♱ @tsare.
Liturgy had been a surprisingly swift affair, a crescendo of homilies and patriarchal hymns followed by the sprinkling of holy oils and silver dishes doled out to those inclined to almsgiving. Yet––and this Helena knew only all too well––the service had also been emblematic of joining hands, of a holy and Christian union. It was an opportunity for Byzantine in-laws, the laity, the Vasilyeviches themselves, and the noble factions of Muscovy to convene beneath the gilded-apses of the Dormition Cathedral (which, Helena’s translator, Irene, later told her, had been conceived by a Bolognese architect) and to acquiesce to God, to bless and worship the scab which Sophia had sealed over a bloody and tumultuous history. Long after worshipers had deserted their pews, however, Helena continued to linger in the square outside of the Cathedral; basking in the sun as her mind gamboled back to Sofíka. How she would likely be anointed and crowned here, after her nuptials were uttered; how children Helena would likely never meet would, too, be christened here, and in time, interred––beneath stone slabs, on which she could find reverential inscriptions for Orthodox patriarchs and Rostislav and, surely, the Tsar’s first bride, Maria.
Helena was equipped with the experience and native caution to hold the legacy Maria of Tver posthumously wielded with both care and vigilance. The memory of her, the stain of her corpse in the bed beside Alexander, formed an impenetrable bulwark between Sophia and glory––what would there be to do, what moral laws could the Emperor invoke, if Alexander chose for her children to inherit? As Helena’s mind maunders, so too her feet. Her procession places her at the edge of a fountain, located in the bustling portal of the Cathedral: an ancient, eight-sided marble basin, from which water gurgles and spits and regales the children of the town who dash to seize a droplet of it in the cloudless air. At the opposing end of the fountain, an elderly woman washes her feet; the pitted sockets of her eyes mere repositories for grief. Helena’s head tilts as she watches her, a distanced pang of pity twisting in her soul.
It is a look that, many hours later, Helena recognizes in Alexander. In Sophia’s absence––the younger Palaiologan had cited some complaint, some minor ailment Helena could no longer remember––she finds herself seated beside the Tsar at the long oak banquet table spread out between the Vasilyeviches and the Palaiologinas. The room is dim, lit by bronze lamps and the candles that flicker along the table, but still, his torment is apparent: hollow, childlike, dancing on the sharp contours of his cheek, his jaw. “Your Grace,” Helena entreats, pursuing a fragile truce with the man who would soon become––for all intents and purposes––a second brother to her person. “I had an opportunity today to explore Muscovy, beyond the complex of the Kremlin. Do you often get a chance to immerse in it yourself, to learn the names and faces of your subjects?”
