god is with us.

            HER  FIRST  INSTINCT  WAS  TO  SNEER  ;  twist  her  lips  upward,  retort  ‘ yes.  well,  as  you  were ‘,  wrinkle  her  nose.  Then  slue  past  him,  as  if  this  was  no  different  from  his  usual  slights,  as  if  it  scarcely  mattered  even  if  it  had  been.  But  that  wasn’t  true,  was  it ?  He  had  seen  her.  Usually.  And  before.  He  even  struggled  to  look.  So  this  access,  the  uprooting  instinct  for  rudeness,  galled  her.  Reactions  were  no  longer  a  thing  she  felt,  existing  in  a  natural  state  within,  but  something  that  had  to  be  daubed  on,  coaxed  into  reality.  They  did  not  simply  come  of  their  own  accord.  Yelena  tended  to  most  emotions  as  if  they  were  blazons,  awaiting  their  occassion  in  a  chestbox.  She  would  pluck  them  out  according  to  suitable  circumstance ;  this  instance,  for  one,  did not  warrant  any.  What  cause  do  I  have  to  be  shrewish ?  Chiding  herself  fell  flat.  She  did  suppose  it  would  stop  working,  this  calling  upon  a  better  nature,  if  there’s  no  nature  of  any  sort  to  appeal  to.  The  Tsarina  breathed  in  instead.

            She  gulped  on  the  cold  air,  its  crispness  and  its  foreign  edge,  and  let  it  slouch  on  her  tongue  like  proper  words.  She  could  see  Sasha  as  she  had  a  myriad  times  before  ;  heated,  riled  up  from  riding,  or  wrestling,  or  sparring  on  the  frozen  ground.  Youthful  and  symbolic,  picturesque  in  his  obliviousness,  in  his  exact  depiction  of  what  the  country  needed  ─  an  emblem  as  unwitting  as  had  ever  been.  And  haunted.  Yelena  wrote  it  down  to  current  politics. Oh,  but  you  should  guide  him.  How  would  that  ever  work ?  All  these  lives  of  rulers  and  their  blazing  coterie,  with  wedlock  daughters  and  borrowed  wars,  their  silenced  concubines,  she  had  observed  as  another  person.  Her  self,  one  year  younger,  would  know  what  to  make  of  everything.  Or  at  least  she  would  be  foolish  enough  to  claim  she  did.  Now  she  hardly  cared  why  there  was  a  bâtard  on  the  English  throne  ;  have  it  her  way,  there  might  as  well  be  a  cobbler. 

             Around  them,  the  stallions  and  gelds  were  steered  towards  their  mangers.  Their  reins  and  martingales  sounded  slack  in  their  mouths  whenever  the  grooms  pulled  harder.  It  made  Yelena  feel  a  sudden  bout  of  pain,  heartrending,  more  for  the  ordinariness  of  it,  the  folly. ❛  Are  they  not  cold,  Alexander ?  ❜  She  asked  him  without  wanting,  or  without  thinking  to.  She  asked  him  because  she  hoped  he’d  know.  At  the  fringe  of  her  view,  the  air  misted  in  patches,  and  it  was  difficult  to  say  whether  that  came  from  the  fog,  or  was  exhaled  by  the  beasts,  which  were  gurgling  in  unison  like  the  mouth  of  a  great  river.  Yelena  went  over  her response  and  found  it  lacking.  Indeed,  she  had  not  come  out  with  the  purpose  of  greeting  him,  but  she  should  have.  Or  at  least  expect  it,  avoid  it,  and  do  not  blotch  the  bloody  deal.  ❛  How  was  this  morning’s  gallop ?  ❜

AS SOON AS THE WORDS HAD left his lips, he wanted to call them back; it was as if his tongue was running ahead of him, he recognised her and bit down on air, too late. He liked it when he caught her by surprise - it was when she looked most animated, her eyes sparking with an instinctive anger that he remembered from days long, long ago (memories that felt hazy and distant, like childhood summers, though it was barely a year since) when she had occasionally called him Sasha and she ruled over those dissolving sugar months, his brother by her side. Then her irritation with him had been tempered by laughter, teasing, and the steady presence of Vanya at her elbow. Now it was brutal and heavy and abrupt, muddy water clogged with everything they didn’t talk about. She seemed to inhale; he wondered if she would ignore him and walk on and leave him there, but she regained control of herself.

