взойти

“Not a visible enthusiasm but a hidden one, an excitement burning with a cold flame.” pyotr belski of bely

[pyotrbelski]

post  count  this  week  [ 29/02 - 8/02 ] n. of replies [ 11 ] + n. of tasks [ 0 ] points  gained:  [ 11 ] points + [ 2 ] bonus points = [ 13 ] point  allocation: +3 influence, +3 intelligence, +2 wealth, +5 luck health  total:  79/150.

influence : 13 + 3 = 16 intelligence : 14 + 3 = 17 wealth : 14 + 2 = 16 luck :  10 + 5 = 15 physical : 15 health : 66

[pyotrbelski]

tsarevna-sophia‌:

“Ah, I have been informed of the project but was never included in any official meeting.” Sophia did not even attempt to hide the discontentment in her voice. But her eyes were soft, knowing fully well, anyone in a radius of five meters to her had already been well-informed of her feelings toward her brothers. And surely, Irina would have spoken of Sophia’s rocky relationships with her siblings already. “And of course, My Lord, this is no problem at all. I am greatly heartened by your trust in me and my knowledge for the art.“

That bit was genuine. And girlishly, Sophia loved the recognition but she only let herself ravish in the feeling for oh-so-long before stifling it once more. “Let me write down a few names and what they specialize in for your consideration.”

The man’s blue eyes were ones of the coldest Sophia had ever come upon. Striking blue, and bearing resemblance to ice and Russia’s winter. Sophia had learned to watch for the eyes instead of listening to the words. And yet, she could hardly get anything from the Prince of Bely. The man’s seasoned existence had provided him too many layers to let hints of true feelings shine through his eyes. Perhaps that was why she had never been entirely sure of what went on behind closed doors between the Prince and his wife. The man remained a mystery to her. 

But she knew of his credentials. A man like Pyotr Drazenovich Belski would not fail if he were to be given the position of her escort to France. A man like him stroke fear with his reputation. A man with his wits and drive for power would not let her perish in France… that was if she managed to keep him interested in her cause and champion over other better and more profitable offers. “I must ask, My Lord. Have you news of the man to accompany me to France once I wed the Duke of Alençon?”

To that, he tilted his head a fraction, emitting a soft hum of personal disapproval.”Some pity. I’ve little doubt you’d be the best educated to lead their project, such as it is.” It was said matter of factly, and indeed, it wasn’t only flattery. If her brothers could bear to bite back their pride and personal politics, he knew they’d do well with a mind like Sophia’s for many purposes. Not that it was his place to say as much. At least directly. 

“My thanks, your grace,” he replied quietly, watching her with a half smile of gratitude. Having names to put forward would make him seem more dependable, even in such a trivial subject. It mattered little where the names had actually come from. 

That matter all but settled, he took a breath to prepare brief farewells, but was halted by a question of her own. Brow cocked, he shook his head once. “I have not.” It was a simple statement, but it irked him to utter it. Far be it for him to miss such crucial information. “What has been decided? Has the man been chosen already?”

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

to think that not even pyotr could get through the king of germany’s mannerisms was shocking to say the LEAST. irina could barely understand it, but pretended to anyway. her nod eager, her ears sharp. if she was to be taken seriously then she must act as if she was one or two steps ahead ( though perhaps if she had been a meek wife she would’ve left his private chambers with haste, to allow the prince to his trinkets and thoughts ). yet still, she followed.

she stood before him once more, the light from a window reflecting upon pale skin that only seemed to bloom where her pulse was all the more powerful. a blush hinted upon her neck, her nose a powdered pink. to the naked eye she looked like a doll, to anyone who knew her, she wore the appearance of a siberian tiger or grizzly bear. 

what had general aleksei done to catch her eye, exactly? she was all most TOO ashamed to say, her eyes watching his in a power play as she clenched her hands behind the draping of her skirt. “he saved my life,” she admitted, her voice almost foreign to her throat that normally wouldn’t spill something so intimate and, hell, special. “if he had not been there before you found me, i would’ve been crushed or burned alive.” 

