LUIS

infante luis trastamara, spanish born prince held hostage in the icy cold tundras of the russian tsardom. 

[infanteluis]

ofrostov​:

vasily’s gaze drones in on him, quizzical, the look of a woman judging fruit in the market. vasily will recognize the word from the infante, but does luis know the refrain sealed in its creases? 

— war maims, war bleeds. true power is a mercy killing. 

would he afford that same mercy to poor luis, after all this time? (and would it maybe be a mercy at all?)

“to be in frrront lines is honorrr but to make it out alive in one piece is a sacrrrifice.” he counters plainly as if it were an unfamiliar thing that hasn’t bared its teeth at him before; his tone mild as if the depravities of the world are unknown to him. until it isn’t. “arrre you villing to sacrrrifice any morrre?”

there can only be war balanced on a single battle, such is vasily’s prerogative; better the blade in the dark than immolation by figurative artilleries. 

in consideration, vasily finds it a charm to the way luis twines his martyrdom like a string of pearls through his fingers, the way he chases his captivity in jest with eyes that learned to blur their red-rimmed desperation and anger with muteness. only just a few stone throws away, the priest of the church of the blessed st. mary would have prayed over the scars on luis’ back and sides like stigmata and placed on him a crown of thorns. always the sacrificial lamb, and never the avenging lance of the angel michael, and yet vasily finds him all the more impenetrable for it.

“vell, forrr you zat is entirrrely a toss of coin and sliding scale of vodka, one drrrop tipping odds, turrrning heads to tails. the game of chance, da?” similarly, vasily now circles at luis’ heel in the manner of sharks, chumming the waters. “if you arrre to play games to earrrn a cerrrtain keep, you best know who to not take yourrr chances on.”

the sympathetic frown that creases vasily’s forehead then is no less by design. “i don’t zink of you zat way,” he lies through his teeth, “i see you better zan by the collarrr at yourrr thrrroat.”

“I trust your word.”

Luis has no reason to say otherwise. He knew men like Vasily, recognized the glint in their eyes, knew very well of the outcome of stepping on the wrong line. And it is in that moment that Luis stills - his throat closed as he watches the other, breath bated as if he were awaiting for the worst. 

Though the question that is posed is not something Luis would have expected out of his lips. He dangles the question like a bone. And Luis knew he treat a careful line of biting and devouring, “there is not much else that I have left, my country is gone, my people distressed, my family torn apart and my very soul is marred and the crown I wear is nothing more than a decoration. Tell me Prince, what else can I give?” 

And then he watches - those wolfish teeth bared out like a predator, ah yes, Luis knew time and time again that his enemies remained close and he himself was nothing more than a hare. “Da,” he responds curtly. “Do not fear, my chances are less of choices and more like obligations. It is not in my cards to be rewarded with ease and freedom. Such a thing I do very much envy. Pray, share, what is it like?” What did the man have planned, what sparked amusement in his hungry eyes?

Luis nearly laughs, his throat tightened. Friend or foe, his trust had long been broken by the lies and deception that those around him spun. “If I am not a dog then what am I? What could a useless pawn like me be compared to someone like you?”

[infanteluis]

isabellafspain​:

Isabella’s heart warmed as her brother took hold of the hand she offered. After so much hurt and pain, it felt as last like a touch that would heal instead of do harm. There was no trace of the stone expression she had caught a glimpse of before, when he had stood amongst the Russian deligacy. There was a softness to his touch and gaze that made her feel calm and at ease. At last, she felt free to speak the words that were on her mind instead of smile through all emotion that kept raging on inside. 

“It would be an honor if the match offered prosperity for Spain, rather than a claim on whatever power I may regain in the future.” the Infanta scoffed quietly. “The man is also absolutely notorious. How am I to rule besides a blasphemous drunk? - Tell me, Hermano, who did they deem a suitable match for yourself? Which wolf of the pack have they chosen to stand beside the great future king of Spain?”

