SIMEON BELSKYI.

“A little from some soldiers, a little by myself.” Some told her it was a gift from God, wasted on a girl who could never take to the battlefield, but Ippolita chose to ignore those voices. It was her own practice and sheer determination as it was anything else, the same motions over and over for years on end: how many starlings has she felled in manners far less elegant this this one?

She suspected he did not recognize her. That was just as well, with recent events surrounding her family, she had no desire to be recognized and have to deal with wan condolences and thin offerings of sorrow. The accent is mildly atrocious, as though the other were unused to syllables placed together in such a manner, perhaps not even used to speak much at all. Ah. Her mind vaguely files away the recognition, but she doesn’t care much for it. After all, Ippolita is certain that at the very least, she could put an arrow through his heart faster than he could put a sword through hers.

“I see no reason why you could not.” She shrugged lightly, bow returned to being strapped across her arrow quiver, “Shall we walk? I would rather not be scorched by the sun, and perhaps we can speak about our respective times in Switzerland.”

were soldiers different in her home? he could not imagine showing an aristocratic lady how to swing a sword when he was young. if he had shown sophia such a thing, he could not imagine how the tsar would have reacted. 

nonetheless, she did not react to his name; she did not flinch from him. it was a relief he did not know he needed --- to be separate from legacy for an afternoon. the anger was exhausting, the continuous plotting more so. she was offering him this: a continued relief. and, he could admit, he was curious about the woman with the strange name who could shoot a moving target with such precision. was he not allowed his curiosities anymore? 

( it took a moment of internal convincing to come to this. )

≠ — He had not been there long, that was a relief in and of itself. It meant that he had time to rest and relax now that he had arrived, but it also meant that perhaps others - especially the Tsar - did not know of his presence. “I would not dare ask and ruin such a lively encounter.” She mused thoughtfully, her hazel eyes taking him in. He looked… Different. He had seen things, though he tried to hide it, the abyss of his dark eyes spoke volumes of things that she had no hands on knowledge of. “I am glad you have come all the same, and that you now get to rest, as you deserve it.” 

The distance between them closed in slightly as he stepped towards her, and she felt her breathing hitch, as it so commonly had as a young girl. Seeing him walk though the palace with Yuri had been enough to set her cheeks ablaze as a younger girl. There had been something stoic and mysterious about Simeon. Though she had not spoken much to him, there was a flutter within her chest whenever she laid eyes on him, and though Sophia had presumed it was something she had grown out of, when he stepped closer, that fact proved to be wholly wrong. 

She shifted, so that she was not directly facing him, should anyone see. Though, she was glad her instincts had told her to do such a thing, for the next words out of her mouth caused a flush to rise into her cheeks. Despite her willing it away. 

“I thank you for the compliment, Lord Belskyi. You are as handsome as I remember you to be.” She replied, albeit somewhat timidly. “You must tell me if there is anything I may do to ease your comfort while you are getting settled, though I would suggest perhaps an audience with the Tsar, if you have not done so already for starters.” 

her comment was meant to be sweet, but the title hung in the air, echoing around him, echoing through him, heavier than blood in the veins: lord, lord, lord. ( a future stripped of him; a version of him, burned. ) he was glad that she looked away, glad that he could let the truth flicker across his face, however brief. before it was gone. before it needed to be gone. before she looked back. 

he clasped his hands behind his back so that she might not see them quake and tried to keep the level in his voice. “i have scheduled an audience with your brother, but --- i admit, i’m wary. i fear he’ll think little of me, after all these years away. that i did not return sooner.” that i did not die for russia as i should have. the longer simeon spoke, the more difficult it was to hold onto the delicate narrative he wanted to give her. “and what then? i want a quiet life, sophia.” 

he took a ragged breath. perhaps it was not too early to bring up the topic he longed to discuss with her, that dangerous thing that could begin to shift the rurik family. 

