'I wish we had a miracle.'
They had almost run out of food. The cabinets were barren; the spices null. There was not even salt. No bread, no grain, nothing. Their stomachs turned to sick voids, their bones weak, their muscles limp. And each of them, even the ruler himself prayed.
And then the Austrian god answered those calls.
Perhaps only hers.
Ivan sat at his desk, looking through the helpless innards of that package. The letter to Elizaveta was found, a great bag of rice (something of a delicacy), numerous loaves of bread, however stale they might have been, pickled peppers, spices, meats that had been dried and preserved, and materials to make porridge. It was not the most luxurious of nourishment. But from weeks of fading meals, it was a god send, something that had been dropped from those heavenly golden clouds and took its refuge upon Mr. Braginski's desk.
The faux tsar examined each of those shimmering goods, rubbing his hands upon the forbidden supplements as though his powerful numerals were experiencing a golden woman for the first time.
One of those peppers was sampled.
Then the photo album was found.
It had taken sad residency at the base of that worn container, and Ivan knew the moment he laid gaze upon it that these pages were only meant for the Hungarian Queen's eyes.
So gently, he opened that grand volume and softly fingered those leaves. A note was written in handsome German on the back if the cover, which had been embellished in beautiful white lace. He did not understand those words, yet there was appreciation born. Roderich had taken his time to make that parchment slightly.
Then attention moved to the actual photographs occupying those ageing editions, a legion composed of pretty memoirs, their wedding day, their companions, that magnificent cake so many stories high. So many photographs contained Elizaveta, wearing that untouchable pearly dress and utilizing a smile that could illuminate a darkened horizon pregnant with stars. The light surrounded her as if she was a glowing deity, and not a single bitter remark could remove that glorious muse from her pedestal.
Elizaveta was beautiful.
Ivan dived through a few more of those enumerated memories, finding portraits of his darling idol in fantastic gowns and standing at the flank of her sweetened man. They looked right together, as though that pair had been constructed by God's passionate hands and dropped into one another's embrace. They were only missing wings lavish in unbendable manila feathers.
And when he passed those glittering works, he found the ones Roderich had photographed himself, and Ivan only knew because that Austrian's appearance was not evident, yet the woman still wore bliss upon her glowing expression.
The Russian man experienced their life amongst one another, all those gorgeous simpers and glistening instances, the Christmases, the birthdays, all those holidays drenched in rich perfection. The ribbons and pearls and utter pulchritude of their existence. The unfettered joy. All expressed in those moving frames.
The man grew jealous.
Not due to that glittering inhabitance of comfort and expense. No. Because the same form of love could not be shared between he and another. There was no true woman for him, although he was well aware of the one he desired. But Ivan could not be Roderich, and he was informed to that bitter truth in each of those photographs. He could not resembled the man; he could not dress as he did; he could not adopt spectacles; he could not place a pretty mole beneath his strange lips he could not decrease his size and he could not become Austrian; Ivan could not speak German and find the same accent Roderich used. He simply could not be the incarnation of all Elizaveta's hackneyed affections, which wore the one who carried them thin.
And it brought blood to intense conflagration. It devoured his heart and refused to return it. There were only ashes left to fall around him as mocking confetti.
The page was turned.
And the next.
And the next.
And then the proceeding several.
Until he reached the end. And even his face grew to something rosy, as though that towering man had been converted to the innocent boy who had yet to witness another's flesh.
The doll was covered beneath a layer of thin sheet, her chest exposed to light and her arms poised above her head, with those magnificent and glistening tresses strewn about the pillow beneath them.
She was nude.
Roderich likely took it as his gem was taking her morning, breaking from that realm of dreams and coming to the sight of her darling husband.
Ivan could not blame him for capturing such a shot.
Elizaveta was gorgeous. She was always gorgeous.
The album was closed and set amongst those numerous and stolen gifts. The starving man had forgotten they did not belong to him, taking up one of those old loaves and stealing a bite. It was not fantastic, but it was indeed nourishment and suddenly, Ivan realized how famished he truly was.
The entire edition of bread was devoured in sordid need.
And then Elizaveta was called.
It did not take her long to appear.
"What did you need, Ivan?" The voice was sweetened, and those gazes touched to the food stacked upon the surface, along with the letter and the collection of gorgeous and still occurrences. The emptied container as well. "Did you look through my mail? How dare you?"
"Elizaveta, I have to. Anytime someone gets a package, I look through it."
"Why? Did you look though my photo album as well?"