–

The Infanta froze as his strong arms pulled her into an embrace. She felt stiff like a lifeless doll for a few seconds, taken aback by the affection which she had not felt for years, before she melted into it. Her head came to rest on his shoulder as his words played like (sad) music to her ears. He melted away every icecle that had formed around her heart and replace it with much needed warmth. “Nuestro tío el Rey ensured that I would live to see another sunrise. That the hope of an united Spain under the Trastamara rule would survive. I am a mere casualty of the ruin of our country that found refuge in England. - I was told that our mother was once great friends with King Arthur when she was younger. Oh, I long to know more about them, Hermano. About both of them.” It pained her that she had not known their parents the way her brother had. They had been taken from her before she was even old enough to realize they were an important presence in her life. All she could recall were vague images, from which she couldn’t even quite conclude rather it’s truly them or just a trick of her own mind. 

He released her from the embrace she was not quite yet ready to leave and his warm hands captured her face. The look in his eyes was like a mirror to her own emotions which she had kept hidden inside for long. Only he had endured it for so many more years, even as a child. Her pity for him, her long-lost brother, broke her tender heart. Causing a lump to form in her throat and an ache in her chest that made her eyes water. She did not wish to cry, not here and not now. Angrily she wiped her eyes with her left hand, as the right one wrapped around his hand that gently touched her face “por favor no te disculpes. Non of this was ever your fault, nor could we have done anything to change our faith.” her voice was gentle, loving and hushed. Both were desperate to take away each other’s pain and heal all harm that had been done. The others touch but a gently patch on the gaping wound on the soul. “Worry not. We are together now and we will find a way to save our country as well as ourselves. God has brought us together for a reason, Luis. It means there is hope.” She leaned into his touch, breathing in deep as she tried to steady and ground herself. “They will not separate us now” Realist as she was, the words were a bit unnatural to her but she needed to say them. To keep herself, as well as her brother, from losing all hope. 

A drunk was all they could offer his dearest sister - a wolfish part of him felt the stir of rage rattle within his ribcage but his fire was quickly quenched. He was a powerless prince with a faux crown stuck upon his head. His own situation was no better - the bethrothal an unfortunate calamity that had his hands tied. 

“One who has been through matrimony already sister. It is her blood they seek to tie with the Spanish throne, to gain a foothold permanently. What better way to do such a thing than for an undesirable marriage?” A coolness hit the back of his throat, as he calms down - quiet. It seemed alas that his future was to be cemented as thus. 

It is in the silence that Luis finds a sense of relaxation, his composure returning as he batted away the tears that had once threatened to drip from his eyes. He was no longer a child, no longer a boy - in front of his sister he would do his very best not to weep for it was he who held the biggest burden. Perhaps if he bit his tongue and went through the motions as he did for so long in his life, he would be rewarded. Any gift he would take so long as it benefited the Trastamara lineage, especially in regards to Isabella. 

“She was wonderful and kind, someone who should’ve lived to see a thousand suns rise,” as woeful as he was, he still clung onto the few memories he had. A thing which he so very much desired to share and yet Isabella would never know it. It was only in his own stories and memories could he ever afford her the dream of just knowing a taste of what their mother was like. 

It felt natural for Luis to comfort her, with his own hand he pressed his thumbs against her cheeks to wipe away the droplets that stained her face. “I know this yet I still shall always desire to do more, to be more,” his voice strained, a sigh of exasperation falling from his lips. “But I am glad you have not lost the sparkle of life, that there is still things to hope for - despite how faraway they may be.” Her notions were well intended but perhaps the infante was too long accustomed to cynicism. He had been chained and imprisoned for so long that the words that came from his sisters lips only sounded like faraway dreams, sweet thoughts that would only ever visit one in their sleep. 

[infanteluis]

isabellafspain​:

What joy bursted from her heart when she heard the sound of her mother tongue, spoken from the lips of a true Spaniard. Even if it was only the simple word of affirmation. Even if the word and tune felt more foreign to him than it did to her. She appreciated it greatly non the less. - No matter the happiness it sparked in her, it was hardly enough to take away the tension. So thick in the air it could be cut with a knife. As a younger girl, she might have dreamt up countless of scenario’s of their first meeting, letter covered with his writing in hand. She was no longer so foolish to think that it would have played out the way her younger self had though it would. Life had never been such a beautiful tale and such harsh reality had become painstakingly clear over the past few years. It was one of the small benefits from how life had struck her, to no longer fantasize too much and look at the reality as it was laid out before her. And the reality was they were hardly more than two strangers, bound to secrecy for the sake of the future of their country as well as their own. 

