The news of the King's death swept through the palace and soon would reach beyond it, like a shadow across the empire.

Alexander turned an hourglass over and watched as the black sand within it began to fall steadily.

Now, the court had seven days of mourning before the people would expect a new tsar to be declared...

That didn't leave him much time.

He lit one candle, scribbled something across an odd piece of paper, and then sealed it with wax. After murmuring something to himself, he pulled a blade from his waistband and cut his ring finger, allowing a few drops of blood to stain the paper before he kissed it and then held it over the flame until it caught. Alexander dropped it into a pan to let it burn into ash.

From across the room, Pasha looked up from the boot he was busy shining, pausing only to eye his master's work for a moment before wordlessly going back to his own task.

"It'll be tea soon," Alexander said as he put on his coat. "I'll be back later."

"Shall I take the ash out with the water, then?" Pasha wondered casually without looking up.

"Leave that one until after dark," the lord instructed before exiting the room, out into the hall.

He wasn't particularly interested in tea, but it was a social obligation he couldn't miss, and he suspected there was at least one other person who found it as unpleasant as he did...

Over the past few days, Alexander had slowly started to put faces to the many names of the Tsar's extended family. Most, if not all, were life-long royals—born and raised in comfort, with very little to offer the world other than their pedigree. They enjoyed their luxuries, their self importance, and their social engagements... Except for the lowly aunt Raya.

No one spoke to her. No one sat with her. Everyday at tea, she had a table to herself in the corner, and that was the only time that Alexander had seen her.

This had piqued Alexander's interest.

What sort of person must she be to be so outcast by her own family, yet still dwell within the palace? But he knew better than to approach her at tea. Clearly, being seen with her was frowned upon; he couldn't imagine that asking to hear her story would be a less condemnable offense. But he wanted to know and, more importantly, he wanted to know from her—not anyone else.

So, he hoped that by setting out for tea early, and taking a different hall, that he might be so lucky as to catch her alone. He did catch something as he went, though it wasn't the outcast aunt that had drawn his notice, but instead, the not-so-hushed voices speaking in one of the side rooms...

"...And what else am I supposed to do? I've all but thrown myself at Ruslan's feet, and do you know what he called me? A friend! Hah! He'd sooner marry that goat!" the first voice scoffed, and though Alexander couldn't see him, he'd come to know his voice well enough to know who it belonged to—Nikolai Olafovich.

"She's just being difficult," the Tsarina replied. "She'll marry you. It's a good match."

"And very generous of you, Nikolai," Oksana added. "Things will change once the new tsar is named, and Ruslan will need someone to take care of him. He'll come to understand that. But these things take time and persistence. Isn't that right, Lisa?"

"Yes...yes, they do, and I can assure you, Nikolai, your perseverance in this matter won't be forgotten."

"Perseverance? I recall you assuring me that this was all just a phase years ago. We've far surpassed perseverance," Nikolai huffed. "And forgive my lack of faith, but when it comes to Ruslan, I think even the mountains themselves are less uncompromising."

Oksana sighed, shaking her head as she fussed with the ends of her shawl. "This will all pass, I'm certain of it..."

The Tsarina seemed far less understanding. Her tone had hardened. "Are you going to keep making excuses for yourself and continue to blame my daughter-"

"Whom you've known was ill," Oksana interjected softly, like the echo of a bell in a cave.

"Or are you going to get this done?" The Tsarina finished sharply. "I have no patience for men with excuses for their own inadequacies. You're a handsome young count. Handle this."

There was a long moment of silence in which Alexander imagined the undoubtedly sour looks passing between the two before Nikolai finally spoke.

"Fine."

His tone was charged with enough contempt to poison a bull, and though Alexander was curious to hear more, the sound of footsteps drove him onward down the hall before he was discovered.

He'd never really liked the way he looked in black...

It was all Ruslan could think about as Bernard helped him dress for dinner; that his father was gone, and that he didn't look good in black... It washed him out. Made his form look smaller...The detailing of the fabrics and texture from the stitching, all of it was swallowed. It wasn't flattering at all...

He anxiously spun the ring his father had given him on his finger.

"...Doesn't it seem defeating to the spirit, when you're already mourning a loss, to dress yourself as if you're going to be next to the grave?" Ruslan wondered aloud.

Bernard suddenly paused as he tried to hide the small smile that had crept onto his expression along with a laugh that seemed wholly unlike him.

"What?" Ruslan twisted to look at him—his displeased expression replaced with one of mild curiosity.

"It's just..." Bernard had to pause to keep from laughing before finishing. "So unlike you to have a problem with tradition." A small snicker left him before he shook his head. "Forgive me."