"No. I only removed it from the box." They stared at one another. The emeralds far more passionate than those poor sapphires Ivan possessed. After glancing through such joyous breath, it was hard to picture that lovely woman with such angered sight. "Listen you're going to share this…"
"Don't you tell me what I'm going to do with my mail. If I had opened it myself, I would have undoubtedly shared. But why should I? It's mine. When I'm out of my room do you go through my things as well? Thank you keeping us all safe by alienating me and from the looks of it, taking my food. I can see the crumbs on your clothing." The woman came forward, packing up her things inside that worn cardboard case.
"Elizaveta, stop it!"
"No!" The half full container was slammed upon that fine bureau. "You stop! If you want people to like you, then stop doing things like this!" The peppers were next to find inhabitance within that battered flat. "It's unnecessary!"
"Elizaveta!"
"No! Shut your mouth! You want someone to speak with, go fuck Natasha! I'm done listening!"The album and the envelope. "Since you already took my food, I won't be giving you anything when I make dinner tonight and I'll strangle that little bitch if she even tries to bring you a plate!"
The man did not mold comment, only observed as that woman exited either her package so brimming in exhausted flavor.
And then time dissolved anger as salt into water. Elizaveta used those materials in care, making sure that not too much of those grains expired within those pots and pans. Wasting necessity was utterly foolish, and a mistake one could not possibly afford. So those portions were limited, but there was not a single complaint. Those fragments of odd nourishment filled those stomachs as a feast, having been voided so very long.
They thanked her, and Elizaveta ridded hot blood of all her rage.
She brought Ivan a plate herself after enduring an argument with Natasha.
The man was found at the very same location she was left in, and the once angered goddess came in with soft feet and a kindly voice.
"Ivan…"
"Have you come to demean me anymore?"
"No." Those sols drew nearer, and the plate was set before that office slave. "I'm sorry. It upset me that you looked through my things, but it's alright. You forgave me when I disobeyed you, and you were kind…I'm sorry I yelled at you. You didn't deserve that, especially when you've been patient with me. So I apologize for my cruel words."
"It's alright, Elizaveta. I'm sorry I opened your box. I ate one of you peppers too."
"Well. You ate my food and I screamed at you and then we apologized. I forgive you. And I probably would have given you that much anyway. I'm not upset anymore." There was that glowing simper. "I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the ass. I don't mean to be."
"I know you don't Elizaveta. I'm sorry I upset you sometimes. I don't mean to make you angry."
"I know you don't, Ivan." The woman offered pursed and curling mounds. "Can we go outside sometime?"
"I'd like that…Thank you. And thank you for the food." A bite was taken. "Did the others eat yet?"
"Yes. They have."
"Then I'm going to eat downstairs for once. Will you come with me?"
"Yes. I will…Is that why you usually don't come down? Because the others are there?"
"In a way. It's awkward. I can feel that they don't like my presence there. But that's not important." The plate was lifted and stiffened joints cried in their movement.
"It might be different now."
"Don't worry about me, Elizaveta."
"We're friends, aren't we?" Not a single beat was left.
"I don't know. Are we? I'd like to be…"
"I think we are. And if you're going to be my friend, I'm going to worry about you. That's what I do when I'm not making your ears bleed." Elizaveta smiled.
"Do you really yell so much? At everyone?"
Laughter. "No. But it doesn't mean anything. I try not to hate anyone. Even Natasha. And I yell at her almost every time we speak. I even yelled at her today. But I already told you that I liked you."
"Do you still like me? Even after I stole you bread and ate a pepper?"
"Well, do you still like me? I used your phone even after you told me not to."
"Whoever said I liked you?"
A bite against that muscular arm. "Stop! You're going to hurt my feelings."
The Russian contained his mirth within illuminating cheeks. "Yes. I still like you, Elizaveta."
"Good you better like me."
Those two progressed down those winding steps, connection growing between them as knotting ribbon. There were those sweetened glances, the man admiring the gorgeous flower set at his very right. Ivan's heart grew evident within his heavy chest, and for the first instance in years, those beats were heard. That hated outcast finally found friendship and affection that held him as potent opium.
It did not matter that the siren occasionally cried and hollered in passionate protest. There was always a right to her conflagrations. Those maddened howls came in logic, and despite their existence, the donor could be honeyed as wondrous confections.
Ivan loved her all the more due to those short comings.
So they ate amongst one another, laughing, speaking and understanding. Conflict resolved and those fantastic rays finally destroyed the oppressive grey clouds constantly lacing that vindictive plane.
Ivan was happy.
And so was Elizaveta.
Either went to bed later that evening, phrase ringing within their minds. And they slept well. Dreams wrapping them in sugared embrace.