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1446 words! Put under a cut for convenience.


Things to Note: Oscar Wilde would use dialogue to critique and satirize the society of his time. He used his secondary characters to characterize his main characters (there’s a lot of “character” going on in this sentence). He was also a master at being subtly witty and humorous, so I tried to take a cue from him. I wanted to use the descriptions and dialogue of unimportant characters (except for Cassius, of course) to emphasize Katerina’s differences and foreignism. How she’s this unyielding force that does not fit well into the new land she’s been forced to inhabit. I’m also trying to be amusing.

I noticed that non-native English speakers don’t use contractions in their speech. Hence why Katerina sounds so formal all the time.

Inspired by this photograph.

943 words. So close!

This doesn't make much sense. I think I was trying to work out some more history between Grisha and Katerina, then Cassius had to be included (because, hello, I can't ever ignore him) so it's just a bunch of randomness that flip flops back and forth.

-



In Russia he stands against the iced horizon; he is mountainous. The solid square cut of his jaw, the way he takes you by the waist without pretense and full of expectation, claiming territory to the land that is you. He does not whisper. He does not speak much (he may speak more now, but then so do you) at all, only covers the stretch of your stomach with his large palm, his fingers warm and smelling of the horses.

“A child?”

You find your voice too severe. The wind catches it but does not make it softer. “No.”

Grisha has the expression your father wears often – a mix of perplexity and disappointment. His jaw tightens and you touch your fingers to the spot nearest his neck. “What did you do?”

“What I chose to.”

“And you had me learn about your condition through household gossip?”

“Better than hearing it from the dogs.”

You are unfit for motherhood. You are unfit for your station, crippled and bound by the apex between your thighs, designated a worth by your womb. You would spit on your fate if you had the chance. Only this country seems appropriate – its desperate wildernesses and cold terrain, its perseverance.

But all things change.


-


Cassius has his feet on your desk.

You scald your mouth on the fresh coffee a servant brings while absently tracing designs on parchment paper. Your hair smells like fruit from an afternoon in the orchard and you feel dissatisfied, thinking of polite conversation and the withering glance of a mother that is not yours.

“You could marry me. It might simplify things.” He plucks fresh grapes from a bowl, their coldness and fragility smooth between his fingers, sounding bemused. He uses the same tone after drinking too much wine.

“For who? One of history’s greatest Queens never married, and she was perfectly capable.”

“Yes, but you are not a Queen.”

You scoff and form a curving line into the branch of a willow tree. “If I was I’d order the end of this dreadful conversation. Besides, imagine how boring married life would be. We’d be taking all of the sin out of our arrangement.”

Cassius laughs though there is a tinge of exasperation to the noise. He is tired too you realize – more worn out and threadbare than you are and, for a moment, you think he will leave. He will take himself away from you and it won’t be for himself but as a punishment to you – for your selfishness and brazen disregard of the necessity that he is. You have done this, you notice, you have brought him single-handedly to a position he does not favor.

Pointedly, you place down your graphite and paper. (You sketch constantly. Even without an instrument your fingers trace designs.) “Do I displease you, my Lord?”

“Relentlessly.”

You laugh. Short, heavy, full of winter spirit. “A marriage proposal would not change that.”


-


Grisha scrutinizes you, and you feel bare. Unaccustomed to it, you pull your wrap closer around your body. The hour is late, the night is cold, and the fire is dying. Your estate is becoming a graveyard.

“Leave with me.”

“I cannot.”

“Staying is futile. The fighting is increasing. You cannot last another winter without – “

“I am leaving, Grisha. I am just not leaving with you.”

He is silent. The fingers of his right hand curl in towards his palm, and you think he wants to be holding the reigns of some warhorse rather than sitting in such dreariness. Battle suits him. Discipline, regimented hours, the handling of so many beasts amongst gunfire. He is wasted here, no matter the amount of gold (and there is not much now) her father offers.

“Where is he sending you?”

You open your palms, smirking. “The New World, so I may be lost there and no longer a burden to him. The way you might send baggage, also, I might add.”

“Then I must leave with you.”

You shake your head, milk-skin bright in the darkness, and push aside your heavy hair. He belongs here more than you do, but it is more than that. You, simply, are not worth any man’s devotion. You could not bear to be followed, could not be trained or learn to trust like a faithful mare.

“I cannot endure you.”

