Ivan smiled softly at the tiny child, her bronzen curls lapping against his fingertips as she grasped his shoulder. She recognized him, he saw in the gleam of her eye, and Ivan’s heart gave a small jolt of pleasure, remembering that she had not when he’d first arrived in England, some months ago. It had been a strange thing - this tender, dear piece of her beloved mother who did not know him, when once Ivan had been almost a father to Katrinka - Katherine, as she now preferred.
Ivan felt a tangle of bitterness at that thought. It was how it should be, of course: Adalsinda, too, had adopted Yuliya upon her arrival to Russia, but this knowledge was not a balm upon the knowledge that something once precious to him had been lost: his little Katrinka.
“You’ve a firm grip,” he said to the child, touching her peach-soft cheek, before directing his gaze to the Prince of Wales. “Your father should be proud.”
Ivan chuckled softly. “I can only imagine how the journey went with this one. What did you make of the sea, little one?” He turned more fully to Harry. “And for you? How did the journey progress?”
Something in Katherine’s manner concerned Ivan and, while she insisted that all was well, he did not trust so easily in her bluster - he’d seen it times enough to recognize it as a distraction from unpleasantness. Katherine was well strong enough to fight her own battles, he knew, but it didn’t mean she should have to - if he could be her ally, he would be. That was what it meant to be her brother. He hoped, now, that Harry would say something, let something slip, and he would have a better understanding of what was happening: if Katherine would not tell him, perhaps her husband would.
formidable rulers are often proceeded by monikers one’s people bestow upon them; laid, before the throne, in the form of wreathes and tokens of reverence. his father garnered the undivided affections of his countrymen by virtue of his romanticism; harry’s uncle, the king of portugal, by dint of his numerous conquests, having laid claim to iberian glory at the end of an ichor-steeped sword. the tsar of russia, on the other hand, had been named, aptly so, for his frightfulness and brazen cruelty––and his byname, ivan the terrible, had cloaked him in second skin, a flesh that shone, flashed ersatz, like a snake’s belly baking beneath the welsh sun, rather than that of a man’s, tender and hot. aware of his gaze upon him, harry refused to grant his brother-in-law the satisfaction of ebbing beneath his icy, serpentine gaze. he flickers a brow instead, charisma––mottled with bitterness––embodied, ❛ the princess mary is a plantagenet, your grace, through to her core. ❜ his daughter’s bloodline, an alloy of both english and russian influence, had commended her incredible fortitude; and yet, as the future king’s only child, she would only ever reap the benefits of her paternal ancestry. he wets the bourn of his lips, darkened with the spoils of french generosity, a stain of plum-red claret. ❛ she proved curious, but undaunted, by the channel’s turbulent whimsey. remind me, brother, of your own daughter: she is of a similar age to mary’s, yes? and with any luck, far less willful. ❜
the prince of wales was no stranger to hordes of crowds, subjects thronging for a mere glimpse of the boy who would one day sport the crowns of england, observing for any tick of folly or misdemeanour on his part; thus, he could readily discern traces of scrutiny upon ivan’s faintly knitted brow-bone, intimately familiar with the wholly english custom of speaking through nuanced expression. ❛ without hitch or delay, ❜ he assures. ❛ tell me, ivan, how long ago was it that a portrait of my wife washed upon english shores? ❜ years had passed since, witnessing a formal betrothal, followed by a splendid union in westminster abbey, and the birth of a sole, but copiously beloved, princess. well-known was it that harry’s petience for the ruriks had worn gossamer thin, but in reflecting upon the now lengthy history he shared with his wife’s relatives, he felt a quirk of fond remembrance ghost upon his lips. ❛ in such time, it strikes me odd that our parley has been so fleeting. i would seek to remedy that, with your cooperation. ❜
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