That dearly surprised him, though as always, his external reaction was muted. Inwardly, he pieced together numerous scenes in his mind’s eye, recreating what she told him with particular detail. Outwardly, both brows raised and his lips drew taught as he emitted a soft hum of consideration. He slipped a few books from a pile at his desk and, with his eyes still on Irina, extracted the papers he had sought and shuffled through them. 

“Good of him,” he remarked. A crueller part of him wanted to say ‘pity’ just to see how she would react, but he refrained, despite the amusement it would give him. Genuinely, however, he did feel gratitude to the man. It would have been such a logistical nuisance to have his wife killed in the attack.

“Then I wager I have all the more reason to speak with him. We owe him quite a debt,” he mused, still meeting Irina’s gaze with his own as his thumb ran idly over the edge of the letters in his hands. Concern marred his features, just for a moment, as thin brows creased together. “No wonder you were so shaken. You are terribly lucky. I hope you realise.”

[pyotrbelski]

ferdinandlorraine‌:

He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks while an impish smile pulled at his lips. Oh, he would keep up alright. Keep up and push for more. With luck they would get lost, and Ferdinand would have no trouble helping Belski stay warm during that time. “Well met,” he said and wondered at the name briefly, it sounded somewhat familiar but could not quite make the connection. All he knew was to link Belski to Russia, suddenly hoping he’d paid more attention to his aunt’s mention of Russian court during his visits. 

Leeringly, Ferdinand watched the man follow his lead and saddle lucky Fritzchen. He ginned in turn, partly for the view but mostly for the clear enjoyment of riding they both seemed to share. No noble would bother if they had not developed a connection to it. 

To hear him laugh was fuel to the fire, because it spoke of a level of comfort to their so recent acquaintance. Not to mention it was a pleasure to watch a Russian man who had, at first, seemed so stern quickly warm up to him. 

“Nothing too severe I assure you,” he smiled openly before climbing onto his horse. From atop he looked mischievously at Belski and revealed, “Fritzchen is a diminutive of the name Friedrich and well… there was a Friedrich known in the castle who, how should I say, well he often wandered unclothed into the stables. I’d joke about going to see little Friedrich when that horse was born.” It was a crude story but a true one, and nothing compared to the sentenced that followed before Ferdinand had had a chance to censor himself. “Not that it applies to your horse at all I’m sure. Nor mine.”

Concern suddenly marred his features. It was rare for his own daring to cause something other than amusement, but that had been too forward and a clear indicator of where his mind was at. 

“Let us begin,” he said attempting to hide and leave it in the past. He pulled at his reigns and trotted ahead, afraid to look back and see rejection before he had even a chance to build up to more charming insinuations. 

Pyotr’s personality was so often a mirror; reflective of whatever traits it received. And so, with Ferdinand, he made a show of comfortable confidence, laughed at his jokes and was encouraged to follow after man and horse once he was mounted himself. Pressing his heels into Fritzchen’s side, the horse began forward, following Lorraine for a time before coming to walk in line with the other beast. 

All the while, Pyotr kept some reservations and looked keenly for more information on the man. Bewildering as it was, his story was very telling. It spoke of an immaturity he might have expected. So far, the fellow was playing out in predictable ways. The Russian admired that. It made things easier, if a little less interesting, and he was content to play along until fortune dealt him the opportunity otherwise. 

“So you name your horse after a servant’s cock,” he mused, surprisingly dry. Though he looked ahead, he smirked, his forcibly reserved expression a show of bitten back amusement. It didn’t frighten him to speak crudely and candidly. “And then you bid a stranger to ride it? What a sense of humour you have.” 

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

holding herself as matriarch rather than a much younger wife to a man who looked upon her as if she were a child herself. she held her head high, her neck straight, as she paced in front of him in thought. if she was to be taken seriously, then she’d have to come up with some plan to woo her husband and the surrounding countries. that, and irina would have to surrender her so-called fancies with the countries that rallied beneath the catholic pope’s banner. she did not mind that if anything she bathed in the trouble and murky waters like a nymph. yes, she quite fancied stirring the irks. 

