Author's note: Imperial!Russia/OFC, starts in 1772. This starts a year into their relationship.
I really like imperial!Russia and while I should have spent less time writing this and more time reading the book about imperial Russia I got out to write this, I'm happy with the end. I didn't really know where I was going with this or when I was going to stop, but I think the ending. And I don't think I messed up any Russian? I only recognize a couple of letters so here's hoping.
Pretty Things and Useless Hands
She stands before his desk, his back to her as he reads a letter by the window's light. Finished he turns, tucking the letter away in a book before taking her in.
"Your Imperial Highness." She bows low, adverting her eyes and breathing deep. No matter how many times those violet eyes have fallen upon her, it still unsettles her because she does not in the least understand this man. Perhaps no one ever has.
He tuts, which she's learned is his signal for her to stand. "I want to show you something," he informs her in a voice that's smooth like poisoned wine. She has no choice but to follow.
The gallery is light, bright, large and magnificent paintings lining its walls. Sveta takes her time between each one, the skin on the back of her neck exposed to the cool air as she passes open windows. Somewhere, she knows, her master is walking amongst these paintings himself; she cannot figure out what she is searching for in them though.
"Do you see it yet?" he calls out from a small room off the gallery. His voice is light, playful.
"No my Lord," she calls back happily, enjoying moments like these where he puts her at ease. "I do not think I have fully understood what-" She stops in her words as she comes before a particularly old painting.
Sveta looks to the right, at the one before it, backing up to take them both in. Then she compares them to the previous one, doubling back over the paintings with new eyes. As she does her master emerges from the room he had been in, smiling in an almost-sad way. "I think you see now," he says in a cool, teasing tone.
She gasps, looking from him to the paintings: he's in them, he's the man repeated in each one. There are ones of past tsars and ones of nobles, peasants at work on farms and victorious battle paintings, the works spanning centuries. Her feet bring her closer and closer to the living man, afraid to look at him as if, like in a dream, he might begin to disappear as she finds reality.
At the end of the row, nowhere else to look, she's forced to face him. His shoulders are relaxed, his hands held behind his back. In the light his cream coat and breeches look magnificent against his skin, maroon and gold accents swirling throughout, white stockings and cravat. His handsome face with its distinctive nose looks down on her from high, his mouth twisting into something hard but broken, something Sveta understands is for her alone.
A hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, fingers barely brushing the skin before he grabs that hand suddenly, with both of his own, bringing it to his lips to kiss desperately as if she was giving him life. Just as suddenly he releases her, his eyes taking in the gallery before he smiles without warmth.
"You know what they say of me." He means the court.
"They- they say," and she stutters at the implication of his words, holding her hand to her chest and trying to remember how his lips had felt pressed against her skin, the way it had made her chest tighten and her stomach flutter. "They say you are immortal. They say you are…."
"Say it," he almost challenges, eyes closed. "Say it; you know now it is the truth."
"You are Russia?" she half-asks, half-gasps, falling to her knees and curling in on herself. "My- my Lord, I am not worthy!" Her throat is tight as she bows, watching how his legs stiffen. "My Lord, please, forgive me for all that I have-"
"Get up." The words are whispered.
"What?"
"Get up!" A hand grabs her shoulder, forcing her up against the wall. His mood swings still frighten her, how easily he goes from warm and loving to cool and collected to violent and angry. "And what do you think of me now, huh? And what do you think of me now‽"
Tears stream down her face. "I am not worthy my Lord, I am not worthy of your kindness, of your charity, please forgive me for all that I have done wrong. Please, I did not know, I did not believe, I love you my Lord, please allow me to redeem myself." His hand releases her shoulder, the man walking away before turning back. "Please, my Lord, please." Her throat is tight with fear.
"You said love." Part accusation, part disbelief. Sveta nods.
"I love you," she repeats because if he wants her to say it again she will, she'll say it for the rest of her life.
"You meant it." And that statement is pure wonderment.
As she finishes playing her piece on the delicate keyboard instrument the door opens, Sveta turning to watch her master stand.
The servant bows, excusing himself, leaving a woman behind him. Her hair is bright red, curly, flowing over bare shoulders, her dress low cut and her breasts pressed tightly to her chest. When she bows Sveta is sure she can see everything.
"Your Imperial Highness," the woman says in silky French with an accent that Sveta cannot place, too distracted by the sneer now gracing her master's face. He turns from the woman to look at Sveta.
"You are excused for the night." And with that he holds out a hand for the redhead to take, leading her into the next room and closing the door.
Sveta sits quietly for a few minutes after that, her hands in her lap. On his chair is a book, a thick tome in Russian. There are scientific instruments on the table, papers and maps strewn over his desk. Beyond the door, in the next room, is her master's bed, which she has seen but never, ever been invited to share.
She rises quietly, taking soft steps before pressing her ear to the door. There's quiet French, a language Sveta was taught before being brought to court and given to this man. Other women were given with her, women more beautiful than she, more accomplished; those quickly disappeared, each one leaving the court for other foreign capitals after her services had been performed.
