiting for final movements of pas de deux under the last chords of invisible orchestra. Limelight was fallen just on their figures, curtains closed behind, keeping them away from peeping eyes. The Venetian night held them in warm embrace, in private world behind closed curtains and masks taken off. Unspoken desire remained between them even when both of them moved slightly towards each other, as if their senses were now commanding what to do.

Vasilisa’s head tilted towards Boris, eyes glimmering with an unspoken desire and hope she tried to hide behind the cold surface of ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ during the daylight. Such look mirrored Lermontov’s yearning he felt inside his chest. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from woman’s beautiful face, softly touching her right cheek, lingering on it. How much longer could impresario restrain himself to close the distance with the kiss on her lips? He desperately wanted to kiss her right when Vasilisa was sitting close to him, on the day when ‘The Queen of Spades’ was secretly announced just to her. To his Vasya.

Few millimeters kept their faces apart, as hearts skipped a loud beat, but then, suddenly, a noise from the opened doors of Palazzo Dandolo collapsed every precious moment they had between each other. Those busy sounds of laughter of guests and the music of orchestra playing inside the palace achingly reminded ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’ that there was a world outside their secret tenderness and, reluctantly, both of them let their clasped hands go.

They looked at each other with sadness of missing moment, when reality intruded them once again. Oh, they understood each other perfectly without words. Without saying anything, the couple began to walk back inside the palace, inside the world of the ballet, where there was no place for human feelings. Even for people who secretly loved each other, under the eyes of critics and balletomanes. Of course, Vasilisa and Boris had their own obligations to this world, obligations which couldn’t be removed with a simple snap of someone’s fingers.

Every step they made towards glittering light of chandeliers inside the palace, with cheerful laughter of guests, felt like leaving truthful parts of themselves behind on the white bridge.  And, again, when Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya returned back inside the palace, the man’s arm on her back – they put on their masks of ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’, hiding their souls behind big long curtains of their facades. But when their eyes met once again, in the whirlwind of waltzing crowds, it became inevitably clear that everything they had left outside remained shimmering between them, with longing and hesitating desire too dangerous to hide or speak aloud.

The night of Venice was breathing quietly around them with whispers of guests, and the moon, shining through big windows, covering the scenery with its light. But for Boris Lermontov and Vasilisa Novinskaya the reality narrowed to the rhythm of their heartbeats. And no matter how long they would spend days and nights without confession – the unsaid love between them would continue to unwaveringly destroy the ice around their cold hearts.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 24. Mavra: Chanson russe (Igor Stravinsky (Arr. Stravinsky & Dushkin)

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Autumn sun, the rays of which penetrated through thin grey clouds, illuminated every canal, square and alley of Venice, the water shining like it was filled with diamonds. It was a perfect time for ballet company to have a day-off. Since the morning they were wandering around the city, taking pictures on their cameras, singing songs and laughing.

And Vasilisa, in this whirlwind of smiles and joy seemed even more dreamy but distant, as if her body and smiles were with others but her mind was somewhere else. Whenever Boris Lermontov glanced at ballerina, walking with the others, wearing dark-brown trench coat and dusty-green soft scarf with his sea brooch pinned on it – she reminded him of both Nastenka and the dreamer from the novel of Fyodor Dostoevsky ‘White Nights’: gentle, naïve and mysterious.

Perhaps, Venice reminded both impresario and ballerina of Saint Petersburg. The woman imagined it out of babushka’s bright memories, when she told little Vasya about her youth as prima ballerina in Imperial Mariinsky Theatre. When Boris Lermontov recalled his own younger years which he spent there. For both of them this beautiful city was distant then, but in every detail they found during a day-off around Venice somehow called them back to Imperial Saint Petersburg, whispering familiar melody of the waltz performing by Russian orchestra.