“he has the respect of the soldiers, one look and you can tell what he has been through. do you not think you’d be wise to utilise him?” standing with her profile on display, her neck turns to look upon pyotr, the glint of her eye shining beneath her lashes. one small hand dug into the pocket within her skirts, fingers fondling for the crystals she had smuggled from home. 

with a twist between her fingers, turned and exposed a small smile that may hint towards an unspoken fondness or attraction. “the king of germany is an ally you must entertain, i doubt he’d receive me.” 

With a sigh, he took it upon himself to at least try to relax. Despite the tone of their conversation, he was in his private quarters, and was at liberty to do as he wished. There was business to be attended to and a tense morning to unwind from. Irina, however, refused to be scheduled. Pyotr shifted onto his feet and crossed the room in tandem with her, eyeing her for the few moments they passed before he reached his work desk and took to filing through books for the letters he needed. 

“Nor is he fond of me,” Pyotr confessed with impartiality. “I make other manoeuvres in regard to Germany. But I must speak to Aleksei in any case, though I wonder what he’s done to catch your eye.” With that, he glanced up to his wife, offering her an assumption in the subtle quirk of his brow. 

[pyotrbelski]

tsarevna-sophia‌:

Sophia was high on emotions and it was not another emotion she needed. After her private meeting with the Duke of Alençon only mere days ago, the Tsarevna had been storing herself away in solitude. The lack of humanly presence helped her think as she rode out the emotional turmoils inside her. The matters of the heart had never been her strong suits and if given a choice, she would ask God to take away the unruly ways of the heart, leaving her only in pure logic. If there was any clear thought that did come out of the chaos happening so early on into their stay in Bellinzona, it would be reality’s reminder of its cruelty. Yelena could not possibly survive a day outside of Russia, she had concluded. If there was to be a tsarevna who could become and survive a life as a foreign bride, it would more likely her than her older sister.

And as the reality of her own wedding loomed closer, Prince Pyotr was one of the men she needed to see. Though it would indeed be Dmitry who would decide whom shall lead Russian men to France with Sophia, the youngest daughter of the Rurik household had taken upon herself to be engaged in the selection process. Whoever was chosen needed to excel in the job (naturally), but Sophia needed more than that: she’d need his loyalty to her. Not to France or King Francis. Maybe not even Russia and Dmitry. To her. 

Sophia stood up from the chair once the Prince was announced. A soft smile was placed politely on her lips, and she handed out her hand for him to press his greeting kiss onto her knuckles. Sophia used to resent Pyotr for being the one to take Irina away from her, but it was the idea of him that she hated. Not him - she barely knew him. “Of course not, though I am rather surprised you sought to seek my presence rather than one of my brothers’. And no, My Lord, blessings this early into the marriage shall only pave way for bad fortune for me and my betrothed once we are united as one under God’s eyes.” Sophia shook her head but she did place a hand over her chest as a gesture of gratitude. 

“How can I be of help to you, My Lord? Does this have anything to do with Irina and little Irinei?”

Keeping his posture as stiff and formal as his military education insisted, he did allow himself a half smile at her concern of bad luck. Far be it for him to dismiss her superstitions, he dipped his head in acknowledgement, but not quite in apology. “Of course. Then I shall hold my tongue a while longer,” he assured her with a brightness not often found in his tone - and certainly not with this level of formality. 

Stepping up to her at her invitation, he unfolded a hand from behind his back and lightly touched his palm to hers, pressing a kiss against her knuckles in a  sign of subservience. Though he hated to do so, it awarded him a better distance to speak with Sophia and such shows of loyalty were generally appreciated by those that took them for granted.

At her question, he shook his head and laughed gently. It did seem that so many of his visitations lately were interwoven with family matters. Whether it was to query on his wife or clean up her mess, he felt his lips tighten at the notion of becoming her lap dog - always chasing after her, following the path she wrought. It wouldn’t do for this assumption to take hold. 