And yet Sveta has never been required to do such things with Ivan Ivanovich Braginski.
Her eyes peak through the space where the door doesn't fully meet its frame, finding the redhead already on her knees, the man's cock in her mouth. Expertly the woman moves, Sveta's master allowing his head to roll back and his hands to comb through the red curls. Sveta was taught these things, along with the other women, though she has never done them. She has only ever seen a man through the crack in this door, when whores are brought up for her master's pleasure.
The Russian woman is not stupid, though; she knows he is special. Large.
With a soft moan of something she can't quite make out he comes in the woman's mouth, the redhead doing her best to continue in her task before the nobleman pulls back, beginning to remove his clothes. "Strip," he orders and she does so, Sveta's eyes taking in her body as she removes each article teasingly.
The woman is beautiful, her body pale, her curves soft, her breasts large. He likes women with large breasts, Sveta's learned from watching, clutching at her own small chest. All the women who come have large breasts and once more she wonders why he ever chose her, keeping a woman he would never touch.
Tonight she does not feel like watching him fuck the whore, padding quietly to the other door out and making her way to her chambers just down the hall.
In the tent she waits for him, having had her fill of watching her master kill birds for the day. When he returns Sveta rises immediately and he takes her in as if surprised she is here before moving to place down his things and removing his coat. "They had said you were with the other women." He means the noblemen.
"No, my Lord."
"Why are you here instead?" His hands rest on his hips as he stands before her, genuinely curious, his chemise hanging loosely from his torso.
Sveta bows her head. "I tire of the other women easily, my Lord," she admits. He gives a short laugh.
"Oh, I understand Lagunov, believe me." He walks to his makeshift bed, sitting on its edge. "Whores so often have such little substance about them." The man lays back, kicking off his shoes and resting his head on his hands.
Bowing Sveta takes her cue to leave before his voice calls her back. "My Lord?" She's never stayed while he slept.
"There is a book over there-" with closed eyes he gestures to a table, Sveta immediately finding the book "-bring it here." She retrieves it, standing beside him awkwardly before his eyes open. "Well?" She shakes her head, not understanding. Sighing he stands, lifting with ease a chair that he sets beside the head of the bed. Laying back down he holds out a hand, taking the book and opening it. He begins to read aloud.
Days like these are her favorite, where he reads to her with his rich voice, high and low all at the same time. His fingers caress the pages, his words more loving at certain parts than others, and Sveta looses herself in the moment.
He's been watching her for several hours now as they sit outside beneath a tree. With the city miles and miles away she closes her eyes, pretending it's just herself and her master in the world, the rest of Russia falling away.
"And who are you thinking of?" he asks in a light voice, moving from his position sitting beside her to lay in the grass as well, one of his large hands' fingers lacing in with hers; Sveta's likes when he holds her hand.
"You," she breathes, smiling, her head turning to watch him. For nearly a year now she has watched him watch her, those purple eyes soft when he does so. She reaches out to stroke his cheek and he lets her, closing his eyes and turning so that he can kiss her palm. "My Lord?" His hum is her response. "Why me?"
He laughs at that, her hand falling to his chest. He laughs and laughs, his eyes warm and childlike, filled with a joy she's not used to seeing in him.
Then he looks at her and Sveta's heart skips a beat because he's never looked at her like that, he's never looked at anyone like that, but she knows that look all the same. Her heart aches.
"I had wondered," he starts, "how long it would be until you asked me." He takes in the sky, stretching, before adding as if an afterthought, "And do not call me Lord anymore, or Imperial Highness, not when we are in private. It makes me uncomfortable."
Sveta shifts to lay on her stomach, enjoying this side of her master. This isn't the side that shows in court, this isn't the side that shows with the women that are sent to him; this is something completely different. She knows enough to appreciate this gift.
"Then what shall I call you?" she asks in her light voice, daring to reach a hand out to brush away hair that has fallen on his face. His smile and hand taking hers only serve to make her heart race faster.
"Vanya," he whispers. "Call me Vanya."
"Vanya," she repeats, testing the name on her lips.
"But only in private," he adds, his voice momentarily stern, and she nods.
"I understand." Her master- Vanya -reaches out to stroke her cheek then, playing with a curl of hair that's escaped.
"Take no offense to this my sweet, but they never fully told me your story." He means the men who brought them here, the women, trained in foreign ways to please a Russian prince. "In my mind and heart I know you only as Lagunov-"
"Svetlana," she dares to interrupt, "my name is Svetlana Kireva Lagunov."
"Svetlana," he repeats, thinking before asking, "Sveta or Lana?"
"Sveta."
"Sveta." He chuckles. "Not my sweet then," he chides, "but my sun."
"Whatever pleases you most," she concedes, still aware that he was the master. His fingers stroke at her shoulder.
"You please me," he whispers and Sveta isn't sure if she was meant to hear that.
He's always written long letters to her, flowing things that muse about man, about Russia, about God, about the empress, about life and about love. Sveta keeps them all in a box filled with those few things she has of her parents, dead for many years. Part of her wants her master to find them, to know that she treasures those letters as much as she treasures her few personal effects. The rest of her wants him to hold her in his arms and never let go.
