Chapter Text
Winter of 1732 - Russia
"Every man desireth to live long, yet no man would grow old," read a young man as he draped his drowsy sister's golden hair over her face. She had hair like spun gold, long enough to brush the floor when she knelt, and wore a flowing white gown trimmed with fine lace. Both their eyes were a piercing shade of blue, reflecting the cold winter light that crept through the tall windows of the Tsar’s palace in Saint Petersburg. Frost had painted delicate filigree on the glass, and the chill seeped through the thick stone walls, despite the roaring hearth where birch logs hissed and spit.
“Louis! I was listening!”
“I scarce believe that, and our father is near. Thou must call me William.”
“I am sorry.”
“That doth prove even more that thou wert about to fall asleep!”
“Silence! My slumber hath been poor of late; ‘tis difficult to find rest.”
“What troubles thy repose?”
“That,” whispered the princess, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. She spoke cautiously; in these palace halls, walls had ears, and delicate matters must be handled with utmost care.
They ought not to speak of it.
“We shall speak of it later, Charlotte.”
“William—”
“What is it?”
“There are whispers in the city. Is it true thou art to wed?”
“Hast thou ventured from the palace?”
“Answer me.”
Pain and weight—that was what the young prince felt at the thought of the answer he must give.
“Aye. I have not yet met her. She cometh from France.”
Louis knew only that her name was Lillian, and that she was said to be fair, gentle, and quiet. It was his duty to wed her, to continue the legacy of their house and maintain the fragile diplomacy of the Russian court.
Though he felt unready, he had turned twenty-one only a week past, and the vast machinery of palace life—ceremonies, political obligations, and endless scrutiny—weighed heavily upon him.
“Wilt thou leave the palace?”
“I hope I need not. I would not leave thee,” he sighed, braiding a strand of his sister’s golden hair between his fingers. The white silk of her gown shimmered faintly in the flickering candlelight as she sat before him. The chamber smelled of beeswax, old timber, and the faint resin of pine logs burning in the hearth. Tall shelves lined with leather-bound tomes and thick carpets muffled their steps, giving the room a hush that made whispered words feel almost sacred.
“Must I leave?”
“Pardon?”
“Must I marry, too?”
“Think not of that.”
“Mother saith I am now a woman, that I must depart,” Charlotte murmured, her voice soft as silk.
“What? What speakest thou of, Charlotte?”
“I heard her speak with Grandmother. She said it.”
“Thou art but fifteen years. It must be a misunderstanding. Trouble not thyself.”
“Promise I shall not be sent away, please, Lou.”
“I will speak with our mother. Thou shall rest.”
---
The Tsar’s hall lay at the far end of the palace; yet William made haste. He could not bear the thought that his sister might be given away so young. Princess Lillian was twenty; his sister scarce fifteen. Was that not proof enough? To condemn her to a life of marriage he could not abide. To be a prince, with each passing year, had grown almost a sentence.
Cold Russia, snow blanketing the marble floors of the palace corridors, and his urgent need to reach his sister proved a treacherous mix. The prince slipped upon a patch of ice, and would have fallen—had not a pair of steady hands caught him.
“Art thou well?” asked a voice, soft and firm.
“I am,” he replied, springing to his feet and adjusting his sleeves. “I thank thee.”
“Thou must take more care…”
Turning to offer his thanks, he beheld a youth not yet twenty, with chocolate hair that fell long, and eyes like emeralds—bright as the finest Russian jewels—and a face so innocent he seemed almost angelic.
“Oh! Where be my manners? I am Prince William. Thou must be the younger brother of Princess Lillian? I wist not that ye should arrive so soon.”
The youth looked bewildered.
“I…”
“What is thy name?”
“Harry, sire. I pray your pardon, but I fear ye have mistaken me for another.”
“Forbear?”
“William, what aileth thee?” asked his mother, stepping forward with measured tread, her skirts held with courtly precision, each movement echoing the elegance and discipline of the Russian nobility.
“Oh—I was—” he began.
“Pray forgive me, madam, your son almost slipped on the ice; I found him in time,” Harry replied.
“Mark thy place, boy. Interrupt not thy prince. What saidst thou, child?” she asked Louis.
“What he hath said, I meant to say the same,” Louis murmured, lowering his voice so only the lady might hear. “Wilt thou be gracious, mother?”
“Servants must ken their station, William. Come; I would seek thee. Princess Lillian is present. Thy services here are no longer required—away with thee.” She commanded Harry, who bowed deeply and departed.
Louis could not help but feel a pang of pity for the lad. What devilry was this? Why should he pity a servant? Such was their lot; they had chosen it. He smothered the feeling, smoothed the collar of his shirt, and, arm in arm with his mother, they paced the long corridors toward the great hall.