“As well as one could be under given circumstances. How are you yourself?”

There were so many more words on her lips that did not quite want to come out yet. The truth of how she was happy to have finally escaped the English isles. How she had dreamt of this day for weeks now. But she couldn’t craft the words to say it, not in any spoken language. So instead she gathered all her strength to move her heavy feet, stepping forward in his direction and reaching out her hands with hesitance. 

“Estoy feliz de verte, hermano”

“Surely, the news of my engagement has reached the shores across the channel.” she continued on hushed tone in their native language. It was safer to keep whatever words were spoken between the two of them. The infanta hoped that the language barrier would keep at least a few from making attempts to eavesdrop. “I am told that I should be honored to receive such generosity. That it is truly a gift to be promised the hand in marriage of a king, to be to a princess without a country. - And yet, I fail to see myself as the luckiest woman in the world.” a sour smile curled the edges of her lips before she shook her head gently. “But I am alive and I am safe.”

“And you, su Alteza? Do you find yourself at home at the Russian court?”

There is relief in her words, his shoulders relaxing as he kept his eyes upon his sister, as if he were afraid she would disappear the moment she looked away. No, all his attentions would be presented to her, in hopes that their time would be prolonged as much as possible, so that there may be some happiness in their long destined reunion. 

Her question comes to him hard pointed. His tongue struggled to blabber on of all he had ever been through. But a part of him still practiced restraint. It was better if she didn’t worry - if she knew not of his suffering but just a brother who could smile and be happy. 

“I am as well as I could be, but nothing shall ever compare to our homeland,” his words were soft as he thought fondly of his memories. The smell of the Spanish oceans and the kiss of the sun, how he longed for it all every winter as he remained prisoner in the Russian tundras. 

Luis didn’t hesitate to take her hand. 

“Como yo tu”

It had been a long time since he had felt such bliss. His own eyes glassy as he was still in disbelief that he was finally able to see his sister face to face. There was finally a true image that he no longer imagined whenever he wrote letters. He didn’t want to let go, Luis didn’t think he could bare it. 

“I have heard and it would be an honor for Spain but it pains me to witness my dear sister used as a pawn for the means of our failing country. I too have been placed in an engagement where it could hardly be called fortunate. I long for our home and for the Spanish court. There is much I would love to show you but there is little time.”

It is then that Luis summons his courage, bringing himself to embrace his sister. The language of his mother tongue falling from his lips with utmost speed, “you need not ever use such formalities with me. I can only imagine what it is like for you to barely remember father and mother - and to be brought to England as if you were livestock,” there is strain in his throat. He released her from his hold, his hands resting on her cheeks as he looks at his sister once more. “If only I had the power to do something for you, for us, for our country,” there is helplessness as there is sorrow. In front of all else the Infante played pretend but for once, his ironclad facade seemed to melt away leaving just a shell of a boy he truly was. “Lo siento,” hoarse and choked as he refused to allow his shoulders to give out. 

[infanteluis]

ofrostov​:

luis remarks that he hasn’t had much to eat today and vasily does not say that he can tell – he only hums noncommittally in knowing that such distate was not borne from a shift in palate alone. far more important is what vasily finds what luis does best: making one tip-toe across the blade of his attention, all silent defiance but knowing. vasily supposes it’s because the eyes always remember what they can’t see in front of them. they always see beyond, beneath, behind. as such, cousin luis’ insinuation of vasily’s stake in italy arouses a degree of excitement, even when there is hardly a balm or indication of it. which is to say: not quite guarded, but naturally obscure, like the details of far off mountains or the tuft of a white hare in a snowy plain. 

he nods by way of agreement. “it’s trrrue. zerrre is alvays something to lose in name of peace.” each ruling family bore violence in their own ways, and yet still, all were inseparable because of it. kingdoms built from blood and sweat, but it is the battle they each helm that differs. similarly, vasily has a mind and wit about him that intimates at a fact they both know: “many know zis.” 

as there is meaning in this undertaking, there is also meaning in the denominations, too. “but zerrre’s favorrr to be begotten if you know rrright people to ask, as vith all zings.” 