Ruslan's lips twitched, and a smile overtook his face too... Not really because of what Bernard had said, but because it hadn't occurred to him that Bernard would think about and notice things like that. Things about his personality... Consistencies. Like Bernard paid attention to them... Like he cared. Maybe he didn't, but still... It warmed Ruslan in a way that was difficult to explain.

Without thinking, Ruslan touched just under Bernard's chin with the tip of his finger, guiding him to meet his eyes so gently that it could be argued whether it'd even happened at all. "Bernard, you might know me better than I know myself. I should thank you, rather than forgive you. No one else has nearly the patience with me."

Bernard's smile had waned a little and he could feel his face heating up as his gaze connected with Ruslan's. For a long moment he was at a loss for words, unsure if the intimacy that he felt was the sort that came naturally from spending so much time everyday with one person, or if it was something more...damning.

Finally, he broke the silence by softly clearing his throat. "Then it is their loss," he assured.

Grinning, Ruslan looked away. "I'm elated to hear that..."

The warm, giddy feeling Bernard's claim had evoked stuck with Ruslan for the walk to the dining room, where dinner started with a procession passed the tsar's vacant place at the head of the main table.

It was customary for each member of the family to serve the empty space a portion of food or drink before returning to their own seat, to honor the recently deceased. It was bad practice to send a soul into the beyond hungry...

Ruslan was just behind his mother in line. Her golden hair clung to the beading and embroidery on the back of her gown as she moved, like fingers of silken spider webs creeping out from under her dark veil.

She didn't look good in black either. Nor did his aunts... In fact, the only one who the color did seem to suit, was Alexander...and Ruslan found it difficult not to stare.

But he wasn't alone in that struggle, it seemed. No... Ruslan caught many gazes casted towards the man from The Hollows, along with curled lips, and fluttering lashes. If Nikolai had been the luminous flame of a candle among all of these pretty moths, then Alexander was a blazing lantern. No—a pyre.

What Ruslan couldn't understand, however, was why. Alexander was undeniably striking to look at, a man at peak form, but Ruslan had hardly heard him utter a word to anyone since he'd arrived.

"Tomorrow, you will sit next to Nikolai when we gather," his mother said, jarring Ruslan from his musings.

"Why?"

The Tsarina gave him a pointed look, but no reply.

"...Why?" Ruslan repeated, fearing he may already know the answer.

"Because I told you to. You're not a child, and your father is-" To his surprise, she seemed to choke on the word for a second... "-gone... You need to start taking your future seriously."

Ruslan scoffed, glancing briefly across the table. "You mean I need to stay out of the way..."

"Stop being so selfish!" His mother's reply lacked the malice of her usual retorts, but that didn't mean she wasn't angry with him. Those eyes, that were normally like mirrored pools to his own, were rimmed in red and there were bags beneath them... She genuinely looked like a woman who'd just lost everything.

Guilt curdled his stomach... "May I be excused?"

His mother didn't respond, but past her, Aunt Oksana gave him a discreet, disapproving shake of her head.

Ruslan scowled, determined now to be a nuisance, though he couldn't really say why. "May I-"

"No." The Tsarina had answered far louder than what was necessary, and had drawn the eyes of several of the others at their table.

"Ruslan," Aunt Oksana said, trying to swoop in and play ambassador. Bless her. "I've heard you started a new painting. Why don't you tell me how that's going?"

With a sigh, Ruslan pushed around some of the chunks of root vegetables drowning in the deep red broth of his soup. "Well, I did start a new one... A portrait of Darya."

"Oh! That's wonderful." Aunt Oksana smiled at her sister, perhaps looking to encourage her to take interest, but Ruslan knew better. "Who's Darya, dear?"

"She's my goa-"

His mother suddenly stood, and Ruslan flinched as she snatched a fistful of the black fabric of his billowy sleeve, somehow managing to painfully pinch his skin with her claw-like grip in the process. "Go!" she barked as she wrenched him up from his seat and shoved him away from the table.

"W-what?"

"Go!" The chatter filling the dining hall ceased. "Go! Just get out! I can't listen to your infuriating prattling! Get out!"

"Lisa," Aunt Oksana tried.

"OUT! All of you! Get out! Get out of my sight!" His mother pressed her hands against her forehead.

The scraping of chairs and clinking of utensils and cups being deposited in a hurry created a short and terrible symphony, followed abruptly by the dozens of footfalls shuffling out, and succeeded only by the sound of the Tsarina's anguished, ugly sobs...

So~ any guesses as to what Alexander is up to? Any predictions?  >>;

Thanks so much for reading! <3