daughter

elizabeth of lancaster

[solisoccasvm]

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

❃  link to bio ❃ link to welcome prompt ❃ main  ❃

[solisoccasvm]

Closed Starter for @alienored​

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.” 

[solisoccasvm]

matildaempress​:

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?”

[solisoccasvm]

lancastricn​:

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.”

[solisoccasvm]

amnostheos​:

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.

[solisoccasvm]

reknes​:

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.”

[annedelapole]

closed starter for @solisoccasvm location: princess elizabeth’s chambers

        the aching of skilled feet was a sensation which signified the drawing of a most joyous evening to a close, though they may not yet rest until those of more importance had turned in for the night. only once royal jewels were secured, sumptuous fabrics exchanged for the comfort of a mere shift and regal locks of hair cared for and braided could anne seek to retire her own person for the night. on many occasions her role has required her to sleep upon the floor of the queen’s chambers, allowing her service to be called for at any given moment and also in a bid to secure her majesty, but not on this one. no. anne, much to her own surprise, had a room of her own. usually such luxury would be cause for celebration and yet she could not shake the feeling that it was to be a test of sorts; wondering if the queen was suspicious of her lady and sought to tempt her into misusing the chamber. even so, it was not her own room that anne sought as she left the queen’s presence that night, nor was it that of any gentleman who might thing themselves so fortunate.

passing the servants as they made their exit, a warm smile graced the de la pole lips as she looked to the princess elizabeth through the candle lit darkness upon entering her chambers.  though anne adored life at court - aided greatly by the fact that she was very good at making her way to the centre of it - there were moments when even she sought respite from it all and there was no greater presence in which it might be found than that of her dearest friend; elizabeth. “ did your highness enjoy this evening? perhaps we shall present you in such a manner one day, though i expect many more roses to adorn the room. also diamonds to fall from the ceiling! ”

[solisoccasvm]

. 

The friendship between disgraced princess and lady-in-waiting to the queen responsible for Elizabeth’s misfortunes was an unlikely one, but enduring. Though she had never truly been short of friends, with Anne it was different. In her, Elizabeth had found someone she would gladly tell all her secrets too, even if their closeness could only blossom in snatched moments in the midst of their busy schedules. It wasn’t nearly enough, but Elizabeth is grateful for it nonetheless. She had been glad to hear Anne was to accompany the queen on their journey to Moscow.The more people she had around her that she can count on, the better, as far as she was concerned. Between Anne, Richard, and Lord Somerset, all of her favourite people are in one place, and that gladdens her heart. But though Anne’s attendance was a source of joy, she doesn’t dare to hope that she would see much of her. 

But tonight, hope comes true, and Anne’s lovely face graces Elizabeth with her presence. “It is all the more enjoyable for seeing you here,” she says, by way of greeting, patting the seat beside her for Anne to join her, but her lips purse at the declaration. Perhaps once, when Edward was king and her place far more secure, she could image such an event. With her future in Mary’s hands, she doubts the possibility very much. She may not be politically astute, but she is not a fool either. She knows that the continuation of the Lancaster bloodline is not in the queen’s best interest, and so, any dreams of marital bliss had been long put to bed. Still, she does not want to put a dampener on Anne’s spirits, and so her face is rearranged into a girlish smile. “My gown will be woven of flowers too. Roses, to match the decorations, and lilies and violets. And my crown, the most delicate spun glass that catches the light of the sun.”

[lancastricn]

♱ @solisoccasvm​.

The halls of the Kremlin were eviscerated, starved of their usual activity and pandemonium, and all too quiet.  Courtiers were doubtlessly bewailing and attempting to numb the pounding in their fragile skulls –– the result of copious consumption of wine, ale, and feasting the evening prior.  Richard, a seasoned veteran of filling his gut with such poisons, was of a clear, limpid mind, yet agitated.  His mind itched for some diversion, some pastime that was not spent in the company of beasts, neighing mindlessly in their stables.  To his surprise, that diversion came in the form of a letter, address to his sister, Elizabeth, planted firmly upon his cypress desk.  It was thus to her apartments that he strode, trekking across the creaking wooden floors that led to her chamber.  He was granted access by a chambermaid, not much older than he, employed to guard the princess’ doors; she reddened to her ample breasts under the weight of Richard’s stare and wordlessly permitted him entrance.