“i hear you are to be married.” 

his reaction is interesting. his words come softer than previously, and francesco gets the feeling that he is somewhat pleased with his answer. he truly can not care less about the fate of this man he so rarely hears of, but if it makes his new acquaintance ( can he even call this man that? ) satisfied, then it is enough for him as well. “right, again.”

another arrow is picked up from a bundle of them, and positioned again on the bow. francesco takes position - his posture as tall and slender as ever, shoulder rightfully in place for the best shot. the arrow flies, and this time hits just outside of the center of the target. he thinks he’s gotten lucky, but his confidence gets the best of him. “not bad for someone who would throw a fit because of dirt, is it not?” he teases, his tone isn’t of an offended man, but a playful one. “show me what you can do now, sir.”

the man showed a marked improvement with his second shot. if it was simeon who had found himself getting hustled, the morning would have taken an interesting turn indeed. “i would go so far as to say it is impressive,” simeon commented. he lined up for his own attempt, but his body felt uncooperative from his stance. there was a certainty that accompanied it: his arrow would not fly how he wanted. 

he took his shot, and it was less accurate than even his last one, hitting nearer to the edge of the target than he would have liked. if this was a battlefield, he might find himself dead then. a curse left his tongue, far more annoyed at himself than he would have liked. if this was a battlefield, he would find himself dead again. this was not a battlefield, he reminded himself. 

he turned back toward the man. “what is your question then?” 

mary  was  no  stranger  to  the  undead.  she  had  coaxed  irina  back  from  the  grave  herself,  wagered  with  death,  seen  first-hand  what  he  could  do.  sometimes,  on  bad  nights,  she  wondered  how  much  returned—  whether  the  soul  endured.

had  hers?

“i  could  not  say,  милорд.  woman  does  not  know  the  whims  of  man.  you  make  your  idols  and  you  tear  them  down.  this  statue  will  die.”  she  shrugged.  “you  will  build  another  in  its  place,  and  i  will  sit  here  still,  enjoying  the  sun.”

the  governess  pulled  the  hook  out  of  her  crochet  work,  and  rapidly,  with  the  help  of  her  forefinger,  began  working  loop  after  loop  of  the  wool,  dazzling  white  in  the  sunlight,  while  the  slender  wrist  moved  swiftly,  calmy  in  its  cuff.   her  mother  had  taught  her  this.  was  it  the  same  girl  who  had  hunched  over  the  kitchen  table,  her  fingers  in  a  muddle,  who  sat  before  simeon  now?  mary  did  not  know  that  it  was.  perhaps  she  had  suffered  a  rebirth  of  her  own,  or  maybe  she  was  caught  in  the  middle :  a  half-formed  thing.

“will  you  sit  a  while?  it  is  cooler  in  the  shade.”

the world would turn on, and she with it. the world would crumble eventually, and she would be left, enjoying the sun as it pierced through the ashes. what did that make her --- what could you call someone intent on surviving? ( someone who could not be trusted, but he did not need to trust her. ) it made his head swirl, as conversation with the governess so often did. 

he took a seat on the ground, stiff and uncomfortable. he did not like to be in the dirt, to be so close to the buried. it was far too easy to imagine what lurked beneath. but he sat near to her all the same, letting the shade fall over them both. 

( it was cooler here, in the shadows. )

grief left a mark, visible only to those who recognized it --- a heaviness to the eyes, when the gaze was meant to be soft; a shaking of the hands, trying to contain an earthquake of emotions; a shadow, always a shadow, that could not be easily hidden. sometimes, simeon saw it in others, resting and quiet but there. it was almost a comfort, but it was always quick to turn in him. 

( nothing good in him stayed. ) 

he did not think he was meant to see her like this: the fresh sun of the day shined on her golden hair and starlight eyes, highlighting the very mark of grief he rarely glimpsed in others. ( she looked angelic in her sorrow, for who were the first angels on earth but those that carried the sin of the fall? ) and it would have been easy to walk away, to leave her there alone, but he did not. of course he did not. 

like a hound that smelled blood, he approached. 

it was entirely too ridiculous a notion for richard to pass up the opportunity of getting to know the legend himself! simeon belskyi came with baggage and where there was smoke, there was usually fire. disappointingly enough however, this man was about as lively as horse dung — though the jester supposed even that had more activity going on.

“then let me enlighten you, lord bely.” he drew closer, casting an amusing glance at the other male. everything about richard suggested lightheartedness: from the way he carried himself to the way he leaned forward to purposefully invade simeon’s personal space. “it’s the one honor russia should have granted you upon your death.”

the sudden nearness of the man startled simeon; it rang too false and too familiar, as if they were dear friends exchanging jests. ( and his name in the other man’s mouth did not help matters. simeon so hated to be caught by surprise. ) he was getting a creeping suspicion that the man was his worst fear come alive: an entertainer of some sort, whether through profession or personality. either way, he was wholly unwelcome. 