“above all, italy is place wherrre ve kan rrreprrresent tsarrrdom. so you vill play nice, von’t you, luis? it is new playgrrround, you say, after all.” 

His eyes were piercing, watching the movements of his lips as if it were a blade ready to slice. Luis had never felt comfortable in the presence of the Russians and Vasily remained no exception. Though perhaps, the infante found something just a bit more tolerable about him, after all - he wasn’t blinded to the ambition that lingered in the eyes of a man who yearned for more. But Luis was careful, aware of the precarious nature of his own position. He could only ever spin in circles and watch with his throat lodged. He could not yield to their provocations nor allow himself to be carried away with faux offers of grandeur. 

“Indeed, there is much to lose in peace ... but perhaps gain in war,” his last words murmured with a hush. He never broke his gaze from Vasily’s, sensing the almost beast like hunger that howled from the core of his bones. 

“Only if one knew how to play the game correctly, or else such a favor would be nothing but a debt, is it not?” He entertained him with the thought, each word articulated with precision. 

Luis could only smile, a painful feigned grin that he had long practiced in the reflection of the glassware he used. “Of course, after all - a dog on a leash has no choice but to listen to i’s master.” The bitterness ever so cutting. 

[infanteluis]

isabellafspain​:

The Infanta only hoped she didn’t look the way she actually felt. Like a headless chicken, uncertain on where to go or even how to hold herself. Her pace uneven, treading too slow at times and a moment later so fast she almost tripped over her own feet. All the while forcing herself to keep her gaze in front, to not look over her shoulder. Do not look suspicious, that was the thing that kept ringing in her head. - And for a moment, it almost felt as if she were back in Spain. The wrong kind of Spain, where her family had been murdered and a crowd of blood-lusted protesters looked for the remaining lamb. She was reminded of how desperate she wished to look normal, blend in, in order to survive. The feeling that grasped her now was only slightly different. The wolves were fed, did not lust for the taste of her blood, but they were a thread non the less. They had been for years, to her family’s name and claim on their land. This time, there was only a small glisten of hope. The possibility of not losing, but regaining a long lost member of her family. 

It wasn’t too long before Isabella broke free from the packed crowd, who had gathered themselves before the stalls, once more.  Under a large stone arch decorated with various carvings that lead away from the piazza, she halted. The prying eyes that poked in her back like daggers seemed to had vanished, or perhaps they had never been there to begin with. 

Before she had found the courage within herself to turn around, her name sounded behind her. Soft, hesitant and spoken by an unfamiliar voice with a familiar ring. It was almost as if she heard her cousin speak. The pitch was only slightly lower and slightly less warm. She turned around slowly, a look on her features that was a mixture of hope and uncertainty. Could it be that at last they had found one another? 

“Luis”

She spoke gently as her caramel hues studied his face with utmost care. As if there was any way for her to tell rather this was the man she had longed to meet for all these years. The man who’s voice had been unknown, but who’s handwriting she knew by heart. “At last..”

It almost felt like a dream, a part of Luis didn’t believe that his sister stood before him. He had thought of the day he’d see her again and he had played out the fantasy a million times. But to stand there in the flesh was different. 

“Si” 

How long he had been permitted to use his mother tongue? How many times he had wept to speak the language of his heritage? He had long lost count. Where there was sorrow, there was nostalgia. The language was one of the few things that he treasured that they couldn’t take away from him. In the quietness of his own chambers, he had etched along the walls with a finger - the dusting swirling the Spanish vernacular over and over again. He had not forgotten and never would. 

"Are you well?” 

The words felt fumbled and awkward against his lips. The angles of his face softened, a vulnerability that he rarely ever allowed himself. It was a weakness that the Russians had taught him would be exploited. But at this moment, none of it mattered. There was much to be happy about, much to celebrate and a brighter flicker of hope that would keep him alive. 

“How is everything, are you safe in England?” 