‘Sister, I bid you good morning.  I trust you are in fine health after the reception?’  Richard asks, his eyes sweeping across her chambers, to the windows, and then, back to the princess.  ‘Tell me, Lizzie, why is it that a letter from Lord Somerset, addressed to you, landed on my desk this morning?  I would read it myself, but––,’  Richard pauses, huffing a humourless chortle.  Richard often jested with his sister over the close company she kept with Courtenay, though it was certainly beyond his knowledge if anything more than a commiserating bond had been broached between the pair.  He continues, words spoken under a thick guise of disapproval: ‘well, I would not risk my eyes bleeding over the contents.’ 

[solisoccasvm]

.

In sharp contrast to the splendour of the previous night, Moscow lay still this morning, bereft of the activity that had set it alight only hours before. Whilst the celebrations raged into the night, Elizabeth had no doubt many of those who had overindulged were enjoying, or enduring, a morning of rest and recuperation to soothe weak stomachs and aching heads. She did not count herself amongst those number - though her feet were blistered from a combination of new shoes and vigorous dancing, there were no other ill effects of the night to suffer through for her. What was near insufferable, however, was the boredom beginning to settle in, a side effect of the quiet, solitary morning. 

But before displeasure can truly take root, Richard strides into his chambers, unexpected, but not unwelcome. Bright smile graces her features, and Elizabeth rises to her feet to greet her brother. “Good morning, Richard,” she chirps, sweet as a lark. “I am well. Did you enjoy the festivities?” True motives for his visit revealed, she lets out a quiet groan. She should have known that he would not pass up the opportunity to tease her rotten. 

“That’s private,” her expression falls into something more solemn, though her cheeks were darkening to a vivid shade of pink. “I suppose I should thank you for not risking your eyes, but I can assure you that whatever William has to say to me, you will find nothing improper in his words. Now, may I have it?” She holds a hand out, patiently, expectantly. 

“What of you, anyway? Have you found any interesting company to keep throughout our visit?”

[solisoccasvm]

yiixings​:

❖

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?”

[solisoccasvm]

what makes their eyes light up?

Elizabeth is a highly social creature who draws the most energy from being around others. Happiest in the company of friends, her eyes light up when spending time with the people she cares about - chief amongst them her brother, Richard, William Courtenay, and Anne de la Pole.

[solisoccasvm]

how do they react when they're caught in a lie?

With anxiety. Elizabeth is deeply uncomfortable with lying to begin with, and even more so when caught. She ends up feeling deeply guilty, apologising profusely, and immediately attempting to make amends.

[solisoccasvm]

39. Are they superstitious?

No, Elizabeth is not a superstitious person. She observes the expected customs, but more because it is expected rather than out of her own belief. She is, however, religious, though her conviction to Catholicism is more moderate than devout.

[solisoccasvm]

17. Do they show a lot of affection, or are they pretty reserved?

Elizabeth is incredibly affectionate to her friends and loved ones. Incredibly tactile, she is prone to touching the arm of those she is in conversation with, and adores physical acts of affection like hugs or forehead kisses as a sign of affection. Their love language is definitely touch, but she often reinforces this with words of affirmation, too.

[solisoccasvm]

how's their relationship with their immediate family?

hasekiayse asked:

how's their relationship with their immediate family?

Elizabeth has always adored her family, but the current only living member other than herself is her brother - Richard. The two have a solid relationship, and right now, her only goal is keeping him safe from Queen Mary. She is quietly, but fiercely, loyal to her brother, and is far more relaxed in his presence than she would be otherwise.

[solisoccasvm]

is there any subject they don't like to talk about?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.

Question 2 answered in another ask

[solisoccasvm]

what's an item they always carry with them?