That's when the servant comes bursting into her room, out of breath. It's the man who normally brings the women, the one who sends out her master's letters. Without speaking he gestures for her to follow and Sveta does, running behind him down the hall and into her master's sitting room to find it already filled with more people than normal.
In a chair sits her master, his skin white, his body shaking, clutching a blanket around his frame. His clothes are dripping where they've been laid out over her bench at the keyboard.
"Svet," he keeps repeating, his eyes rolling as if he can't control them, rocking back and forth in the chair. "Svet, svet." One of the men shakes his head, turning to say something to another when he sees her and the servant.
"Who is this?" the man demands incredulous. "He's asking for light, for something holy, not some whore."
The servant shakes his head, pulling Sveta forward though she does not want to go. But this close she can see how bad her lord's condition is, her heart breaking as she throws propriety to the window and runs to him, falling at his feet and grasping his knees.
"Svet," he mutters again, eyes closed and shaking his head.
"I'm here," she whispers for only him, reaching out to touch a cheek that is quite literally as cold as ice. "I'm here my Lord, I'm here. Please Vanya, please."
He presses into her hand, opening his eyes miserably. Then he sighs, half smiling. "Svet."
"What-" the man who had spoken before starts before falling silent. It's the servant who answers, Sveta not daring to turn and watch.
"Svetlana, he meant for Svetlana." She'll have to remember to better treat the servant in the future.
The door opens once more and someone shoves Sveta to the side, the servant moving to catch her as the most impressive looking woman she's ever seen comes in, standing before Vanya and sighing deeply. Another man steps forward.
"Your Imperial Majesty." Everyone bows, Sveta following suit despite her state of shock. She had seen the empress before from afar, watching her master approach the woman he was allowed to call Sister. And now here she stands, in Sveta's master's quarters, the empress of Russia: Catherine II.
"What happened?" the great lady demands.
"It seems one of the foreign envoys did not realize who he was," one of the men begins. "When His Imperial Highness did not back down to him, the man pushed him into the water. The envoy had enemy servants push His Imperial Highness further under the ice, leaving him there to freeze to death."
"How long was he there?" Sveta's heart races as the empress waits for the answer. "Well, how long before one of you realized my brother was missing?"
When no one seems to want to answer her master's servant steps forward. "Several hours, Your Imperial Majesty. The nobles he was to meet with after the envoy said nothing of his unusual tardiness, so when I arrived to inform him he must part for his meeting with you I found him missing and alerted the guard."
The empress looks furious at that, perhaps because a servant had to answer, perhaps because a servant had to discover that her beloved and quite literal Russia had been injured while nobles did nothing. Then the woman's eyes fall on Sveta. "And who is this?" she snaps in her anger.
"This is his mistress," the servant dutifully replies and Sveta bows as deeply as she can, her cheeks blushing. Why couldn't everyone just leave? Why hadn't anyone lit the great fireplace? Covered him with more blankets? Brought him something warm to eat? They had to leave so she could tend to him, she thinks desperately. And since when was she his mistress?
"Hmm," is all Sveta gets before the empress gives the other men orders, kissing the near-dead Russian's head and leaving. The other men follow, leaving a doctor, the servant, and Sveta with the half-frozen man.
"Can I trust you with him?" the doctor asks her. Nodding she listens carefully to his instructions; at least he had thought the same things she had.
"Light the fire in his room," she tells the servant once the doctor is gone, "as big as you can make it." When he leaves she falls to her knees before her master again. "Vanya," and she rubs her hands together before placing them on his cheeks. He hums thankfully at that as she rubs his face, her fingers daring to dip to his neck to rub there too. Once the fire is going the servant comes back and together they get the large man to the edge of his bed.
"If you could step out," the servant asks and Sveta nods, turning and waiting in the other room. Curiously, now left alone with his clothes, she inspects the details of each item closely: the width in the jacket, how lean the breeches are, the exquisite embroidery of his cravat, the softness of his stockings. The servant's voice interrupts her as she goes to take something from his jacket pocket. "Shall I lay him in his bed?"
"No," Sveta says, going back to the bedroom, "no, sit him before the fire, we need to warm him still."
The hour grows late as she sits on the end of his bed, watching Vanya shiver and rub his arms. She's too afraid to go to him, to touch him, too aware that if he had been anyone else he would be dead. Worst than knowing she would be on the streets now is the feeling of pain the thought of his death gives her.
He shifts, stretching his legs and rubbing them. The servant and her had found more blankets, the room stifling hot with the fire roaring. Sveta feels the sweat running down her back but does not dare leave.
Then he shifts some more, turning his head to look at her, and so she comes to him, sitting just beside him and miserably wrapping her arms about his neck. Lips kiss her hair. "Thank you."
"I did nothing," he chuckles.
"Until this moment," Sveta admits, fighting back tears, "I had not realized how good you are to me. I thought I was worth nothing to you."