“Not on this occasion,” he admitted, his speech showing little sign of his inner misgivings, instead all friendly formality and companionable curiosity. “What do you know of your brothers project? I should think rather a lot. They’re intending on commissioning a painted gift for Russia’s allies in the mainland. I’d like to make myself useful in the process and contact a few potential candidates for artist and framer, yet I am without direction. Perhaps you may assist me with suggestions of your own, your grace?” 

[pyotrbelski]

location: sasso corbaro castle, russian quarters closed: @duchessfriederike​

Any relationship he had with his wife’s female companions was decidedly limited. With Frederike, it was limited exclusively to curious, half exasperated looks at his wife’s expense when they both shared her company. Beyond that, any knowledge he had of her was second hand at best, though he saw her in passing often enough. It was odd, but the thought of these creatures more loyal to his wife’s friendship than his own notion of importance was quite foreign to him. On home soil, it would be virtually unheard of, save for Irina’s very close court. Perhaps he ought to be pleased to find his wife blossoming and finding allies of her own. Instead, her uncontrolled independence worried him.  

And so, when next their paths crossed, Pyorr sought Frederike out and came to speak somewhat conspiratorially with her, his eyes meeting her own with a half quirked brow. “I wonder if I might ask a favour of you, your grace,” he inquired.

[pyotrbelski]

closed: @tsarevna-sophia​ location: sasso corbaro , russian quarters

Despite her age, the Tsarevna was approached with all the deference her title demanded. It was a distinctly western state of mind to revere the young for their youth, yet when he looked upon any of the younger imperial Rurik siblings - himself beholden to their power - he envied it of them. High birth left them in great danger of complacency, yet he believed he trusted Sophia to be above laziness. In that regard, he held her in higher standing than her wasting Tsarevich brother. 

Their own companionship was limited, yet familiarity dealt him a favourable hand in speaking with Russian royalty. Greeting was limited to a simple, quiet “Tsarevna,” And accompanied by “I hope I do not interrupt you.” Which, of course, he was quite certain he did. There was little to do when speaking to one’s betters than to intercept them whenever opportunity presented itself, though Pyotr did not offer a chance to be rebuked. “I hear that your betrothal to France is progressing rather well. Shall I bestow my congratulations now or save them a few more days?”

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

pyotrbelski‌:

irina felt a fire burn inside of her, her belly suddenly empty of fuel as she clenched her jaw and tucked her nails into the raw flesh of her lower arm. he may be infuriating, but she knew her life was in his hands. with a simple flick of his head, she may go to the outskirts of russia, be claimed as a madwoman, that religion itself was the only means to her madness. and KNEW if she was to compete with life and the world around her she would have to play the part of the wife, lover and mother. she tried to remember what she had been told by her father before she had been sent off to marry pyotr.. but to no avail, she unclenched herself and sat tall with a straightened spine as he seemed to do the same. 

“very well, i will do that,” irina took the command as a dog would a treat, eating it up with greed before staring into a vastness she could not see. she had wished, in that moment, that she had returned to see sophia — she would’ve given her some advice, or would’ve stroked her hair. either would’ve been better than pyotr and his offerings. 

when her soul returned to her physical being, irina turned and reached out as she ran her hand along his arm. perhaps she simply yearned for affection after the execution, or perhaps she simply felt desire once more — either way, irina reached out, and could not take back her hand as she ran her thumb against the wool. with her nostrils flared, the girl who carried lithuanian blood got to her feet and slipped out of her slippers, pushing them aside with one foot to join his muddied boots. “he would not be our son if he did not enjoy a little torture now and again,” she muttered, turning to face her husband as her fingers make work to unbraid her hair. “i will turn to the french first with rumour of unsatisfaction, i hear they hold their heir so preciously it is as if he were a newborn…. you should talk to aleksei.” 