On her right hand, Elizabeth wears a small, gold ring with a deep blue stone in the centre. It was a gift from her brother Edward on her seventeenth birthday, and has not left her finger since. Originally belonging to her mother, Queen Katherine, the ring hold tremendous sentimental value, both due to its origins and the circumstances of how it was given to her. It is a reminder of better, happier times for the Lancasters, and in recent years, has come to be a source of comfort and hope.

[vi0light]

location: palace of facets. tagging: anyone!

There was little in the mortal realm that could compare to the grandeur of Moscow, more specifically, the Palace of Facets – or so Feodosia was inclined to believe. For a woman whom considered herself learned and cultured, she had truly seen little of the world beyond the ever expanding borders of the kingdom. Perhaps it leant to the whispers of her commonality then, that the dowager was a little taken aback by the displays of wealth that had been exhibited by the Byzantines – had she truly been so imperceptive to Russia's eminence within the theatre of empires that she had misjudged their prestige? Never.

To Feodosia there was more to eminence than astringent displays of wealth and no amount of glistening jewels, supple silks or alluring gold could replace the foremost crucial characteristic of fortitude.

Having quietly observed Sophia for much of the day, she had perceived that the princess was lacking just that. Her eyes foretold a fear that Feodosia could only liken to child fretting over a thunder storm, or a doe just before the hunters arrow pierces its heart. The princess presented herself to be a paradigm of sainthood, a coruscating example of a weakened kingdom whom masked their fractures beneath the only thing they had left to offer – their wealth and beautiful daughters. It may have been concerning, if it had not also present an opportunity.

There was little doubt in Feodosia's mind that the princess would founder. The Rus court was not gentile, seldom was it even dignified, it was a cutthroat cacophony of vicious factions and it was not enough to simply survive, one needed to thrive.

Expected but seldom wanted at such joyous events, Feodosia had mostly kept to herself for the majority of the evening. Her gaze surveying the hall, alas her mind was calculating the best course for her later endeavour. The probing headache forming betwixt her eyes dulled by the chalice brought frequently to her lips. "Tell me..." she began, her gaze slipping towards figure beside her, the smallest hint of a smile curling at the corners of lips, "...have your eyes ever beheld a more beautiful bride? I fail to recall the number of unions I have witnessed under these frescos, alas none have been as magnificent as this one. Not even my own."

[solisoccasvm]

.

Elizabeth hadn’t anticipated finding herself beside the dowager tsarina, a woman as intimidating to her as she was impressive. Moscow was a grand, glittering jewel of a place, and the woman next to her seemed to embody all of that in spades. Though she had, by and large, stayed solitary throughout the festivities, Elizabeth had found her eyes drawn to her more than once - though she doubted the same could be said for herself, the daughter of a crumbling house and the princess of a throne snatched from her brother’s grasp. 

And so, she had, up to this point, made no attempt to catch the eyes of Feodosia, or any other member of the Russian family. Not tonight, when they had far more to focus their attention on. No, it was chance that brought her here, to her side, rather than any deliberate machinations. 

Still, until the moment when Feodosia turned to address her directly, Elizabeth had not expected any acknowledgement. She would not have faulted the other for ignoring her until she went away. But she doesn’t, and Elizabeth responds with a hum of agreement, gaze turning thoughtfully to the hall before her. 

“It has been a wonderful evening. Thank you, to you and your family, for hosting us,” there is a conviction to her tone, one that belies her genuine sentiments and takes her gratitude beyond simply niceties. She has never been the entitled sort, the kind that expects consideration or adoration based on the circumstances of her birth, and she would be a fool to expect that here, surrounded by those with more power than she will ever hold. 

“The bride is beautiful,” she agrees, but her face scrunches in thought. She hesitates, reluctant to disagree, but before she can choose her words more carefully, they come tumbling from her mouth. “Perhaps your own union did not need splendour of this calibre to be magnificent. Does the manner in which a couple is wed reflect the future success of their marriage?”