"Oh no Sveta," he sighs, kissing her hair again. "You are worth everything to me." She grips him tightly. "How bad was I?" he inquires.
"The empress came," as if that answers the question.
"Really?" He almost laughs before adding, "Wouldn't be the first time she's come to my chambers."
"My Lord!" Sveta immediately cries out weakly and he laughs at her.
"Come now," he says smirking, "don't tell me you're surprised."
"She is the empress-"
"So? I am Russia," he says defiantly, pride in his voice as though Sveta had made an attack on his character.
"And I am nothing," the young woman replies, making to stand. A hand grabs her wrist, pulling her back down.
"Don't leave me," he whispers in a desperate voice that makes Sveta's heart ache. And in that moment it all becomes clear, like a sudden moment of awe at how tall a wave is before it crashes down on you. Sveta's hands palm over his shoulders and up his neck, fingers tangling in with his hair, as Vanya leans into her, their lips meeting in a kiss of sweet agony. In a past life Sveta had stolen kisses with a local boy in town, a delightful aspiring poet as lost as she had been. But this, this is so much greater than that serf had given her; this is the kiss of a real man, pressure as he demands more, more, and Sveta holding his head close to hers gives all she can, a rough hand on the back of her bare neck.
She brings him pillows as he lays before the fire, blankets rearranged to give him some comfort during the night. Vanya's skin is still too cold for either of them to want to move him from the hearth.
Awkwardly she stands, watching him. She's aware that he's only in a clean chemise, that the servant had removed him from the soaked-through one when he'd asked her to step out; Sveta's seen him in it but never been in the room when he was so undressed. And here he is, laid out before her, his eyes watching her. It comes as no surprise when his voice asks, "Lay with me?"
With no hesitation, with no embarrassment, Sveta undresses, her eyes always to the fireplace. When she steps from her dress pooled on the floor in only her chemise and stockings, Vanya shifts, smiling and moving his arm to indicate she is to come lay under it.
Her hands play with the lines of his chest while his hands rub her back, their legs intertwined. His eyes are closed, his breathing slowing down. "I love you Vanya," she whispers and the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly.
The first day he is well enough to return to court the empress stops at them on her way through the room. She accepts Vanya's bow before her eyes fall on Sveta, her eyebrows raised in annoyance and something else before moving on. It is, Vanya informs her, a great victory.
They share a bed now. Sometimes Sveta is still sent away, so that her master may have his whores. She doesn't mind; she's not sure she's equal to the task anyway, of pleasuring him.
But in pleasing him Sveta seems to more than exceed, the spring having been spent out in the country where Vanya had filled many journals with poems and short narratives for her, dedicating each one to a once-peasant Russian named Svetlana Kireva Lagunov. For all their beauty she cannot appreciate them, watching him settle in beside her, Sveta on her stomach so that she may better take the Russian man in. At the foot of the bed the fire roars to ward off a chilly summer night. "May I ask too much of you Vanya?"
He grunts, shifting uncomfortably before settling in happily, smiling up at her and stroking a cheek. "You could never ask too much of me, my most beloved."
Fingers run down the exposed skin of his chest, Sveta's cheeks burning from embarrassment. "You must promise me something first." He nods, taking her in through narrowing eyes. "You must promise you will not think less of me for my request. I am of lowly origins and ashamed of it."
"And you know that I do not care," he interrupts, his fingers running through her hair. "One day I will take you to where I grew up and then you will see why I too understand the word humble. Do not fear Sveta, nothing will take from you any of my love or eternal devotion."
With a deep breath she closes her eyes, finally asking what her heart has always wanted to demand of him. "Will you teach me to read?"
He says nothing. Opening her eyes she sees him watching her, his face astonished and almost disgusted, but he says nothing.
"You had promised-" she begins lamely, feeling tears start as she sits up, pulling herself away from him. It had been too much, she shouldn't have-
"They didn't teach you." A statement, accusation. Sveta shakes her head.
"I have told you, they did not think you would like me very much so they did not waste that effort on me."
Vanya props himself up on his arms bent behind his back. "Do you not know any of the alphabet?" He sounds truly astonished.
"I can recognize," Sveta admits as she fiddles with her fingers, her eyes on them, "my name and once upon a time I could write it too, though not very well." A large hand covers her two smaller ones, Sveta's eyes coming up to meet Vanya's gaze. He takes a deep breath before asking his question.
"All those letters I wrote you? Did you even read them?"
"Yes!" Sveta answers quickly. "Yes! I- I'd have the lady's maids read them to me. I- I love your letters, Vanya," and her cheeks burn. "I am sorry."
"Stop apologizing," Vanya mutters, sitting and resting his back against the headboard. His free hand comes up to rub his face. "And yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes," he repeats, "I will teach you to read; we can start tomorrow."
"Oh thank you, thank you." Her hands bring his to her lips, kissing it over and over. Words! Letters! She could read what he'd written her, could pick up his books after he's retired to see what he had seen. She could read the Holy Bible by herself, or histories of Russia to perhaps try and better understand this man. Knowledge, she would have access to knowledge. Sveta almost cries.
