daughter

ELIZABETH, the 28 year-old PRINCESS has arrived from ENGLAND. The TRUE-HEART resembles GENEVIEVE GAUNT and is both +GREGARIOUS and –GULLIBLE. They are a member of the HOUSE OF LANCASTER and remind the poets of THE FIRST BLOOMS OF SPRING, LONG, LOOSE CURLS OF HAIR, A SINGLE CANDLE FLICKERING IN A WINDOW. In the annals of history, they will be remembered in the year of 1319 as a PAWN. One day they may rise to greatness, though greater men and women have surely failed

Elizabeth hasn’t been sleeping. 

The evidence is painted under her eyes, pale skin decorated in purple shadows that contrast sharply with rosy skin. She cannot pinpoint why rest eludes her, why she feels so on edge in Russia. The situation here is not so different to that of the English court - she is still a displaced princess, lingering on the fringes of a dynasty she does not belong to, a laughable mimicry of her former life. 

And yet still, there is not a hair out of place, dressed meticulously in keeping with the Moscovite fashion, her attempt to both fit in and pass through this convergence of nations with as little notice as she could. Truly, she did not think that there was ever a risk of attracting attention amongst emperors and queens, but she would not tempt fate. She had long since learned that leaving things to chance was at her own detriment. 

What would Edward do? What would Richard? Even if she knew the answer, it would do her little good. She has never been as capable as either of her brothers, doesn’t have Edward’s courage or Richard’s intelligence. If she did, there would perhaps be less to fear. Perhaps she could do more than hope that sweet words and kind gestures would be enough to protect the last of the Lancasters. 

And so she does all she can do, when faced with the French woman that she is supposed to hate, simply because they were born with an ocean separating them, but cannot bring herself to, cannot find it in her heart to despise due to where they come from, is to smile at her, gently and cautiously, a proverbial olive branch stretched in the cautious expectation of antagonism, and she hopes that she will be pleasantly surprised. 

“I hope that you are adjusting to Moscow more easily than I am, your grace,” she offers, something tentative yet hopeful in her voice. “I was hoping you may join me in a walk? The weather looks finer today than it has done since I arrived here. It would be a pity to squander it.” 

Matilda couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, smiling at Elizabeth as she did so.

“I do not think such a thing is possible, your highness. For if that were to happen surely I wouldn’t be able to see your eyes and I am able to see them just fine.” She said.

Matilda had always liked Elizabeth for a multitude of reasons, the main one was that she reminded her of Agnes. She was sweet and true… kind and trusting though Matilda had the overwhelming need to protect Elizabeth… for she noticed that she could be a bit too trusting of some, and Matilda knew that a quality such as that could be very easily taken advantage of by the wrong people.

“Do you feel at ease here? Adjustments can be quite difficult in a small amount of time.” She mused as she gazed at Elizabeth, a caring look washing over her face.

.

Logically, Elizabeth knew that the delegation from The Holy Roman Empire did not have her best interests in mind. They were there to support Francis and Mary, not the Lancasters, and the mere existence of Elizabeth and her brother was a threat to their stability. 

But. 

Matilda was kind to her, and to Elizabeth, kindness was something to be cherished. And so when Matilda  laughed at her jest, and responded with one of her own, she couldn’t help but grin back, and couldn’t help but trust her. 

“Then perhaps I am mistaken.Though I would not rule it out.” 

She considers the question for a moment. In truth, she does not know the last time she felt truly at ease, and in Russia, despite the reprieve of the problems from home, there was a whole new set of issues to navigate. She wasn’t at ease, not in the slightest, but that was her own burden to bear, not Matilda’s, and Elizabeth was no stranger to adversity. 

“Thank you for your concern,” the corner of her eyes crinkle as her smile changes into something more genuine, softer and sweeter. “I am settling in well, I believe. Better than expected.” And that is all she will say on the matter. “And what of you? Is Moscow all you expected it to be?”

His thumb brushes against the scarlet seal of wax enclosing Courtenay’s letter.  Elizabeth was too holy, too chaste ––this he knew –– to romp about, even with someone as righteous as the Duke of Somerset.  William held his aversion for Queen Mary close to his chest, as most courtiers did, and yet Richard rather detested the closeness between them, the indestructible trust she bestowed to his person.  Richard had not been a quintessential brother, foisting ambition and pride above his loyalty to Elizabeth, and yet he lamented that their bond was not stronger, that they were, for all intents and purposes, strangers to one another –– the sun and moon perpetually orbiting one another.  He could almost hear their mother, whom Elizabeth had never met, spitting an oath of shame in his ear.  ‘Here, sis,’ Lancaster gives in, tossing the missive onto her bed, not wholly forgotten.  ‘Read it later.’

Richard quietly moves to the window, hands clasped at his spine.  His eyes squint as daylight, harsh and unabating, floods them.  ‘Besides the whores and infidels?’  Lancaster chuckles, the sound irreverent as it crests at his mouth.  Perhaps Elizabeth would now be wondering why he’s barged into her chambers, unannounced; yet Richard makes no attempt to dilute her puzzlement, giving a shake of the head in response to her query.  ‘Not yet.  No one has piqued my interest and, besides, it would appear the lingua franca of this summit is French.  I am exasperated before someone even has the chance to introduce themselves.  What of you, Elizabeth?  I saw you conversing with one of the French brats.  You bathed after, yes?’