Somehow the man knew that the company would travel there, with Vasilisa as prima ballerina precisely. And at the same time, whenever he glanced at the woman’s profile, his heart clenched, wondering how longer he would deny the fact that he fell in love with her? How longer he would torture his and her heart, knowing that it became inevitable, this longing, this desire, every sense both of them buried for the sake of merciless world of ballet they placed above everything. Finally, Lermontov tore his gaze away from her, unwilling for anyone to notice the truth he was hiding behind dark sunglasses.

Between visiting Palazzo Ducale and Gallerie dell'Accademia, the company had some time have a break and take espresso at the café in Piazza San Marco which, as always, was full of people buzzing like bees in the beehive. Vasilisa sat with Lida, founding herself occupied with her own things while her friend was reading a book: she was changing the film in the camera and adjusting it by photographing Piazza and people passing it by. Vasilisa didn’t know that at that time Boris Lermontov couldn’t take his eyes behind dark sunglasses off her, memorizing every movement she made as if it was the dance. He was sitting right behind the woman, with Igor Stravinsky, who was smoking his cigarette quietly, sensing something secret that was floating around impresario and his prima.

Composer couldn’t help but notice how both Boris and Vasilisa held the same sense of belonging to a completely different world, or, perhaps, they came right from pages of old Doctoevsky’s novel: dark, faithful and longing for something spiritual. He’d read one of those articles newspapers wrote about them recently, when ‘The Queen of Spades’ was announced. He even remembered the title as it moved him with uniqueness and boldness:

‘Danza del serpente tra ‘Il tiranno geniale’ e ‘Il ghiaccio Tsaritsa’ : il duello sussurrato tra due cuori nascosti’

Quei balletomani, critici e giornalisti, che hanno avuto la possibilità di vedere insieme l'impresario russo Boris Lermontov e la prima ballerina Vasilisa Novinskaya quando le luci del palco sono state spente, confermano che c'è un'indubbia tensione silenziosa tra loro che è coreografata in modo così preciso da parlare più forte delle parole. I lettori crederanno che è solo l'arte del balletto che ha legato mister Lermontov e miss Novinskaya insieme, o è qualcosa di più personale che si eleva al di sopra del mondo solo per loro due?*

‘Serpent dance between ‘The Genius Tyrant’ and ‘The Ice Tsaritsa’: the duel whispered between two hidden hearts.’

Those balletomanes, critics and reporters, who had a chance to see Russian impresario Boris Lermontov and prima ballerina Vasilisa Novinskaya together when the lights of the stage were turned off confirm that there is an undoubtable silent tension between them which is choreographed so precisely that it speaks louder than words. Are the readers going to believe that it is only art of the ballet that tied mister Lermontov and miss Novinskaya together, or is it something more personal that elevates above the world just for them two?’ (*it)

Stravinsky wondered whether Boris and Vasilisa had read this article. And if they did – had it bothered them? Did they even care about such gossips which were circling around people?  Of course others couldn’t really understand their characters, and, probably, both impresario and ballerina couldn’t do it too. But it was clear to Igor that both of them were made out of the same material: concrete façade with steel rod inside their bodies. And somehow he knew that sooner or later their masks of discipline would fall, tragically and inevitably.

Evening came unnoticeably, when few members of the company, including Boris, Vasilisa, Igor Stravinsky, Ivan, Grischa, Lida and Olga, entered Harry’s Bar, which welcomed them with loud voices of guests which rose above old Italian music playing on the record player. Pastel walls were decorated with small paintings of Venetian sceneries with few old photographs, small wall lamps were shining with warm light. Other visitors noticed them, someone clapped hands, when greeting the group, looking at Boris Lermontov respectfully and shouting “Bella!” to Vasilisa, who smiled politely and nodded to them.

Waiters served them with bellinis and carpaccios, which were placed on old round wooden tables. There were laughs and discussions of the glorious day they had in Venice, never forgetting to say few sentences about ‘The Queen of Spades’. There were toasts of good luck for new season and upcoming production, which promised to be even greater than ‘The Little Mermaid’.