"You are," Vanya starts and Sveta looks to him taking her in, his violet eyes bright and clear in the firelight, "so amazing."
By the end of summer she's learned half the letters, Vanya beside her, his lips trailing up and down her neck. He's making it awfully difficult to learn her next letter today, though Sveta finds she doesn't really mind the distraction.
Her hand trails up his thigh in response; she's learned more than letters from him, learned how to keep her face blank while she did this. It's more than they ever taught her, trying to train her to be a fancy whore. What Vanya had taught her was useful: about court, the way you spoke, the way you took revenge. In the process he'd also taught her how to more effectively drive him crazy.
He grabs her hand, pulling it further up his thigh to cup his erection through his breeches. With a gasp, her eyes closing, Sveta takes command and rubs him harder as his lips find her ear. "You do this to me," he breathes and his words are hot on her skin. "You and you alone." One of his hands finds its way up the bodice of her dress, fingers playing with where the fabric ends and her breasts are revealed. "Svetlana," he moans and she turns her head to steal his lips.
Back presses into chest as Vanya holds her tight, both Russians on their knees in the center of the bed. His hands hold hers as he shows her how to touch, trailing her hands up and down her body, cupping and rubbing and teasing.
Sveta throws her head back over his shoulder, the feeling too much as he takes over playing with her center. One of her arms comes up to wrap around the back of his head, encouraging his other hand to play with one of her breasts as she's brought to the edge for the first time by him. Involuntarily Sveta pushes into Vanya, rocking her hips against his hand as lips marks her neck. When she turns her head to kiss him it strikes, her whole body convulsing as she shivers in ecstasy, moaning his name. Vanya holds her steady until she comes down from her high, shifting their naked bodies to lay on the bed.
Out of breath Sveta lets him turn her over, kissing her and holding her to his chest. His lips smile against her skin.
And to think that this was the Russian Empire.
He packs quickly, lightly. In her hands Sveta holds a book and when Vanya turns, seeing her clutching it, he holds out a curious hand. "I am sorry ] my writing is not as neat yet as yours is," she whispers. His eyes sweep over the cover, fingers caressing the sides, before it too goes into his bag and the sack is closed. He'd always written her pretty things; now she could return the favor.
Turning he straightens his military uniform, an impressive thing on his impressive frame. Sveta runs her hands over his shoulders and down his chest one more time before he parts, to remember his warmth by when he's gone.
Four years she's spent with him, four years as his mistress. Her hands run behind his neck to pull him down into a kiss for him to take to the battle field, to remember the young, barely-literate peasant girl from near the border with Sweden that he's kept as his for four years.
"When I return," he mutters against her lips before kissing her once more, turning, and leaving the room with his head held high. Sveta watches him go.
She is to meet him in Moscow, the letter had read. He had to bare witness to an execution but after that…. Her heart races.
These chambers are larger than his in St. Petersburg though clearly older as well, the interior and furniture not as up to date with modern fashions and taste. Sveta doesn't mind though, sitting on a comfy chair and rereading his letter.
The doors open, Vanya entering while speaking with his servant who nods and leaves. As his eyes fall on her, Sveta rising, his face lights up. To his arms she runs, Vanya lifting her so that he could kiss her more easily, hands everywhere. Together they stumble through the connected rooms before finding the bedroom, the Russian man lifting her with ease to carry then throw her onto the bed.
Romantic, he's never romantic with the whores but here with her he is. Sveta rises to her knees on the mattress as he removes his jacket, stepping from his shoes. They pull clothes from one another, lips meeting and meeting again, before Vanya's pulling her chemise off and forcing Sveta to lay down on the bed while he pulls his own from his lean body.
For all their years together she's never actually been with him, Vanya taking her in from where he stands, naked, beside the mattress. She's seen him fuck his whores, she's felt him touch her though he never demanded that she touch him in return (that was what the whores were for, he'd told her, whores with their pretty things and useless hands; she was worth more than that, his beloved mistress, his beloved Svetlana), but they've never come together as one. Her hips move of their own volition at the thought.
His mouth falls to her skin, nipping and biting and kissing and loving all of it: the inside of her elbow, the space between her fingers, the ticklish patch of skin she has just beneath one breast. Sveta's hands run through his hair, over and over, as he gives her everything.
"I love you," the words keep tumbling from her lips and Vanya groans every time she says them. "I love you, I love you." Because she knows, and that's what makes her special: she's the first one to love him, to really love him, the way he should be loved. They had told her when training her that whores were not to fall in love with the men they serviced but then again, Sveta had never been that good at following all the rules. She had never been his whore.
His nose runs up her skin, between her breasts, before his face is just above hers, Vanya's purples eyes trying to take in every part of her face at once. He tries to speak but no words come so instead Sveta pulls his mouth to hers, kissing him as he pushes in to her. She screams as he groans.
In a light purple and green banyan Vanya recites passages from memory beside the window, Sveta doing her best to write it all down at his desk. Suddenly he stops and looking up she sees a handsome man, long blond hair and a short blond beard, standing at the door smugly.