“Mother, there is something I must ask thee.”
“What troubles thee?”
“Must Charlotte be wed?”
“Assuredly; ‘tis her duty.”
“But she is but fifteen.”
“A fitting age. I myself knew thy father at that age.”
“Am I not enough?”
“Pardon? Why speakest thou of thy marriage as a penance? Thou art fortunate, William. Thou mightst be penniless in the streets, or a miserable servant; yet thou art here, poised to be the next Tsar,” his mother replied, striving to maintain elegance in every word.
William admired how his mother could wear authority as others wore cloth, even whilst she would have scolded him for speaking thus. Her hair lay straight and black as a winter night; her eyes blue and commanding, like sodalite. He had inherited her eyes, though his hair came from his father—wavy chestnut tinged with auburn.
“I am sorry, mother.”
“Very well. Be courteous to Lillian; the fate of thy realm hangeth upon it.”
___
The great hall of the palace was ablaze with candlelight, its gilded walls reflecting the flicker across painted ceilings and tall windows frosted with ice. Servants scurried along the marble floors, whispering in hushed tones, while courtiers lingered in anticipation of the arrival of Princess Lillian.
Louis adjusted the collar of his coat, the weight of expectation pressing upon his shoulders. His mother, ever poised, guided him toward the raised dais where the French princess stood, attended by ladies-in-waiting and whispering aides.
And there she was.
Princess Lillian of France entered the hall as though the world itself were her stage. Pale skin, powdered to porcelain perfection; hair swept into impossible curls and adorned with pearls; a gown that shimmered with every movement, pale blue silk stitched with silver thread. She smiled faintly, the sort of smile that demanded admiration rather than offered warmth.
The courtiers bowed low. Louis inclined his head. She drifted forward, each step deliberate, measured, as though the floor should be grateful for her touch.
“Prince William,” she said, her voice lilting with a delicate French cadence. “It is an honour at last to meet my fiancé.”
Her accent curled around the words like velvet, beautiful and unbearable.
“The honour is mine, Princess,” Louis replied, his tone flat from restraint. Her perfume—rosewater and something sharper, like powdered sugar over steel—made his throat tighten.
Louis felt an immediate, inexplicable distance between them. She was beautiful, yes, more than beautiful, almost painfully so, but there was a chill in her gaze.
“Prince William,” she said, her French accent delicate, measured, polite. Too trained for Louis' liking. “I have heard much of you.”
“And I of you,” Louis replied, his voice steady though his chest tightened. He wanted to admire her, to feel the awe that others surely felt in her presence—but he could not. Something in her stiffness, her perfect poise, repelled him instead of drawing him near.
His mother beamed, oblivious to his inner distaste. “You will grow accustomed to each other in no time,” she said, her hands resting on the balustrade beside them. “This marriage is for the good of the realm. ”
Louis inclined his head. Courteous, yes. Respectful, yes. But affection? Interest? He felt none of it. She was a stranger, a symbol, a duty dressed in finery—and that was all she would ever be to him.
He kept his gaze polite but distant, aware of the whispered glances of the courtiers and servants around them. Every smile she offered felt like a rehearsal, every word a practiced note.
She reached out a gloved hand, not to take his but to allow him to kiss it. He bent forward, brushing his lips against silk, and felt nothing but the chill of formality.
When he met her eyes again, he saw it—something calculating behind the prettiness, the faintest flicker of a palace-sized ego. As though she already knew the effect she had on everyone in this room, and found it dull.
“You are different than I imagined,” she remarked, almost to herself, her gaze skating over his face. “But perhaps that is charming.”
His mother gave a small, approving laugh. Louis only straightened, jaw tight.
“I trust your journey was comfortable,” he managed.
“As comfortable as one might expect, when one is torn from one’s country for diplomacy.” Her smile was perfect, brittle as glass. “Still, the palace is lovely—so very… Russian.”
It was an insult wrapped in silk. Half the court didn’t even notice. Louis did.
He bowed. “We are grateful you find it tolerable.”
For a heartbeat, something sharp flashed in her eyes—interest, maybe amusement—before her gaze drifted past him toward the musicians beginning to play.
She was beautiful, yes. Exquisite even. But beauty like that was exhausting, a performance one was expected to applaud. Louis felt suffocated already, standing beside her.
He watched her turn away to greet another noblewoman, her laughter high and sweet as spun sugar. He wondered if anything real existed beneath that flawless surface, or if she was merely a doll—just another piece of the kingdom’s furniture, like himself.
He exhaled, forcing himself to focus on what must be done, not what he wanted. He would marry her, carry on the legacy, maintain the peace of the court—but he would not like her. He would not love her.