And as the song of Lina Termini ‘Ma l’amore no’ was playing on the background of the busy space, Boris felt himself looking back at his prima ballerina too often, sitting across from the man, talking to Lida. He was torn between discipline and longing desire. His grey eyes were glancing between faces of others at their table and Vasilisa’s small elegant hand, lingering on her glass of bellini. When she smiled softly, hearing Lida’s whisper in her ear – Boris’ heart was melting. And he adored the way of how warm light of the lamps covered ballerina’s young face, when her lowered eyes were hiding the whole soul inside.

Lermontov desperately wanted to finally reach for Novinskaya’s hand, to admit to himself that the newspapers guessed right after all about what was growing between them, to shut down the whispers and finally open the heart he once buried for her, for his Vasilisa.

But he never did that. Instead, he clenched the fist of his hand hiding under the table, hoping that this longing would disappear, just for some time. Still, every so often, their eyes kept meeting. As if their lonely souls were calling for their attention, to finally speak up about the turmoil of emotions they held for each other they tried to suppress. And neither Vasilisa Novinskaya nor Boris Lermontov looked away too quickly, feeling how their senses devoured them irrevocably.

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Vasilisa slipped out of Harry’s Bar unnoticeably, when others were putting on their coats as the joyful evening of the fulfilling day was almost over. It was one of her unique features – to walk quietly, soundlessly, as if she had always been walking on air, especially when dancing. But Boris sensed it, as he did so previously, when Novinskaya returned to Monte Carlo from grandmother’s funeral in London. The man left the bar and didn’t even make few steps when he saw the woman, standing close to the embarkment. Her long loose brown hair fluttered slightly in the autumn wind. She looked so distant then, as never before, looking more like the ghost of something eternal, though tragic.

Boris desperately wanted to come to Vasilisa, gently wrap his arms around her, kissing her hair, and to say everything he never dared to say before. But, as during the whole day, the man stayed distant. Perhaps it was precaution not to let go the haunting spirit of Pushkin’s novella to represent characters without distraction on human feelings, as Vasilisa had danced like never before.

Or, perhaps, Boris tried to protect ballerina from himself. He never wanted to ruin her as tremendous prima, nor to bother her soul with troubles of his heart. Both Novinskaya and Lermontov understood that if they wanted to let their broken lonely souls to finally clenched together in a dangerous thing called ‘love’, the sensation they never admitted, it would destroy both of them.

“You’re bothered, my friend”

The man turned: Igor Stravinsky came closer, lighting up a cigarette, hiding his gaze behind the glasses, which were shining under street lamps. Boris wanted to deny those allegations, but sensed that the turmoil of his feelings was written on his face. He let Igor continue, but narrowed his gaze slightly, as if he didn’t want someone to read what was hidden behind grey eyes.

“And believe me, you can’t hide it as accurately as you thought so”, Stravinsky said with voice sounding like a teacher was talking to his pupil, “And you’re bothered not because of the ballet…but because of ‘Ledenaya Tsaritsa’”.

Cold autumn breeze blew from the embarkment, ruffling Lermontov’s hair slightly, as if her nickname pronounced by someone was the terrifying spell. Perhaps, for impresario it was, indeed, the curse, as his chest froze the moment he heard it. Boris dropped a look at Vasilisa’s figure, when she was still standing near the embarkment, but then his calculating eyes returned back at Igor, who continued smoking his cigarette, the amber of which was glowing in the darkness of the night.

 “You’ve read too many articles, Igor”, Boris’ smile was fainted and sad: he regretted being caught by his clever friend.

“Oh, but you know that I rarely do so, Boris”, the man smirked slightly, “And this time, from all the cases, they seemed to guess something truthful”

Lermontov wanted to say something else, but instead, he clenched his fists, restraining himself, and turned his head back at Vasilisa, who never sensed neither impresario’s nor composer’s guarding presence.