"And who is this?" the man demands in perfect French, walking forward with ease before extending a hand for Vanya to shake. The Russian seems to eye the newcomer suspiciously before smiling, hugging him like a brother.
"This," the taller man finally replies, "is the woman I had written you about, my Svetlana."
"A pleasure," the Frenchman says, making a sweeping bow before the stunned woman who looks to Vanya for some clue as to what was going on. All he does is smile. "And to think I am standing in the presence of someone so powerful as to capture and ensnare a man such as Ivan Braginski. Francis Bonnefoy," and he takes Sveta's hand to kiss.
"France," Vanya mouthes and she rises suddenly to bow.
"It is an honor-" she starts before the man chuckles, stopping her.
"Nonsense, none of this here." Bonnefoy takes in the room before asking, "Why is everything so calm? This is ridiculous."
"Because," Vanya quips, "we have not yet created any mischievous." He winks at Sveta and with that she gets the distinct feeling that today will not be spent quietly practicing writing. Oh the servants would not be happy with them tonight.
In a small room off the corridor Sveta looks out a window, taking in the large fountain out front. When she hears someone enter, closing the door, she thinks nothing of it. "Can we go down to look at it later?" she asks in quiet Russian.
"If you'd like," a voice not Vanya's replies, a hand not his either sliding over her shoulder and down her arm. Flinching Sveta pulls herself away, turning to find some other Russian man eyeing her lustfully.
"Sir," she starts, torn between fear at what he could do and indignation that he would dare treat her like this, "you should not be here."
"Why?" and he steps closer, licking his lips. She'd seen him, across court, always acting the proper gentleman. Now Sveta could see the ugliness that truly laid beneath. "Should I be afraid of that man you whore yourself out to?"
"Do not speak as if you understand, for you do not!"
"Oh I do." Hands grab her shoulder, turning her and slamming her against a wall, his chest pressing into her back. Using his body as leverage his hands go back to her shoulders, running over the exposed skin. "Oh I do, and I'll tell you something else: you and that man really need to learn your place in Russia-"
With a bang the door to the room slams open, Sveta pressing into the wall in fear as the man behind her is ripped away. She stumbles sideways, out of danger's path, as Vanya slams the unwanted advancer against the wall, screaming in Russian she's never heard, Russian that's old and forgotten but not to the man named Braginski.
Wild eyes turn on her then, Vanya's hands around the man's neck and Sveta is too horrified to look away as he screams, "Did he touch you? Did he touch you‽" Her master looks so lost, so hurt and angry, like a dog that's been beaten all its life and has now finally won the chance to attack its abuser. "Tell me Sveta!"
"Stop it!" She flies to him, so little strength in her arms as she tries to pull him off the weaker man. "Stop it, Vanya, you can't kill him, stop, stop!" But he won't relent, his gaze hard and determined as he chokes the man clawing at his large hands. "Stop, you can't, I'm begging you to stop Vanya, stop!"
Suddenly he relents, releasing the man and stumbling back, blinking at his hands as if he had just awaken from a dream where someone else had had control of his body. The other man flees in the moment's calm.
Those violets snap up to Sveta, her body shaking, and when Vanya steps forward she backs against the wall, shaking her head. "Don't touch me," she breathes. "Don't you dare touch me."
Defeated. He looks defeated.
"I-" he starts, eyes dead as he stares at the floor. Vanya slouches in his chair; Sveta sits straight and proper at the keyboard's bench. "I lose myself, sometimes. I am… truly sorry, that you had to see that, Svetlana Kireva."
"If I had not begged you," she asks, "would you have killed him?"
His silence is his answer. Sveta retires to bed alone, Vanya spending the night in his chair. She cries.
The servant bows out of the room, leaving Sveta to take in the two women already present, sitting and whispering quietly to one another. At the intrusion they had looked up; now they speak quietly once more, and Sveta knows they're whispering about her.
To the left is the older looking of the two women, her hair a deep gold that's been braided back and pinned as if a crown around the back of her head, a blue ribbon the same color as her eyes weaved throughout. Her dress is a beautiful gray-blue, silver trim on the cuffs and edges, though there does not seem to be enough to cover her rather impressive chest.
All of which contrasts the woman on the left, her long blonde hair more silver like Sveta's master's and decorated with pearls and sapphires, a large white bow crowning the whole look. Her deep blue eyes pierce Sveta who vaguely registers that her purple dress is no longer fashionable in its cut by a few years, and that her stockings peeping out from where her skirts have risen with sitting are black instead of white like the other woman's. Yet Sveta would say that this one with her cold, harsh gaze was the more beautiful of the two women.
Tender fingers fall on her arm, Vanya being careful in how he touches her since the incident the month before. "Sveta," he whispers, pulling her further into the room, "I would like you to meet my sisters."
"Sisters?" Sveta wouldn't have thought someone like Vanya, someone immortal, would have sisters.
"Da. This is Irina, Little Russia-" the older looking woman bows to her, smiling warmly "-and this is Nataliya, White Russia." The second one barely looks at Sveta. "Sisters, this is Svetlana whom I wrote you about."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," the one named Irina says, standing to take Sveta's hands in hers. "Our brother speaks very highly of you."