A part of him mentally kicked himself for asking such an idiotic question but it was all that he managed to dislodge from his throat. While they were family, he still maintained his distance - unsure if it were to be proper to greet her as warmly as he wished he could. What if she were to hate it? Perhaps there were too many worries swarming in his head but he couldn’t help it. She was the last person that stood to share the same heritage as he did - he wanted to make everything right. At all costs. 

[infanteluis]

tsarevnatalya​:

WHO: Natalya & Open WHERE: Winter carnival, ice skating rink WHEN: January 3, 1570 - early afternoon

— Truth be told, Natalya wasn’t terribly excited to be here when she arrived in Italy. She wasn’t quite sure why she needed to be present for negotiations between powers – negotiating was hardly her strong suit ( in fact, when it came to things Natalya wanted, it was often a case of her way or the highway ), and politics as a whole tended to bore her – she often found it better to leave these endeavours to her mother or her brother ( not that she was given much choice – it wasn’t as though anyone in the Russian courts trusted Natalya to navigate their relations with other powers, the fear that she would somehow make things much worse than they’d been to begin with no doubt plaguing them ). Nevertheless, her mother had insisted that Natalya and her fresh new fiancé ( who she was doing her very best to avoid ) come along for the trip to support their nation, though the very idea of such things made Natalya ill.

Of course, even she had to admit, the carnival was a nice touch. She’d visited Italy a few times in her youth and never cared much for it, but she could see the appeal now that her leash had been loosened ever so slightly so she could attempt to enjoy the festivities. Her family were no doubt off somewhere, scheming or colluding, as they were often want to do, but Natalya was determined to have a brief moment of reprieve before any real work began. While her family were all seemingly here to promote the betterment of Russia, Natalya had… ulterior motives. Her current goal was to do everything in her power to prevent her upcoming nuptials from going ahead – and though she may be no political strategist, she figured that someone here must be able to help her, in exchange for the right favours.

That, of course, was going to wait. Natalya had always rather enjoyed ice skating as a child ( Lord knows Russia, of all places, had enough frozen lakes in the winter to create the perfect environment for the sport ), but hadn’t participated in it in some time. Perhaps it was a remnant of her youth that she’d disentangled herself from – shedded away along with any innocence she’d once possessed, or perhaps she’d fallen one too many times and decided enough was enough and hung up the skates forever. Whatever the case, she figured there was no better way for her to find some peace and quiet and clear her head than by doing a few laps of the rink that had been set up as part of the carnival.

She’s lacing up her skates when she notices someone looming over her, eyes tracing up the length of the figure before settling on their face, a scowl evident across her features. “What?” She asks, impatience already leaking into her tone. “Last I checked, having a little fun wasn’t illegal. And just because the only people out there right now are children, doesn’t mean adults can’t enjoy it, too.”

Of all people, she was the last one he had wished to see. 

Perhaps in another universe he wouldn’t dislike her as much as he already did. But the circumstances had made him harbor cold ire regardless of who the woman really was. He knew nothing more than her title - which addressed her identity. It wasn’t kind to make assumptions but the Spanish infante couldn’t help it. He was imbued with bitterness, fed up with the passing of his person as if he were a thing to use should the Russians pleased. 

Despite the rumors and gossip that trailed behind her wake, Luis heeded little attention toward it all. He wasn’t one to believe completely in the nonsensical ridiculousness of potential murder. Though time would tell, wouldn’t it? Nothing was ever quite certain. Except for one thing of course, ending the farce of an engagement that was forced upon him. 

Given that the Tsarevna had been wed once prior, Luis had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps she wouldn’t be keen on another.  But what did he know? Little to nothing as he had never tried to associate with the Ruriks when not needed. It had made him almost forgettable, but of course - it came back to nip him in the bud as he had little to no information about the family he was set to wed into. 

"I will not stop you from your fun, your highness, rather - I just wanted to tell you that one of your laces has come undone.” His tone was stiff, the words falling from his lips in a very matter of fact fashion. The impatience in her voice begged to differ the age of the woman in question, one brow raised as a gesture of doubt. “I had hoped once you made your rounds, perhaps we can discuss our engagement,” the word souring his tongue as the corners of his lips turned downward. He hoped for the best, awaited for the worst. 