“ --- why would they stir warmth in my heart?” he could not even remember the way he cared for them before --- the loyalty that beat inside! it was not warmth that brought him here, it was not warmth that kept him breathing. love was not driving enough; it could only transform. he saw the royal family now and could only feel the holy burn of metamorphosis. “why would you think i would find pity for them at all?” 

this stranger embodied what the french whispered about the russians behind raised hands. a wild demeanour, dulled only by duty and a sense of honour attributed to the years as a soldier. such fierceness was hard to come by in even the most wicked of generals.

louis remembered the nights he’d spent on the battlefield out of loyalty, the torn bodies littering his way and the fatigue wearing down even the strongest of soldiers. the french prince had no urge to revel in the stern cold of these memories and felt his shoulders tighten when his eyes fell on the personification of death himself: here lord bely stood, looking every bit the living corpse he was rumoured to be.

“the french have a name for you, lord bely.” at least, those who cared enough to listen to the gossip that travelled across borders. louis was nearly ashamed to count himself among these people. “they call you l’âme morte. the one whose soul perished.”

perhaps he should have known better than to allow curiosity to guide his actions but louis cared little for the impression he was bound to leave as he loosened his grip on the reins to allow his horse to sniff at a nearby plant. the prince’s head lolled to the side slowly before his gaze travelled back to the other man, casually passing over his last remark before posing a question of his own. “is it true, then?”

the one whose soul perished --- it was certainly a fitting title, one that weighed heavy and true. hadn’t it been a conscious choice, to let that golden part of himself perish in the bloody mud? if even the french spoke of him in such a way, simeon knew his introduction to switzerland ( the display of wild beast to the crowds ) had left the proper mark. 

“a bit dramatic for my taste,” simeon retorted, something almost near to a smile tugging at his features. l’âme morte --- he would have to remember it. what was one more title to his growing list? “i have been called many things by now, prince. all are fitting in their own way.” 

The man is good, yes. Francesco thought he would be better, in all honesty, but perhaps he excels in other athletic activities. Perhaps he’s more trained in sword combat. Who knows. It is only their first round, after all. 

He hums at the question. Bely. Now that’s where that accent is from - Russia. It makes sense for it to be so strange to the ear. “Sir, I am afraid I am not well immersed in this particular chatter,” he starts, with a breath, but continues nonetheless. “Was it not something with interest to his chair? The prince’s son, or perhaps that son’s wife? Women have more will than most us men imagine.” All comes from a hunch, of course, in this specific situation, but there is wisdom to Franci’s words. He wonders who Prince Pyotr of Bely was to this man. A brother? An uncle? He’s heard little of the noble of Bely. There was Prince Pavel and Princess Irina, of course, and there has once been Prince Simeon, in peace may he rest. Who may this man be?

so long as they were saying irina trubetskaya --- so long as people, even those as far removed as the nobleman, thought she might have some connection, however bare, however uncertain. ( there only needed to be the smallest doubt, but it could grow. away from pavel, away from himself, and toward the witch. ) his father might finally be good for something, at least. simeon let out a hum. “that is answer enough.” his words, this time, were less harsh. 

@oncebely !

there  are  few  moments  of  calm  in  the  life  of  a  governess.  the  tsaritsa  had  called  on  tatiana  after  breakfast—  by  servant,  of  course⁠—  and  the  pair  had  been  away  since.  with  andrei  out  riding,  nikolai  and  adelina  god-knows-where,  irinei  with  his  mother,  and  tiny  svetlana  down  for  a  nap,  mary  took  her  chance.  she  settled  for  a  spot  in  the  gardens,  under  the  shade  of  the  laburnum  tree,  close  enough  to  hear  the  fountain,  where  a  bronze  boy  clutched  a  shell  between  his  hands.

here  she  passed  the  morning  undisturbed.  only  the  gardener,  who  mary  knew  by  name,  waved  his  hand  to  greet  her.  she  raised  her  embroidery  in  reply.

but  when  a  shadow  fell  over  her  the  second  time,  mary  did  not  stir.  she  did  not  need  to.  even  the  thick  scent  of  the  flowers  could  not  mask  the  rot.