"I suppose then you are Great Russia," Sveta asks of Vanya who nods.
"I fear I may not be worthy of the title," he concedes, walking to the window.
"You are more worthy of it than any other man," Nataliya interrupts, fixing her skirts and turning in her seat so that she was better facing her brother.
"You flatter me too much Nata."
"And how," Irina cuts in, "are you finding St. Petersburg?" Sveta smiles.
"It is very lovely, thank you. Your brother takes excellent care of me here."
"Not care enough," Nataliya interrupts again, "if other men are trying to take you from him. Did you kill him? The man, did you kill him?" she asks her brother.
Ashamed of his previous actions Vanya looks at his feet as he answers, "No, Nata, I did not." The woman scoffs.
"He touched what was yours; you did not hesitate in killing the last man."
"That one ruined you!" Vanya snarls, his grip on the window sill tight. Irina pulls Sveta a little bit closer, holds her arm a little bit tighter. "He ruined my baby sister and no amount of begging would ever forgive that sin." If anything Nataliya's face had lit up as her brother's anger boiled over.
"There there, dearest," she coos, not in the least bit frightened the way Sveta is. "All will be well for you." Her smile is dangerous as it passes from Vanya to Irina and Sveta.
In the evening Irina catches her, smiling. "I wanted to thank you."
"For what?" Sveta asks, leading the way to her master's chambers.
"For how you delight my brother," the woman smiles brightly. "You never knew him, of course, before you entered his life, but he was not so happy a man. You changed him, very much for the better."
"You do give me too much praise I think," and the woman laughs.
"I took care of them, Vanya and Nata, when we were small. I had to raise them all by myself. Nata was always too young, so Vanya was the one I was closer to. He has many hidden talents that perhaps only I know." They pause outside the door in. "He was always so alone, my Vanya," and the woman's eyes gloss over as she remembers. "No one could comfort him, no one could give him the love he deserved. Nata is obsessed with him and I will admit, I am drawn to him too though I should not be so dependent on him after all that has passed in my land.
"But he is different," Irina finally arrives at, "surely you must know that."
"I do," Sveta concedes.
"Then please-" a hand falls on her shoulder "-forgive him. I know he must have frightened you, and rightly so, but I see it in your eyes when you look at him. He makes you happy and you him. Forgive him?"
She finds him in his room; for the last month Sveta had been sleeping in her old room. Tonight will be different.
The door makes a soft sound as she closes it behind her, Vanya's eyes snapping up to take her in. He smiles sadly. "Hello."
"Hello." She steps to him, letting her robe fall from her form. "I have missed you my dearest Vanya." Her hands smooth down his neck as they both stand in only their chemises. "Have you missed me?" she teases, knowing the answer.
"So much!" and his arms pull her to him, gripping her tightly. He kisses at her hair, over and over. "I am sorry for scaring you."
"You protected me. You've always protected me."
"You are all I have," and his eyes are lost as he holds her face still. "When I'm with you I feel complete, like I'd been living only half my life until I met you."
Her heart pounds in her chest. "I will never leave you."
"Promise me," and he sounds desperate, "promise me you'll never leave me."
"I would do anything you ask of me Vanya. Anything."
The first thing that happens is she is renamed, from Svetlana Kireva Lagunov to Svetlana Pyotrovna Alkaev.
After that Vanya wins her a noble title from the empress. It's a low title with only a little land out near the border with Sweden , but it includes the land her father's house had once stood on and that's all that matters to her.
Then, in the garden and with the empress's permission, Vanya proposes. Sveta could die right in his arms and she would have led a full life.
His lips trail down her neck, his body moving over her back as she lays in bed. "I am trying to read," Sveta protests but that doesn't stop him.
"But I want you." Since the proposal Vanya has not had any whores; she knows he does it for her.
"Let me finish the page first?" He relents, laying on her back and kissing between her shoulder blades.
"I was thinking about the wedding," Vanya admits when she puts the book on the table, his hands sliding up and down her sides. "I imagine you will not object to this but I thought we could have something small."
"Please," Sveta moans, rolling over in her master's hold. "I don't want a big wedding, I don't want to feel the pressure of all of court watching me." He smiles.
"The empress was upset when I told her the same thing, but she conceded in the end since I am who I am."
"What will that make me?" Sveta muses and Vanya quirks an eyebrow, not understanding. "When we are married, what will I… be?"
"My wife," he says as if that was obvious.
"Da," and she rolls her eyes, "but I meant-"
"Oh!" He sits slightly, pushing her legs to one side of his body as he rests on his legs. "I understand. Da, well that was what I had discussed with the empress. While there are no laws dictating anything about who I can and cannot marry, Catherine would prefer to keep this all quiet."
"I am fine with that." Vanya nods.
"So I had anticipated. I do have the right to call the emperor my brother and the empress my sister, however Catherine made plain that she will not be extending that courtesy to you." The man sighs deeply. "She does not like that you were born a peasant."
