Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ruslan's gaze landed on his mother's hand; her ring, the source of the irritating sound, as she tapped it against the arm of her chair while she stared at nothing, much like he'd been before the disturbance yanked him back into reality...

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

A nervous habit—one of many that Ruslan had observed in the days since his father's illness grew worse, finally leaving him bed-stricken.

"He's so dreadfully pale, isn't he?" Ruslan's Aunt Raya would say. "Yes, horribly so," Aunt Oksana would reply, all whilst his mother, the tsarina, the empress, stared at his father with eyes unblinking and nearly bulging, like she thought she could somehow will him to recover. She was the tsarina, after all! Surely, that should matter—should give her some cosmic power in the eyes of the universe...right?

Of course not.

Ruslan knew that. He understood. Being a royal didn't spare you from many of the same ailments that struck down the poor and destitute. Riches couldn't buy immortality, or favor from karma. If it could, then Ruslan wouldn't be in the situation he was in... The last living child of the tsar and tsarina of the great empire, Gornayagavan'...

He should be considered the tsesarevich, the heir-apparent. But Ruslan was cursed. He was a prince born in the body of a girl...

"What about cousin Olaf?" Aunt Oksana said suddenly, leaning over the arm of her seat towards his mother.

"Cousin Olaf is only related by marriage," was the tsarina's sharp reply.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Mmm..." Aunt Oksana sighed, deflating.

Ruslan's gaze drifted around the decadently ornate room as he pushed his thumb into his pounding temple. He had one leg draped over the side of his chair, and over the other, he draped an arm. This was infuriating. Absurd. The whole court addressed him as, "Young Lord." The servants! The servants, they did as well... And he could marry a woman, if that was what appearances required. He'd marry ten, for all he cared!

But in the eyes of his mother and father, he was their daughter. He was born a girl and always would be such, and therefore, whilst his father wasted away in bed, and his extended family converged on the palace, they made themselves sicker anguishing over who would be heir to the throne. What had they done to deserve such a fate? What had he?

Nothing. Nothing that he could reason, anyway, and that was why it all seemed so unfair.

The crown was without a male heir, and here he was—male in all but body parts... Ruslan's finger twitched. His hand was starting to go numb from the way his arm was draped...slowly dying from a lack of adequate blood... He smiled at the irony.

"What could you possibly be grinning about?" his mother snapped, pausing her tapping to stand, and push her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, out of her face. Ruslan hadn't had long hair like his mother since he was ten.

"I'm not grinning," Ruslan replied, looking up at her. They had the same eyes, him and his mother. Pale, like the thinnest layer of frost hugging a damp field.

"You know...there is Cousin Vissarion," Aunt Oksana offered.

"He died," Grandmother croaked.

"Oh, what?" Aunt Oksana gasped. "Truly? When?"

"Two years ago."

"Oh," his mother sighed as though sorry for his loss. "...Who's cousin Vissarion?"

"Well, he's a cousin," Oksana said, as if that should be obvious. "What, twice removed?"

"Three times," Grandmother corrected.

Oksana nodded. "Oh, right. Three times, yes, but by blood."

His mother turned to face them, mouth hanging slightly open like a fish in desperate need of water. This whole situation with father, and the arrival of more family, had really diminished her elegance as of late... "Did he have a wife? Children?"

"Why, I think he did have a son-"

A contemptuous burst of laughter sprang out of Ruslan. It was so loud that it echoed within the sitting room and caused the women and attending servants alike to jump.

"What in heaven's name is wrong with you?!" his mother roared, closing the distance between them, and—SMACK.

A stinging pain blossomed across Ruslan's cheek and he was silent for only a moment, before sliding out of his chair and back peddling away from her before a few more chuckles left him.

"Oh, Lisa, be patient with him. It's the grief. He isn't in his right mind," Aunt Oksana cooed.

Bless her...thinking she's being of some sort of help.

"You're the ones not in your right mind! A third-cousin's son that you didn't even know existed?!" Ruslan balked. "You'd put him on the throne before me?"

His mother pressed her hand to her forehead, looking as though she would either vomit or faint. "Ruslan, we've been over this a million times—you cannot inherit the throne! You can't continue the family line!"

"I could bear a child!" ...Ruslan hated the taste of those desperate words on his tongue, but bitter as they were, it was the truth.

"And bring another into the world, possibly cursed with your illness?" Grandmother tsked, folding her frail, wrinkled hands, her lips curved into a shrewd frown. "No."

"No," his mother agreed, shaking her head. "Absolutely not. No. You've nearly killed me from the stress of your pretenses and demands that we all play along to placate you."

That was cruel.

Ruslan's hand lashed out before he could think better of it, colliding with the tray on the table nearest him, sending it somersaulting and clattering to the floor in a deafeningly loud display.