“it  is  strange,  милорд.”  mary  kept  her  eyes  on  her  work.  “you  see  that  fountain?  each  day  i  sit  here,  and  each  day  he  seems  surprised  to  see  the  water  dripping  from  the  shell  in  his  hands.  each  day  the  same,  and  yet  still  he  does  not  learn.”

mary  was  surprised  herself.  she  did  not  know  the  dead  cast  shadows.

there were many ways to get to the heart of the royal family --- they had so much that chipping away at the edges would, eventually, expose the fragility of their lives. there was not one single plan that simeon had; his plans had to be malleable to account for the vast shape of the royal family, to chip away in the places that were actually vulnerable. and so he waited. he watched. he was patient in a way he had so rarely been patient before. 

finally, she was alone. the governess. and he with this thought: could she be an ally to him, or was she loyal to the tsar? 

he looked at the fountain she spoke of. all he saw was stone. 

“Rest assured, whatever skill I may have, it is lacking at best,” Ippolita murmured. Archery is a mere hobby of a dilettante at best, something to trifle with and whittle away the time, and to have an excuse to avoid the company of others for long hours at a time. (She does not much enjoy company, merely pretends that she does.)

Her eyes turn back towards the horizon (not towards the sun though, for that would be a foolish act indeed,) and a dark shadow crosses her sight-line. The bow is raised, arrow nocked, gaze sharpening for a singular instant, before releasing. There is a brief moment of pause as it squarely hits its mark, Cicero diving down — there is a slightest glimpse of her quarry, a starling now with an arrow head squarely through its mouth, the shaft of the arrow likely piercing through in a perfectly line. (Skewered, so to speak. It’s a useful trick sometimes, making a mess of hunting has never been to her taste, and that is mostly why she despises the grandiose hunts so. Pompous and inelegant.)

“Ippolita,” she continued, as though nothing much had happened at all. She does not bother adding in her title and where she is from. If he knows, then that is not her issue. If he does not, she sees no reason to bring it up: it would only ruin a perfectly good afternoon. “And you are…” 

he did not say anything at first, but he did not need to. he simply watched as the arrow disappeared to speed, as the falcon fell onto a prey that he could hardly see shot down. surely, she must be jesting; there was too much precision in her form for her to be lacking. “better than most,” he settled on. certainly better than him, although he would not say as much aloud. he did not believe in grace on the battlefield. there was no need for it. “where did you learn it?”

ippolita --- a strange name, formed on a strange tongue. he said it aloud himself, as if testing how it sounded with the thick form of russian around it. he appreciated the simplicity of her introduction; there were no titles outside the castle. was that not why they found themselves here? 

“to remake them.” to tear them apart. to let them hurt and ache and stitch back together, only to fall apart again. to let them live and to let them die. to force them to understand, each in their own horrible and intimate way, what simeon belskyi has suffered. 

At his assent, she smiled. Lucia was well aware that this could be a costly mistake for her. Not all men were to be trusted, and Lucia was suspicious of all, but his agreement left her with little need for manipulation. Perhaps Simeon could be all that she needed to unleash her wrath upon the world. They could stand together, smiting all those who would seek to oppose them. And though she needed put far too much on his shoulders, reveal more of herself than it was ever safe to reveal, she did not fear him. 

“I think that it will.” She spoke with a quiet confidence, an assurance in what she had to say. “In fact, I think what we want would be largely complementary to one another. Wouldn’t that be a marvellous thing?” She spoke no Russian, and the name he bestowed upon her was lost. It didn’t matter - he could call her whatever he liked. “I am not the type who won’t pay my debts. Call on me when you like, and I will answer. There may come a time when Russia turns itd back upon you once more, Simeon Belskyi. When it does, I will be there.” 

a marvelous thing, indeed.  

he stood, nearly eye to eye with her. it was a beginning, they both recognized it. and how dangerous, how beautiful, beginnings could be. 

he did not doubt that day would come, when russa turned away from him once more. he had always thought he would not live much longer past it --- what else could he expect but to be burned while burning the whole of the world? but she gave him a glimpse at something else: an ally of his own making, a chance past this. he did not believe it, but he did not disbelieve it enough to look away. 

( when he ruined russia, would her words be the same? ) 

“then we’ll speak again soon,” he affirmed. leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. ( was it a condemnation or a promise? ) he was left with much to think about. “goodbye, lucia della rovere.”