♱ @vvranas.
It is sunset, and the hues of the Byzantine empire spill across the Kremlin palace: blood-orange, a rotted fig, a bruised apricot, the shades of hell and imperial purples melding into dusk. Helena’s gaze narrows into mere slits as she casts it across the Moskva river, the reflection of the Kremlin’s gleaming minarets beaming across otherwise somber darkness. Flat, motionless. Not even a wave dares crest against its shores. The princess’ koubikoularia have long retired to their cots, strewn across the princess’ sacred bedchamber as though they were children, travel-weary and spent. Helena, on the other hand, remains keenly alert; her skin raw from hours of bathing, scrubbing, and preening, moistened with vials of Greek oils so that it shimmers beneath the thin fabric of her tunic.
She turns to look at them, her ladies, a crease forming between her brows. They are deep in their slumber, even Irene, the sternest of the fearsome knot. There is ample opportunity to abscond, thinks she, as she clutches the gilded cross to her throat, fingering the pearls inlaid alongside its ancient jewels. To hell with it. The oath leaves her lips in a flurry as she garbs her glossy mane with a veil. It is a short trek from the princess’ exquisite apartments to Branas’ chamber, for the further into the palace’s mouth that she ventures, there are fewer sentinels to answer to, fewer eunuchs to distract with a purse of coins. There are lovers, sneaking along the halls in swirls of quiet laughter, and old maids, their eyes sealed with white films, and the occasional amanuensis, relaying letters between the Tsar’s guests. They pay the princess no mind, cloaked in an unassuming mantle of anonymity.
Helena lays a hand against the wooden plane of the general’s door, a hesitant intake of breath lodged in her throat. There are no voices within –– only the distinct crackle of a hearth. A heavy lock prevents her entrance. ‘General Branas, unless you are gamboling with another woman in there, I command you to unlock this door at once.’ Her voice wavers upon a plead, a rare instance of yearning; to see him and, with her own eyes, to ensure his well-being after weeks cleaved apart. When the door creaks ajar, her lips form into a pert grin. ‘Did you think I would not come?’