Again, he turned to regard her, looking properly upon her face for some clue of her mood beneath an expression he struggled to read or trust. With a single nod, he satisfied himself with her promise and left it up to her to weave a path for herself. With any luck she would limit the mistakes she made to the trivial and easily swept aside. 

What would their unusual parentage mean for Irenei, he wondered. Nothing good, of that he was certain. In their own ways, each of them were terrible influences. A notion crossed his mind as he regarded Irina closely, his eyes meeting hers with levelled inspection. A moment passed.

Looking away again, he reacted little if at all to her touch, but listened to her suggestions with the ghost of a nod in acknowledgement. “What has Aleksei for me?” He asked, dryly, but not cruelly. He viewed the fellow as respectable and trustworthy, but beneath him - as with so many others. 

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

she felt a certain pride as her husband continued to gaze upon her — what cause that came with the look meant little to irina who wiggled in his attention like an ant beneath a torch. she even sat up, her shoulders pushed back with her chest protruding — her hair neatly put into two braids to crown her head, signalling her marriage proudly to anyone who knew off the language of braids from moscow’s heart. 

“i will make sure to give you an answer to all these things,” irina boasted, one hand lingering over her bodice before settling into her lap — itching to touch him, or to make some way closer; silently desperate for his sign of what was to come that night. after all, the blue-eyed wanted another son, did he not? wetting her lips, irina sits herself on the edge and leans over to drop her voice to a whisper so their servants wouldn’t hear, not trusting the man with the sharp nose. “we should turn our attentions to russia too, this is surely a time you may rise,” her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed — trying to be seen as a greater threat to humanity was harder than one could truly realise. 

but the next? irina hadn’t seen pyotr at the excecution that morning, leaving her shaken but not visibly, irina managing to hold herself together as she lifts her head to look down her husband from her nose, “i wanted him with me, pyotr — it was only one morning,” with a roll of her eyes she considered just how soft he may be, how soft a man of his standing could be towards a babe he barely knew. it was as if HE had done the work and not she, for irina knew all too clearly how she had given her body for irinei’s life. fussing, she leaned back only to fall against the backing of the seat, her eyes dark and irritated. “how should i be spending my time, pyotr? offer me some wisdom - i’ve been told that it’s high time we have another brat for you to fuss over, too.” 

With a subtle shake of his head, his gaze left her, diverting instead to the pattern of the rug laid across the floor. It held more interest for him than her petulant jibes and unsubtle hands. “I have just told you how you ought to be spending your time,” he reminded her, his voice lowering into dry monotony. “If you want me to rise, spend less time with children and more with those that matter.”

“You have powerful ears willing to listen to you. I’ve a notion for you to present them with,” he informed her, sitting up again, back and shoulders folding out into a posture of practised militarism. “Too little has changed following the attack. How are we to feel safe without protection? Do you not suppose our allies would appreciate a show of support and protection from Russian guards in these difficult times?”

“More children for you to parade around to tortures, to hangings and to teach black magic,” he droned, briefly casting his eyes to the sky in a show of exasperation. If her concern for more children was genuine, he would have been surprised. It was posed with a hint of venom, or so he imagined, and so it was filed away inwardly to be addressed seriously at a later date. In truth, he would rather pose it as a reward for her than a compromise for when she was being irritating. 

[pyotrbelski]

post  count  this  week  [ 23/02 - 29/02 ] n. of replies [ 8 ] + n. of tasks [ 0 ] points  gained:  [ 8 ] points + [ 1 ] bonus points = [ 9 ] point  allocation: +5 luck, + 3 physical health  total:  66/150.

influence : 13 intelligence : 14 wealth : 14 luck :  5 + 5 = 10 physical : 12 + 3 = 15 health : 66

[pyotrbelski]

antiquatus‌:

and here, he’s the one being insulted. he is not blind to the fact that the crowd is a vicious thing, that he is contributing to its chaos by going against the grain, but this mere momentary hindrance is for a good cause. in the end, he will be where he might be needed and where he can offer help.