. 

Her eyes follow the letter’s path, as it arcs in the air and comes to rest upon her bed. A part of her wants to pick it up, straight away, hold it in her hands and close to her chest - but she doesn’t. There’s a growing atmosphere in the air, and she does not want to do anything that would irritate him (though there’s a small voice at the back of her head, warning her that she already has). And so, she tears her gaze from the letter, back to the brother she can never quite reach, her full attention fixed on Richard. “Thank you.” Thank you for bringing her correspondences? Thank you for coming at all? It is a little of both, but, like all conversations she has with him, there is more to be heard in what Elizabeth does not say than what she does. 

For her part, she doesn't flinch at his choice of language. She may not be invited into his inner circles, but she knows him well enough to react with anything but mild amusement. Richard has always been the way, sharp where Elizabeth is soft, and she wonders, idly, if he knows how much she admires him for it. “I spoke to a few. The dowager tsarina, the princess of China, the bride to be…” she trails off, a flush of humiliation spreading over fair cheeks at the memory of her conversation with Jules. “Ah. Yes.” She pauses, teeth coming down to chew her lower lip. “They told me my choice of attire was bold,” she confesses. “I hope that I didn’t cause you any embarrassment. I did not realise until then that it looked so out of place here.”

as god made human kind in his image, helena had taken it upon herself to mold sophia in her own likeness though most knew that, at best, the latter would be but a jewel-clad imitation of a woman whose beauty and character were legend in lands far beyond the edges of byzantium. her status alone, as an imperial princess, would have secured a fine marriage fit for a second daughter.

yet upon the announcement of sophia’s future as tsarina, she needed to become a legend herself — or at least look the part. embroidered brocade clung on her lithe frame where gilded gemstones did not. the weight was not relieved by the conclusion of the official ceremonies, nor by the distraction of the festivities that followed.

sophia is quick to shake her head in return, offering her own apologies. “no, it is i who should apologize,” she replies, a gentle smile replacing the vacant stare from moments before, as if tugged back to reality by the woman’s words. “i should, perhaps, have been more aware.”

sophia had never been the best in sleuthing out people’s true intentions, not for lack of skill but rather lack of suspicion. she would be blind to a knife before her, even if the iron glinted in the sun. despite its potential for ulterior motive, she could not detect it in her counterpart’s question. indeed, she found a sort of reprieve in it. discussions of her nuptials with her family required a modicum of pretense, as if by convincing her beloved emperor and her beloved sister of her self-confidence, she might convince herself.

“in truth,” sophia admitted, leaning in slightly and lowering her voice, “i was immensely nervous. i’m not accustomed to being the center of anyone’s attention, much less cause for a gathering of this scale.” 

,

The princess is bejewelled from top to toe, the very picture of regality, but Elizabeth knows the feeling of insecurity well, her companion for most of her life. She did not think to look for it in a Byzantine princess, but there is no mistaking the look of it in Sophia’s eyes. 

The thought of it melts her heart more than a little. She wants to put her arms around the girl, in a strange sort of way, much in the same manner as she would any of her friends. But they are strangers to one another, and she does not delude herself into thinking that such a gesture would be well received. 

“There is no apology necessary,” she responds serenely, holding up a hand to halt any further attempts to say sorry. “There are endless people here wanting to speak to you, no doubt. I can’t blame you for taking a moment to collect yourself.” 

And then comes the confession, one which Elizabeth suspected was the truth, but had not anticipated hearing aloud. Still, she dutifully leans in, affording Sophia all the privacy such an utterance deserves, and listens patiently. Underneath all the pomp and splendour, Sophia is just a girl, her feelings but a symptom of being human. 

“It is understandable,” she speaks in hushed tones. “And commendable that despite it all, you did what was tasked of you anyway. That is truly something to be admired.” The words are spoken warmly, comfortingly, though Elizabeth cannot know how much solace she will take from it.

they’ve   mostly   only   heard   harrowing   tales   about   the   english      —      ghastly   ones,      drilled   into   their   head   from   the   church      &&      every   body   that   was   tasked   to   bring   up   the   king’s   children   as   if   it’s   one   of   the   nation’s   pillars.      even   before   they   could   barely   utter   their   first   few   words,      there   has   been   only   one   association   that   is   met   with   france’s   neighbouring   rival      ;      an   enemy.      noting   how   the   ones   who   run   their   ship   are   supposedly   as   ignorant   as   they   are   privileged,      vastly   unaware   of   the   world   that   surrounds   their   shrinking   territory.      in   an   assembly   of   great   empires,      even   jules   wasn’t   surprised   that   england   were   one   of   the   ones   that   were   called   upon.      what   rather   served   to   be   a   rather   cruel   trick   of   fate,      however,      is   having   to   meet   one   of   them   so   quickly.

the   first   thing   they   noticed   was   her   accent      ;      polished   in   its   conduct   of   the   language   that   has   surely   been   tailored   to   the   royal   fashionings   of   the   english.      without   a   second   to   spare,      the   cogs   in   their   mind   start   to   turn.      it’s   not   the   male,      it’s   the      …      princess,      possibly      ?      at   least   the   softness   in   which   she   seem   to   carry   herself   would   mean   that   she   can   serve   to   be   a   much   easier   target.         "         my      apologies.      it      must      be      …      befitting      of      the      english      way      of      dress.      i      have      never      stepped      foot      on      english      soil,      as      you      could      have      possibly      concurred,         "         their   tone   switching   completely,      imitating   the   kindness   elizabeth   weaves   through   each   syllable.         "         i      am      not      accustomed      to      such      eccentricies,      you      see.      did      i      catch      your      name         ?         "

.