He could straighten, at least; he did so, manners beaten into him as a boy. Once you know all the etiquette, his father had said to him when he complained, you can disobey it - but you can’t break something that isn’t there. It was like cheating at cards; only fools who didn’t know the rules got caught. Anyway, there was something about her that made him want to be better, like Vanya, who would’ve known exactly how to charm her out of her discomfort; and then the thought seared him and he went whirling in the other direction, determined to be as reprehensible as possible. He would have bowed to her, but she ignored the pleasantries. She was skittish; he had to blink to clear his vision of her astride one of the pale dappled grey mares that was protesting in the courtyard, both elegant and terrified, and looked towards the horses. He was too surprised to muster up any of his usual irony, and his tone was abruptly serious when he said, sliding gratefully back into Russian, “they welcome the cold after the hunt. See, their sides are steaming. A trip back to the stables and a good rub down and they’ll be alright - they’ll forget the pain in half an hour.”

russia was neutral during the war, and traditionally equal parts isolationist or expansionist depending on who sits on the throne: they’re on the very fringes of europe and are probs seen as a threat. I’d like to establish where people stand 👀👀

marriage alliances with

hungary

allies

denmark

enemies

here

cautious

HRE

indifferent

SO THIS WAS SPRING IN ENGLAND: Sasha didn’t think much of it. The fields were beautiful, that was true; he’d ridden through them that morning, all gleaming green like emeralds, scattered with diamond dew drops; parts of the country rolled in undulating waves, and parts were so flat that the wheat fields seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon, but it was small, barely seventy miles in breadth, and the trickling March sunshine warmed him between his shoulder-blades, the colour of melting butter. There was none of the clarity of a Russian spring, when snow still threatened and the air tasted sharp and new and cut across your cheeks like the blade of a knife. In the north, there was no spring; Arkhangelsk was still closed to shipping and trade, the great mouth of the harbour frozen solid, the ships imprisoned. In Moscow, the women were venturing outside in their lighter furs, their cheeks flushed pink with excitement; the boulevards began to rumble with traffic once again, but the ground was still unsteady under-foot, the mud churned up and then frozen, an endless cycle of filth and rebirth.

Here, he could build up a proper sweat at a gallop, and came clattering into the royal stables surrounded by his usual entourage in a burst of jostling and laughter, to find that the court were feeling the chill and many had brought out their winter cloaks once more. The Russian passed between the group of men with aggressive rapidity; perhaps Ivan would have been more diplomatic to the English, but Ivan was dead and Sasha was Tsar, and he had never made himself amenable to anyone if it didn’t suit him. He liked to watch the servants skitter nervously out of their way. The Russians Sasha had brought with him had already gained a reputation for rowdiness. The English were so stiff, so easy to mock; and yet at the same time comported themselves with an informality that seemed absurd to the Ruriks, who were used to the intense ceremony of their own imperial court. Tossing the reigns of his horse to his own groom, Sasha dismounted in a smooth movement, landing heavily on the cobbles. ‘Don’t let the English touch him,’ he commanded the young man, in the rough dialect of Smolensk that the boy spoke, ‘he lived through the sea voyage - I don’t want them fucking with him now he's back on dry land.’

The boy bowed and left. Sasha stood for a moment, a point of strange stillness in the swirling madness of the group of men around him, pulling off his gloves and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He looked almost pensive, before he was clapped hard on the shoulder by a tall noble in a fur cape, and his expression shattered into a grin. He allowed himself to be tugged into the palace proper, scattering servants and nobles alike, but once they were in the stifling warmth of the ancient building he hung back and gestured his friends on ahead. They were reluctant to leave him - there was some mutterings of treachery - but Sasha could look after himself, he’d proved that several times over. When their noise had faded around the corner, he leant back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. The ride had chased the cobwebs from his mind, but they were being spun again as quickly as he could dismiss them.

 ––– MAY I PRESENT ALEKSANDR PETROVICH OF HOUSE RURIK, THE TSAR OF RUSSIA. THEY HAVE JUST CELEBRATED THEIR TWENTY EIGHTH NAME DAY AND ARE KNOWN TO BE VERY GENEROUS & DISSOLUTE . WE HOPE THEY ENJOY THEIR TIME IN ENGLAND.