"Whoa!" Nikolai exclaimed as the tray slid past him on the marbled tile, the moment he'd entered the room. His handsome face was the only one not wearing a scowl...perhaps because he was the only one whose life would go on the same after the tsar's death. "I see everything is going well..." He didn't bother to mask the light sarcasm in his tone, but did continue before it had time to sour the conversation further. "Tea is getting cold. Mother wanted to know if any of you would be joining us, or if she should have the servants clear the extra cups?"

Lisa tucked her hair behind her ears and straightened her bracelets. "Yes, darling, of course we will."

"I'm not," Ruslan growled.

"Yes, you are," his mother demanded with a poisonous look before she, his aunt, and grandmother, passed Ruslan to follow Nikolai to the breakfast room.

Ruslan trailed after, looking every bit as happy as he actually was to be doing so. He wondered if he would someday bear permanent frown lines from this era of his life. It seemed distinctly possible.

Tea was one of the rare times that the entire family assembled, since most of the older family members took breakfast in their rooms, and most of the younger members went out to dinner parties and other social events in the evenings... But afternoon tea was family time, and it had all the uncomfortable disingenuousness that permeated most of their gatherings.

"How was your day, dear?" one would ask.

"Well, and fine," another would answer, just as detached and polite as strangers.

There were too many people and too many tables for any large or meaningful conversations to take place. Nikolai found it comparable to a painting. Everything was beautiful—but nothing ever changed. He spent this time chatting with his cousins about what parties he'd been to, or those he was set to attend, his new favorite fashions, the latest scandals... The list could go on.

Ruslan, however, was in no mood at all to chat about silly things or gossip. He had intended not to eat or drink as a display of his discontentment, only, after one small sip of his tea, he found it necessary to have another...and then one more, and then a few candied cranberries, and tea cakes... So...essentially, he'd been reduced to stress eating.

He chewed as he bitterly watched his cousins blather away, all of them girls, who absolutely adored Nikolai. Even though he was technically only a step-cousin, Nikolai folded into their social circles well through his effortless charm, and easily engaged in their commentary. Nikolai Olafovich Franz-Heinz... Son of Olaf Alexievich Heinz. Nikolai... At least he, too, was ineligible for the throne—a small consolation for Ruslan, knowing that Nikolai wasn't competition.

"Ruslana," his mother snipped, causing his hand to pause midair—midway to his mouth, with another tea cake. A powdered one this time. The first powdered one he'd reached for. Ruslan glared across the table at her. She truly was angry with him. She'd used his given name. The one associated with the tsarevna. "Don't be disgusting. You've had plenty already."

Ruslan's jaw clenched. "I'm still hungry..."

He wasn't.

Not really, but he just desperately wanted something to make him feel better. To alleviate his anger, his despair...something.

"You've been shoving your face full like a swine since we sat down. Stop it."

"Lisa," Aunt Oksana began.

"Don't defend her, Oksi! She does this on purpose to torment me, and I can't stand the sight of it!"

'She', now?

"You were the one who said I had to come to tea!" Ruslan balked. "What would you have me do?! Sit here staring at it, waiting for either any of you or the flies to eat it?"

"I'd have you act civilized!"

Miserable cunt.

The entire tea room had fallen completely silent, as everyone gawked at them. It was only a moment, though, before the hissing of hushed whispers returned to fill the void. Ruslan's face was on fire.

Aunt Oksana tried again. "Lisa?"

"What?"

"Have you put any consideration into what I said earlier? About inviting cousin Vissarion's son?"

The tsarina's irate expression was gone as quickly as a flicker of shadow in the candle light—morphed into the curious expression of a doe that'd heard something while grazing and had just lifted her head.

"Well, I...I should discuss it with my husband, but I don't see the harm in reaching out... Do you?"

"Oh, none at all," Aunt Oksana said. "We can find out where to send the correspondence to."

Grandmother chimed in now... "That part of the family was sent south east..."

"Yes..." Mother said, as if it were a detail she'd known all along, but had simply forgotten. "Yes, The Hollows..."

They continued on, but Ruslan had ceased to listen. Instead, he simply stared at the little round pastry still in his unmoving fingers, white, powdered sugar covering its soft surface, clinging to his skin where he touched it... It no longer appeared appetizing. It would no longer soothe any one of the things ailing him.

His mother had poisoned it with her malice towards him. He dropped the cake, but it left a thin layer of its powder behind on his fingers...like mildew or mold.

He wanted to cry. Wanted to scream.

But men didn't do such things. Such emotional outbursts were for emotional creatures...like his mother.

So, Ruslan bit his lip and silently retracted his trembling hand, wiping the offending powdered sugar off with his red cloth napkin.

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