Elizabeth has been weaned on tales of the French, their malice and trickery, the enmity between the nations running deep. But with a French consort in the Palace of Westminster, old prejudices needed to be hastily discarded, and Elizabeth has tried, she truly has. Most of the time, she succeeds. She is, mostly, convinced that King Francis has not taken offence to her, but it is different to appease one French man as it is to step into a hall filled with strangers, all of whom have cause to hate her for the crime of being born on the opposite side of the narrow channel.

She knows this. She knew it when she agreed to undertake the journey to Moscow, and knew it when she found herself drawn into conversation with one of their number, but now she is here, face to face and locked into dialogue, she has quite forgotten the truth of the matter. That has always been her issue - she is too trusting, too quick to believe that which is said to her, even when born less out of truth than a desire to humiliate.

“Oh…” a small sound comes from between parted lips. In truth, she didn’t think that the English fashion was so markedly different from the attire donned by French courtiers, but they have provided her with an easy out, and she grasps at it with both hands. “Of course. There are many difference between our countries, I should think.” It is an innocuous enough statement, but she lets her mind linger on it anyway, wondering if even the most benign of words could provoke an adverse reaction. Their demeanour seems to have shifted, though, into something a little more welcoming, a little less anxiety-inducing, and she allows herself to relax, just a fraction. “But we are in Rus, not England. It is not my eccentricities that is worth paying any mind to.” She smoothes her skirt, and wraps an arm across her middle, shielding as much of her bodice as she can from view. “Elizabeth of Lancaster.” She pauses for a moment, racking her brains to try and identify them. “I’m sorry, I’m not certain I caught yours, either.”

❖

It had taken her a few turns to accustom herself fully to the dances of her hosts, but once she did, she spun about the room with enthusiasm. Dancing with a partner was new to her, but the act itself has always been an innate talent, litheness in her movements and herself a graceful whirlwind of silk. But she cannot last forever, and finds herself in need of a reprieve as she follows Elizabeth to the outskirts of the hall and hands her wine.

“How do you like Russian dancing, princess?” asks Yixing, smiling as she sips from her glass. “I find it quite fun, though I do not know how much of that is because of the novelty of it. Oh, but you need not worry—neither is my Russian.” Her voice lowers, its tone archly conspiratorial. “Perhaps it will become one of them for both of us during our stay.” 

She tilts her head, running through the Western languages she knows of; English is not one of them. In truth, she did not overly concern herself with the gray isle before coming here, her gaze extended outwards instead towards the Byzantines and Ottomans, the Tsardom of Rus—empires which the Dowager Empress struck trade deals with. 

Maybe here she would learn if France and England were worth dealing with, too.

“Would you prefer Latin, then?” she offers before answering Elizabeth’s query. “There is a balcony not too far from this hall—I came across it when I was settling in. Shall we go? The view is lovely.”

.

She has met Yixing only briefly since their arrival in Rus, but from what she knows of her, she likes her very much. She had hoped, but not expected to find friends here, but, swifter than expected, Yixing had delivered. Her dark eyes dance with warmth as recognition dawns, and she smiles, raising her glass to her lips and drinking enough to soothe her dry throat. 

“It’s different,” Elizabeth considers. “In a good way, of course. I have enjoyed it.” She had seen Yixing in the midst of the crowd, dancing with enough grace that one may think she was born practising the steps. “You didn’t put a step out of place, novelty or no. I think I made a few mistakes - I just hope nobody caught it,” she chuckles, quietly, and shakes her head. “I think so. There’s not much call to speak it in England, but I’m sure we will get much practice here.” 

She wants to ask of China, a land so far away from her home that she could barely conceive it’s existence, but here, it seems far closer, far more real, for having met Yixing. But she doesn’t - perhaps that will be a conversation for another time, or perhaps it will never come at all. 

“Yes. Latin.” the tongue is far more familiar, and relief washes over Elizabeth’s face as she slips into it. “The balcony sounds wonderful. The perfect reprieve, I think. Can you lead the way?”

hasekiayse asked:

how's their relationship with their immediate family?

There are many things Elizabeth doesn’t like to talk about, born out of fear of saying the wrong thing. She does her best to avoid difficult conversations, but there is one in particular that she hates to speak of, even to those she knows and loves best. She is loathe to discuss the fortune of her family, the loss of the throne from a true-blooded Lancaster to Queen Mary,and the resulting danger for the two remaining Lancastrians.