[infanteluis]

ofrostov​:

january 3, 1570     // the market                   @infanteluis​

THE MARKET IS AS A RIVER and hordes of trout swimming upstream, churning under the blanket sounds of chatter and wares at the rhythm of a fast gait in the eye of a surge. only here, vasily becomes uncharacteristically filled with a mildness more often seen in minnows that bespoke of quiet and easy routine of perusing things and making small talk with familiar boyars. it asks for very little, and takes even less. all it needs is some water, some space to move around, and ideally, no disturbances.

catching the sight of a black mane to his right, he’d expected a lion, a bear, but the good sense in him recognizes that brilliant semblance of the infante to that of a golden flash of useless doubloons. useless as it was (imperceptibly) miserable, but in a way that tragedy comes to attract. 

“cousin,” vasily parcels the words as coin to a dishonest scale, knowing the other would spot the falsehood or be blind to the jest borne of the infante’s situation. turning to his side, vasily nods to the translator and boyars by way of dismissal. now alone, and this alone grants vasily the right to offer:

“have you found time to settle down and eat yet? i’d stay out of desserrrts, zough, as it seems italians like to make the wrrrong kind of salves and tincturrres vith berrries and vildfloverrrs.”

when he smiles, it is a dragged and slow movement. like a night-bitten, purple and black thing, a dark forewarning.

How he hates the company of the Russians. But discretion was always remembered in the presence of Rurik royalty. Even if the lineage was fell below the dominant branch, Luis was given no other choice but to bow his head lowly - for he was nothing more than a political prisoner in the schemes of court power and politics. His teeth chewed the inside of his mouth, a habit that he was prone to making in order to curb the pricks of his tongue. 

He dares call him cousin. Luis fumes but his face betrays no expression of anger, his fingers however had dug into his own palm. His breathing was controlled, nothing to give away the slightest hint of bother. It was easier this way, he had learned from his youth that his existence was wiped clear of the rich Spanish blood that coursed through his veins. No, he was to pretend and wear a mask of faux Russian regalia - as if he’d be anything like them. 

“No my stomach has preferred its emptiness, I’m afraid gluttony would only make me feel worse,” he murmured. Paranoia had also accompanied him into his manhood. He had suffered one too many stomach poisonings that suspicion became second nature, a quite pitiful worry most would reckon. 

“Pray tell me it is not only food that is of your concern,” stoic in his execution of words. “Italy is a playground for politics and powers ... isn’t it.” Words formed together carefully. It wasn’t as if Luis was blind to the Prince’s desires - no, he understood it all quite well but it was treacherous to ever insinuate such horrifying implications - a thought he pondered upon with much exuded sarcasm. He would dance upon the graves of the Russian’s upon the day the empire fell; for maybe then he would finally fly free. 

[infanteluis]

isabellafspain​:

@infanteluis​

One of the very first to arrive at the winter carnival, following the Italian nobility and their close allies, the Tudor entourage of England was the second to descent down the grand stairs of the church onto the Piazza della Rotunda. They made their imposing entrance as their names and titles echoed between the the stone of the surrounding buildings. Isabella was wrapped in heavy cloth and wool, decorated with the most beautiful fur, to face the cold. The time spend in England had not yet made her accustomed to the weather. The Infanta feared she would never get used to the chill, as a matter of fact. It simply felt too foreign when the heart longed for the warmth of the motherland. All she wanted was to feel the warmth of the Spanish sun but all that touched her skin was an icy cold. 

When the English nobility had made their way down and the herald turned his attention to the next delegation, Isabella was quick to leave their side. Nobody would really notice her absence, except for maybe Beatrice. The English princess was the single soul she had granted a peak of her true personality. A woman she would trust with her secrets, if she were to ask for them. The only one who would care. Surely the eye of her spouse to be would be caught by the first harlot walking past. It now worked in her favor. The Spanish Infanta had little intrest in pleasantries. Not until she had caught a glimpse of the sole reason she had had any interest in the trip at all. 