“I feel the strange connection between us, and I can’t explain how it happened.”, impresario’s voice was quiet but confident, “I’ve never felt this before, not since I remembered”

The sea murmured softly beyond the embarkment, just like the whisper of the night, welcoming lonely souls to join the magical darkness it held.

“When I saw her for the first time, I recognised cold discipline, precise accuracy, fire of dancing ecstasy and grace of prima ballerina”, impresario paused, trying to catch his breath and senses, hands clenching into fists because they began to shake uncontrollably, “But now I see much more than that…I see her in everything that I do now: in humming whirlwind of rehearsals, in silence of mornings, in the space between curtains and backstage…Ona opastnost’* (*She’s the danger (rus).”

“Now you’re a fool”, Igor stopped smoking, throwing away the remains of the cigarette and adjusting his glasses, “She’s not just your ballerina, your muse of every new production. That woman has walked through a lot of things, and she kept her head high and posture straight. But I saw the way she glanced at you during dinner, when you weren’t watching”, his words were serious and precise, “It felt like she was calling for you, while standing on the sharp edge of the stage, hoping you’ll catch her.”

Boris Lermontov motionlessly listened to Stravinsky, though he was astonished to hear such sharp conclusions.

“Are you in love with her, Boris?”, his sudden question cut Boris’ ears, and the men felt how his heart inside the chest dropped achingly.

For a moment impresario was afraid that Vasilisa could hear them. And how he wished she didn’t, because it would undo him entirely. To calm himself, wondering how could the composer possibly read his mind, Boris clenched his fists once again, turning the head to meet Igor’s face:

“Yes, I am…But in a way no one will ever understand”, the man finally exhaled the confession which he couldn’t keep inside him any longer.

Composer’s clever eyes of the mentor read Boris’ defensive look, before striking him with another sharp question:

“Then why are you tormenting both yourself and her?”

Lermontov, sensing Vasilisa’s absence, turned his head once again, only finding that the woman was gone, and everything inside him began call her back silently.

“You know our principles, Igor”, the man smiled faintly, “We’re both like that: I can see it clearly”

“Oh, I understand”, composer smirked sadly, “And I could understand it completely before now, but this time your own heart is yearning for love and you can’t pretend that you’re a hollow man without it. Please, for sakes of both of you stop, you’re torturing one another, like two snakes. Don’t punish neither yourself nor Vasilisa”

“I can’t promise anything”, Boris replied coldly, not looking at his friend. But every sense of him felt the invisible presence of his dear ballerina in the wind, circling around the embarkment.

“Well, Russian souls will always find each other eventually, especially if it was meant to happen, my dear friend”, the man finished, tapping Lermontov slightly on his shoulder, “I hear it in the silence around you two when I’m adding notes into the score. So stop hiding your heart inside principles”

Two men began to walk slowly, towards the hotel, as Boris felt the weight of the truth settling inside him. He loved Vasilisa Novinskaya, oh, how greatly he loved her. But Lermontov was afraid of such love towards her, and the fear of what it could bring to them was inevitable: fear of not being able to keep the woman from pain, from the whole world, from what happened to women like her: too talented and too beautiful. And still he would not survive it if she loved someone else.

That’s why ‘The Queen of Spades’ would be the vessel for everything he had never dared to confess until then. And Boris Lermontov was hoping that the ballerina would understand it, as she had understood him before, silently, from gestures visible only for them. The man didn’t wonder to search for the woman – he knew that she would be in her hotel room, sleeping. And she didn’t know what a torment of emotions he felt when she was near him

As if he heard wind whispered “Vasilisa”, dissolving into the Venice night. It was the name which became so dear to him, the name of one, who replaced everything else in mind and heart of ‘The Genius Tyrant’ Boris Lermontov. And somewhere inside his soul he hoped that one day he would call her so softly and dearly, not hiding behind their principles anymore.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