A/N: Obviously I do not own Hetalia; the only thing I own herein is my own characterization of said characters and two very fat kitties. Historical notes (of a scanty variety until we get into the meat of the thing) are at the bottom. I've really no idea what I'm doing with this; I just wanted to write more Russia. Again, I hope you enjoy my interpretation of the fellow. I don't write him to follow the Himaruya version.
August, 1781
"I'm not really one for childminding."
"My God, Vanya," Ekaterina commented. "We haven't even finished breakfast yet and already you're fretting about the delegation from America."
"Not the delegation, no," he answered vaguely, abandoning his tea cup at his empress's small sitting room table to stand in front of one of the room's tall windows, gazing down the long road that eventually twisted out of sight.
He felt rather than saw the wry expression she made at his back and forced himself to turn and face her, a small and slightly amused smile on his face. "It is the America part of the equation that concerns me most," he admitted. "He's barely out of breechclothes and yet we throw him into court."
Ekaterina leaned forward slightly, eyebrows quirked in interest.
"Such concern," she said slyly, holding out her hand for him to take. He bent immediately to take her hand into his own and brush his lips politely against her knuckles; her eyes softened slightly as she took her hand back and picked up her teacup up again. "It's rare that I see you in such a…state, you know, over strangers. Is he special, this little America? Really, I think you're being more lenient on him than Great Britain would've been when it comes to matters of court."
"Sophia…"
"Is he handsome?" she interrupted, her polite smile blossoming into a grin quite unapologetically at his expense before she tempered it back into the decorous expression of an empress. "Oh, surely he must be—you are all of you so beautiful, I can't imagine what the New World itself might look like."
"Sophia—"
Russia sighed harshly and turned away again, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off the impending headache he could feel coming on.
She looked upon him fondly as he stalked back to his post at the window and straightened into an impeccable parade rest with his hands clenched behind his back.
"You are utterly infuriating," he remarked to her in German.
"And you are utterly besotted," she replied in kind, rising gracefully from her seat.
"No," he said immediately, "I leave that in the able hands of your Lanskoy."
"Oh, Alexander," she brightened immediately, as if she had forgotten the young man existed at all. "Well, all the better if little America is handsome. Sanya has been a bit too complacent. He could use a bit of fresh blood around here to keep him on his toes."
Russia was far too well-mannered to roll his eyes at her private antics, choosing instead to keep his eyes on the cloud of dust that was rising in the distance, signaling the arrival of their guests. She observed the cloud over his shoulder, a calculating light coming into her eyes that had him turning away again in discomfort.
"I think," Russia replied archly, "that that would hardly entertain you nearly as much as you think it would."
"I tease you," Ekaterina said softly, coming up behind him and resting her palm against his shoulder for a brief moment before stepping away in a sweep and rustle of silken skirts. "You've worn black for so long. But do keep an eye on the boy for me, dear heart."
Russia inclined his head and delivered a shallow acknowledging bow. She smiled, pleased, before turning to take her leave.
"Or at least," she added, with a wicked glint in her eye as an attendant opened the door for her departure, "keep an eye on him until I can do so myself."
Russia found himself alone, the palace attendants already well-familiar with his preferences with being left to his own devices. But the silence in this paneled room of dark wood and heavy draperies felt loud in his ears suddenly; each mote of dust lighting upon the furniture seemed like hail upon rooftops.
He ached most profoundly for the absence of his sister and thought wistfully of how her serene personality was always a balm for his nerves, how her mere presence spurred him past the limits of his more embarrassing failings in a public sphere.
Selfishly, he wanted her there. As her elder brother, he dared not subject her to a group of strange western men of unknown temperament, supposed allies or not.
Hooves clattering on the cobblestones in the courtyard below rang out in tandem with the bustle of servants throwing open the palace doors to receive their guests.
Russia refused to look down into the courtyard, staring determinedly out into the distance until the greens and blues of the landscape blurred and all he could see was his own faint reflection in the glass. Hair cut unfashionably short like the farmer he was and that his royalty tried to insist he was not, dirty-blond curls still intact from disdain of wearing wigs. A pale face, one he'd stared at for so long that the features became alien and unfamiliar.
There was no reason, he chided himself, to be feeling self-conscious in front of a child. Still, he stared down at his dark clothing and quietly cursed Ekaterina for mentioning it in the first place. She was a brilliant woman, cunning, but a Prussian princess in his eyes, first and foremost.
An attendant knocked quietly on the sitting room door, opening it just wide enough for the woman to quietly murmur that their American guests were being received in the Reception Room. He acknowledged her tidings and dismissed her with a curt nod. Alone again, he inhaled deeply, letting his customary facade of stoic, banal pleasantry settle into place.
It would have to do.
Ekaterina/Sophia: Ekaterina II was born as Sophia Augusta Frederica in the German city of Stettin, Prussia (now Szczecin, Poland), on April 21, 1729. When she was 15, Sophia traveled to Russia at the invitation of Empress Elizabeth to meet the heir Grand Duke Peter, son of the Duke of Holstein-Gottorp. The two were married in 1745. Peter, a German, could hardly speak Russian and was highly unpopular for his strongly pro-Prussian policies. His assassination in 1762 was likely through the machinations of his wife, who succeeded him to the throne as Ekaterina II.
Alexander Lanskoy: Lanskoy was the youngest of Catherine's favorites. Catherine almost had a maternal feeling for this young man, as her letters to Grimm show. She was proud of him, praised his love for art and she seemed to be genuinely fond of him. She had at last found someone who loved her. She had experienced many disappointments, but here was a young man who seemed happy and content in her company. Four years went by. Lanskoy went out riding and fell, developed first chest pains from the fall, then contracted diphtheria. He died on June 14, 1784. Catherine was devastated. She buried him in Sophia and built a church over his grave. In Tsarskoe Selo Park she had a funeral urn placed in his memory, inscribed with the words "To my dearest friend."
More to come!