(  this is, of course, hypocritical: he never set out to do charitable works and only went out for selfish purposes; but now he almost feels like making a statement through his good works.  )

❛  and it is truly in moments like these that show the colour of men’s souls,  ❜  he says, almost pontificating.  ❛  perhaps it is indeed best that you get out of the way for others who would wish to do some good.  ❜  a pause, then perhaps the most insulting thing he can say:  ❛  i will pray for you.  ❜

Catholics, he cursed, directing that earnest distaste in the measure of the glare directed to the cardinal. The man was of little importance to him. By no means did his regard colour Pyotr’s character, and so he was waved away with a flick of his hand and a derisive tut. “Save your breath,” he urged him. “It would be a pity to waste all your energy on bickering when you could be out there doing good.”

[pyotrbelski]

louisoffrance‌:

There is a stillness to his companion that reminds him of others who ruled with their logic rather than emotions. It is hard to get a good grasp of him, his airs, but it is with his eyes that Louis seeks to connect and make sense of him. There is no hostility, no burning desire behind the windows to his soul, ever complacent and yet polite. He allows himself a bit of a smile in return to his acknowledgement, seeking to be the warmth that illuminates their conversation lest he appear unfriendly. “I have. My betrothed is the Tsarevna Sophia Rurik of Russia, you might know of her? Due to my family’s….position, it was thought prudent to be able to converse properly with our allies. Though I have taken more care to ensure my mastery of the language so she might not feel as alienated.” A glance at the wine has him weighing the risks before pleasure wins out, Louis taking his own glass and pouring a healthy portion for himself. “One for you, good sir?” 

That stillness persists as he regards Louis with a curiosity politely restrained. “Ah,” he notes simply, sitting back to a more comfortable position as he regards the Frenchman in a new light. With that detail, he illuminates his identity and opens a wider scope of conversation. Its appeal to Pyotr is immediately obvious as the warmth of his regard for the other visibly deepens. This is a man worth speaking to, with something to offer. 

“Please,” he confirms with a gesture to the cup. “But of course I know the Tsarevna. She is a close friend of my wife’s. Still, that is a considerate undertaking of you. You must have some compassion for her. Or at least for your country,” he suggests, a tilt of his tone at the very end of his phrase posing that as a query rather than a statement. 

[pyotrbelski]

ferdinandlorraine‌:

The gloom of the castle had not been the only reason that drove the young Lorraine to seek an activity outdoors. In truth, the lightening of his pockets had placed limitations on him that drove him to enjoy more of his healthier hobbies. Still, he sighed with each brushing of his family’s horse. The mare nibbled on his sleeve happily, familiar with his care as she was and eager to go for a trot. Ferdinand smiled at her sweetly, bumping forehead to forehead before leaving her to go retrieve the saddle from its perch. 

“Good afternoon,” Ferdinand eyed him as the man spoke. His impossibly clear blue eyes immediately ignited an interest in the young Lorraine and suddenly he found himself thanking the lightening of his pockets for this day. “I shall provide you a horse if you’ll do me the honor of your company good sir,” he smiled, careful not to be too forward… just yet. “I was just about to head out myself, though I cannot promise to be an efficient riding companion. I have not ridden these grounds yet you see.” 

Ah, scheiß drauf. He thought, as he watched the sunlight slide about the man’s sharp cheekbone. “Although, I must confess I wouldn’t be averse to getting a little lost if I’m not alone.”

Ferdinand lifted the saddle though a stablehand had rushed to try and help. Perhaps Ferdinand could have behaved more nobly by not lifting a finger, but Liebling was one of his favorites and it had been too long since he had last ridden with her. He placed the saddle on Liebling and instructed the stablehand bring and saddle another horse. 

“Shall we? Uh…” he let the question travel through the silence, eager to hear the man’s name and wondering how he could have possibly not seen this gorgeous man before though they were staying in the same castle. “I am Ferdinand de Lorraine, and this,” he took the reins from the stablehand and led them towards the Russian man, “is Fritzchen, a very fine horse with the misfortune, much like all the King of Germany’s horses, of being named by me.”