"Good thing I am not marrying the empress then," and that makes him smile, Vanya leaning down to steal a kiss.
"A very good thing indeed."
The house stands empty, it's front door just as crooked as the last time Sveta had seen it. Vanya stands behind her, saying nothing.
"I was so ashamed, for so long, of where I came from," she finally admits. With no one around to see he wraps an arm about her shoulders, pulling her to his chest and kissing her head.
"Now you will never need to be ashamed again."
Suddenly something comes to Sveta's mind, something that she thought nothing of at the time but had found rather poetic. "You once told me, that whores had little more than pretty things and useless hands. What did you mean?"
"I meant just that," he says, eyebrows brought together, his purple eyes searching her for some deeper question.
"Da but there was something else there."
He shrugs. "A whore is paid; I have little respect for them. They may be beautiful, they may be talented, but at the end of the day what they do they do for power and material goods. They have never worked a day in their life, their hands are useless upon their bodies. They would speak to me as if they understood me.
"They understood nothing."
After several minutes Sveta speaks. "I understand." She nods to the house. "I grew up here, I- I was fated to spend my life here, until they came and took me away. My father- my father had not wanted me to go but Mama convinced him I must, that I would have a better life, that I would not starve to death like my brother had."
"I did not know," Vanya quietly interrupts.
"They did not like me, the other women, and I never understood how I fit in among them. I didn't; they were beautiful, or clever, or at least had large breasts. I am plain and uneducated and this-" she gestures to her small chest.
"Yet you will be the wife of Russia," he whispers in her ear, "and they will be forgotten. Whoever took you saw something special in you; for that I must be thankful."
"Is that why you have kept me? For five years, is that why?"
Her eyes take him in as he steps around her, his hands falling on the rough fence, his whole form seeming to take in their surroundings. "You rarely ask about my life beyond this one, beyond being an imperial nation. I was born onto a farm like this many centuries ago; that never leaves you Sveta." He turns to take her in and he's different in a way, no longer an empire but now a true Russian man. "You and I are different from the court; we come from humble beginnings and appreciate how good we have it. That never leaves you, those memories, those fears." He steps forward, stroking a cheek. "I knew if I did not keep you they would send you back, to here. I could not let that happen, not when I could prevent it. It is my greatest regret that I cannot save all my people."
Sveta's heart knows every word he said is true.
"The Church said no," he informs Sveta as she enters the room, Vanya laying with his head upside-down off the side of the mattress.
"If you told them I was pregnant would they say yes?"
"They know I cannot impregnate anyone," the Russian replies flatly. Sveta pauses in removing her outer layers to turn and ask,
"Is that true? You really can't?"
"Sadly," he mutters. "I want children too."
"Were I able to give them to you," she starts, walking to him in her chemise and settling in on the bed beside him. "Why did the Church say no to our marriage? The empress said yes, surely if she approves they can."
"They say I am too old for you."
"How old are you?" Sveta knows the number will be large, much larger than any mortal man was capable of; she's seen the paintings.
One of his hands threads in with one of hers. "Let us just say," Vanya sighs, "that I am too close to one thousand for the church to feel I can properly marry a twenty-two year old woman."
She rides him tonight, her first time on top. Vanya's hands on her hips assist, Sveta's head rolling, her hair tickling her back. When he sits up, his mouth falling on her breasts and licking her nipples, Sveta comes around him. They roll and he joins her with a few more thrusts, collapsing on her chest.
"Six more days," he whispers against her skin, her fingers in his soft hair.
Vanya looks stunning in his rich gray jacket and breeches, silver accents matching his silver hair. In contrast Sveta's dress is nearly all gold, a gift from Irina with a matching gold tiara from Nataliya that sits nestled in Sveta's curly brown hair. What a sight they must make she thinks.
After they leave the small church, ceremony over, Vanya pulls her aside, Sveta's heart finally beginning to calm down. "I was afraid I was going to pass out," she admits and her husband laughs.
"I was afraid you were going to too." He kisses her lips hungrily. "Gospozha Braginski," he adds for good measures. Mrs. Braginski.
"Forever your Gospozha Braginski," Sveta giggles against his lips.
In the portrait she looks so much more beautiful than she feels: her hair tumbles down her back, her waist is thin, her shoulders pale, her eyes sparkle.
"It's perfect," Vanya informs the painter, her husband's arms wrapping around Sveta. Now this too will hang in the portrait gallery.
Forever.
Portrait of a Beauty, 1776
Svetlana Pyotrovna Alkaev (Светлана Пётровна Алкаев) [1754-1782], born Svetlana Kireva Lagunov (Светлана Кирва Лагунов), was the wife of an important Russian member of the imperial family during the rule of Catherine the Great. Despite her humble origins Alkaev rose from peasant to noblewoman in her own right by the age of 21. Her journals and letters left behind leave the only real evidence of her existence beyond this painting, saved by a member of the White Army during the Russian Revolution and sent to Paris. In letters to and from her husband that survive she is referred to as Sveta (Света). Her husband has never been identified.