Isabella blended into the crowd of spectators who watched the announcement of the attending countries. Countless unfamiliar faces, linked to vaguely familiar names, passed on by before a name was announced that caught her attention. The Ruriks of Russia. The country known for it’s magnificent military power and overal prosperity. Dark-haired and fair-skinned. No, they looked pale. Sickly, as if the blood in their veins was slowly freezing them from the inside out. It might have been her own bitterness that made them appear as the monsters from a fairytale in her eyes. She did not let het gaze linger on them for too long. Her caramel-colored hues were searching for a particular face amongst the group. One that would stick out because he did not quite belong. The face of her own kin, but whom she never met. 

Luis. A spark lit up in her eyes as the spotted a man, tall with dark hair and olive skin, as the Russians made their way down. She could be mistaken. The chances that she was were rather high, but her stomach twisted at the sight of him. A word of prayer slipping from her lips. God, she needed it to be right. -  She moved parallel to them, navigating herself through the crowd as she tried to keep up with the northerners. Her eyes hardly straying from the man, until suddenly she found herself broken free from the group of spectators. Out in the open, standing almost at the center of the square like a lost lamb without any cover to hide from the big bad wolves. Isabella just stood there, frozen to the spot as a few looked at the odd girl who had put herself in the center of the attention for just a moment too long. 

She tore her eyes away and forced her feet to start moving. There was no need to draw as much attention to herself. No matter how desperately she wanted to shout his name from the top of her lungs, in hopes she would hear back her own in return. She turned on her heels and headed east of the piazza, in the direction of the market stalls. Telling herself not to glance over her shoulder, no matter how desperate she prayed for the right person to follow. Faith was now in God’s hands. 

The Russian winters were incomparable to any other countries. Accustomed to the biting cold of the frosty winters, Italy’s winter’s breath was far kinder and comforting to adjust to. Months had passed where Luis had dreamt of the day to step foot on italian soil. Never was it in consideration for the other countries - no, it was the very hope and dream to reunite with his fellow Spaniards. In the secrecy of his chambers, he’d recite the mother tongue of his language, each syllable rolling out of his mouth like a foreign object. It had been so long since he had used the words itself that he despised the unwilling accent that had accompanied his diction. 

But beyond just meeting his countrymen - he looked forward to convening with his one and only sister. One he had never been given the privy to meet. After all, he was just but a boy of nine - gone and dropped off in another country away from all those he could ever call family. Their mother and father were long presumed dead, leaving him behind a sister he could still call his own blood. Ah, he thought often of his hermana, sent her letters when he could. They were never quite as detailed as he would’ve desired. Nor did they speak the truth of his feelings. He wouldn’t dare etch his thoughts onto parchment - for the wandering eyes of the Ruriks watched his every move. Everything and anything was searched through and thus, he could only ever speak of the most lukewarm topics. He prayed she never thought him a bore. 

And just like him, he wondered how she coped with her own arrangement set in England. At the very least Luis was glad that she was closer to home. The weather would be kinder and Russian court certainly wasn’t what he considered ideal for any becoming woman. And for that smallest sliver of joy, he was content. Begrudgingly, he stoically followed the lead of the Russians, his jaw clenched as he said no words. While his demeanor matched the rigidness of the Ruriks, his complexion and eyes never lost their warmth. He had one purpose in the gaggle of people today - to find her. 

But he did so discreetly, maintaining his composure as he searched through a sea of faces. It wasn’t until he saw a familiar silhouette - one that reminded him so much of his sweetest madre did his throat clamp together. Quietly he whispered toward an attendant, pocketing some gold coins to keep silent. Certainly this would be enough to buy time. 

And then he followed, chasing the girl who stood like a ghost of his mother. 

It wasn’t long before the throngs of people were gone from view and it was just the pair. It was then that she stopped and Luis’s voice barely uttered. Tentative as if he were afraid to have been wrong, to be mistaken. 

“Isabella?” 

[infanteluis]

INTRODUCING INFANTE LUIS , otherwise also known as the hostage prince. Can’t wait to be writing this irritated guy and throwing his face all over the dash. You can read more about his backstory ( h e r e ). Let me know if you’d like to plot / feel free to hit me up on discord ! 

[ordinaryjeremy]