The gentleman’s manner of speech admittedly caught Pyotr off guard. It was more than kind and less than careful, and despite himself, it entertained him tremendously. Of course he should have pinned the fellow for something of a rake. No man would miss his chance with a face so full of youthful charm and handsome confidence. Still, not entirely sure if he wished to encourage such behaviour just yet, he played almost ignorant, only shooting Lorraine a sly, suspicious look from the side, though he nonetheless accepted his proposal - not that he was given much chance to refuse it. 

“I would be glad of your company, sir. Though it may be that we shall both be lost together. It is my first time riding these grounds as well,” he admitted. He looked again to the man - Lorraine, he had said - and smiled wryly. “As long as you can keep up, we shall do well with one another.” And he had said he wouldn’t encourage him. How quickly that pretence had vanished. 

“Belski,” he stated when prompted. It was curious that he chose to saddle his horses himself. Feeling a little useless himself, Pyotr could only watch and amuse himself. From what he had seen, it was uncommon for westerners to trouble themselves with such tasks. Though he had revealed himself a German, aspersions were still cast on his precise birth and rank. Even with that unidentified, the young man inspired Pyotr to wave the stablehand away in kind and prepare the horse himself, taking the reins Ferdinand leant him and taking a few moments to inspect the creature.

It was too easy to laugh at such a joke, self-deprecating as it was. “Fritzchen?” He echoed. After a pause to think, he shook his head. “What does it mean, dare I ask?” 

[pyotrbelski]

louisoffrance‌:

Louis eagerly rises from his spot and settles into the seat in front of him, a renewed interest at proving his worth standing before him. Though few would call him a scholar and even less would favor him as an intellectual, he has done his best to ensure that his future bride would not feel unwelcome in her new country. The tutors who had struggled to retain his attention in his youth had been overcome with joy at his requests for books, no doubt believing that he was going to be aiding her himself. It is by pure luck that he knows of which the man might seek for he had naively assumed the man to be German by the book which he carried. 

“It is quite different, though I do not fault our ancestors for making it so. I’ve found a few that might aid your cause, I sought them out to make it easier for my betrothed to find herself familiar with our language when she arrives. While I doubt she does not know it already, perhaps even better than I, there are some words that cause trouble for anyone.” He searches through his memory for the name of the title and snatches a nearby parchment and quill over, quickly scribbling down the first two he can recall. “These might aid you well!” 

Regarding the gentleman with a passing, curious air, Pyotr nodded once in acknowledgement of his words. Himself not an animated man, he signified that the other had his attention by maintaining keen eye contact, breaking it only to take the parchment offered by the Frenchman. He leaned back in the chair as he read the titles, taking mental note of them before folding the paper in his fist. “I thank you for these,” he responded, raising the note in acknowledgment. “How fortunate to encounter a Russian speaking Frenchman. You must be a rare breed. Did you learn our tongue for this betrothed of yours?” He inquired, indicating the demijohn of wine to make good on his request. “Pour a drink,” he insisted.

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

for lack of better word, pyotr was unreadable. he had managed to shield his truth from everyone — when irina had sought his eye for the first time she had made it her mission to find what lay beneath his skin, but with every passing day it seemed harder and irina — though still eager to find his actual being and soul - pretended to give up. so engrossed with the idea of him and what he was hiding she had dabbled in enchantments and dark prayer to help her cause… to little avail, irina had gotten nowhere. 

and had she been lying? she hadn’t mentioned the execution, no, but she was not denying that fact. she knew better than to lie to her husband’s face — after all, he may have little shadows following her, and irina was not stupid on that level, at least. so she holds herself straight, hands escaping her bodice to take the boots from his hands, fingers caught aginst his hardened skin before retracting to put them aside as a dutiful and domestic wife would’ve. 

“you know friederike, she will do anything to escape her father and i have yet to meet him… i plan to make my move soon, though. to scout him out,” her skirts skim against the floor as she takes her position by his side, her body slouching against the furs they had brought with them from home. “is there anything you want me to do when i meet him? he sounds important, and you must rise amongst the ranks, pyotr.” 

Watching her assist him with his boots was amusing in the strangest way. This role didn’t suit her in the slightest. It left a curious little smirk on his lips as he regarded her, his attention following her as she came to rest beside him. For a change, he looked at her properly. To keep her ego in check - a grand task for a woman such as her - he made a habit of virtually ignoring her at every turn. An exception was made for when she thought to be intelligent. It was a pleasure to receive her ambition and with a firm nod, he awarded her an encouraging smile.

 “I think it only right we assure he is a suitable match for your friend. Will he be a loyal suitor or will his eyes wander? Is he trusting or has he much to hide?” He mused, drumming fingers against the rough fabric of his dark breeches. Conjured images of his wife flirting with other men didn’t gladden him. With the virtually public nature of her liasons with the tsarevich, he had suffered being thought of a cuckold enough to recognise it as a benefit. 

 “You ought to tell me where you go and who you go about with,” he added, a note of irritation muddying his tone. “We want to assure your time is well spent. It ought not to be wasted taking our infant son door to door. Nor, indeed, to executions,” he concluded, tilting his head sideways just enough to regard her significantly.

[pyotrbelski]

irinatrubetskaya‌:

closed : prince pyotr bekyski of bely @pyotrbelski​ location : the russian wing of sasso cobaro, the private quarters belonging to prince pyotr and princess irina.  timestamp : the afternoon after lord gaufrid neuchâtel of bern‘s execution. 

irinei had been passed to the wet nurse as soon as the princess entered the russian wing of the castle, instructing for a feed and nap whilst petting a rare kiss to the tip of his fat nose. after the explosions, deaths and havoc of switzerland irina had found herself enjoying the company of her son, the child she had nearly died for. being within his presence heightened her sense of self, how she must survive for him as her mother had not done for her. and to survive was to keep her place. she knew that if she were to be needed and barely wanted she would have to have another child; one son was never enough, not even if there was a second who was older and of age. 

unfolding herself from a cloak of russian pelt, irina was met with her husband who she had not seen that morning — if so, she may have even suggested that he’d join her and their son to the execution. taking her time to unfold herself from her outerwear and to expose the intricate embroidery of her dress and polished skin, irina sighed — the time was moving far too slowly, and so she took it within the palm of her hand and approached her husband with the tap of her heeled slippers against varnished wood. “муж,” she greeted, hands held against her bodice — just meting his eye caused her to dwell in embarrassment and humility, after all, he had seen her break only days ago. his own arms holding her together as if she were some precious egg rather than the ferocious bear she had hoped to be. “irinei and i are back from seeing the duchess friederike — did you see the news? she is to be shipped off to some brute… ah, it reminds me of our pretty engagement, мои голубые глаза.” 

Engrossed in the simple act of unlacing his boots, his mind was elsewhere. Not with Neuchâtel, but close by. It was rare he enraptured himself so deeply in his own thoughts that reality passed him by. Yet that morning had been an incredibly introspective one. Torture and execution were a rare spectacle to the prince and often left him feeling rather odd. Untraceable, yet energised. Still, more pressing than the violent spectacle of the morning was the presence of his wife and their infant son at the event. They had gone separately, unbeknown to one another. And she had lied about it. 

Initially surprised by the sound of her voice, very little of his person gave him away. Remaining focused on the laces of his boots for the time being, he only grunted in response to her comment. If she was to be sly and insinuate he were a brute, perhaps he ought to act the part. It did not come naturally to him, however. Slowly, his голубые глаза raised to look at her, though he remained hunched forward, forearms on his knees. 

Mostly, he was curious as to why she lied. It was not as though she were meeting anyone she ought not to - aside from their son, whose time he was gradually taking from her. “Tell me about them both,” he urged after looking at her for several long moments, before he returned to removing his boots.