He laughs. It is so loud that the dogs stir, whining.

It feels like you’ve broken a bone but worse because, for some reason, you wanted this to happen.

-


In bed you trace his hip with your nails. Cassius kisses your eyelids.

A compromise, you think. The admission of tenderness. You tell him that your mother died in childbirth, that your father never forgave you for not being a son, and that he dwindled his estate on poor investments. You do not tell him that he died during a period of civil unrest – it does not matter. Instead, placing a hand on his chest and touching at his collarbone, you tell him that he should have been there then. Should have known you, should have been the first to take you and unbridle you.

Cassius has a twist of scar tissue along the collarbone you touch. He tells you it’s from his father. Tells you that he wakes some nights thinking he can still hear him hollering, still hear the pounding of his cane. He tells you that he abhors snow but he would have found you, even in all of that isolation, but that he abhors this more – these revelations between them – because he thinks you will use them as knives later, meant to cut and harm.


-

My stepmother has switched all of the house-freshener scents to holiday smells. Our coffee creamers are even holiday flavored. As a result, I felt like writing some various fluffy holiday moment with a few characters. Except Henry and Penelope's is just fluff, but we'll assume it's set during the winter.

I'm too lazy for a cut.


-



After the leaves change, the temperature drops dramatically.

Addison covers her neck in warm scarves, red berry-colored for the season. Each night Mischa has to unwrap her like a present till the stretch of her pale throat shows, the life vein sweetly taunting. She asks if she tastes like gingerbread and powdered sugar, peppermint mocha, or eggnog.

She asks him for a fire while winding candy-canes into the branches of an oversized tree. It barely fits in her apartment. When he searches for matches and kindling, Addison stares as though disappointed. “You can’t just make one?”

“… I am making one.”

“No, with your mind, I meant.”

Mischa’s voice breaks. “Where do you get these ideas from?”

“Anne Rice. True Blood.”

“Mortal fancy.” He teases while almost getting chimney soot all over the palms of his white hands. “You probably think I sparkle too.”


-


Emere taps her foot against the floor. One hand dramatically on her hip and the other holding a martini, she stares at the stove.

“You have to turn it on. Preheat it.” Brando explains from his vantage point at the counter. Maine sits next to him, and she keeps hitting his ankle with her cold toes. She smells a little like pot and vodka and warm sugar cookies.

“Yes, thank you for the obvious statement.” Her hair has gotten too long, her brother notices. It falls far down her shoulders, scraping the middle of her spine. It’s almost as dark as the turtleneck she’s wearing, and he can tell that it’s cashmere without touching it.

Maine lights a cigarette. “C’mon hot stuff. I’m a hungry, hungry hippo.” She almost snorts from her own amusement; Emere hears it and snicker-scoffs, accidently swishing vodka from her glass when she turns to face her two guests.

“… Did any of us actually bring food to cook in the stove?”

Brando rubs his forehead, but Emere thinks she sees him grin. The tightness of his shoulders could be silent laughter. Maine hums with thought then shakes her head. “Nope, no ma’am. Not enough room for a turkey in my purse.”

“Right. I have uppers in my fridge. We don’t cook those.”

After a moment, Brando scoots his chair back and reaches for his cell phone. “How’s Chinese sound?”


-


Katerina’s skin is frozen, but she turns her face up to the wild night sky. The deep blackness above that is dashing down snow. It gets caught in her thick hair, in the fur around her shoulders, melts against the fabric of her dress.

“You’re going to catch your death out here.” Cassius flips his collar up closer, suppressing the desire to shiver.

“Impossible. In Russia we would have been blanketed by snow already. Your American winters are as weak as your American blood.”

“With my blood being the exception, of course, darling.” He kisses her hair when he steps close, and she laughs, curling against his arm and sharing the heavy weight of her fur.


-


Penelope curls deeper into the warmth of the bed. It’s feather soft now that she made Henry change the mattress.

It’s hard to see much more than a tangle of blonde hair. The blankets are less of a problem, but three Great Danes have sprawled themselves around her, breathing loud and forming a visual blockade.

Henry rubs his jaw. He needs to shave. It’s not much of a concern at the moment though since he’s more focused on trying to reclaim his side of the bed. He whistles softly, snaps his fingers. One of the dogs lifts its head and wags its whip-strong tail. The other two glance but look at him unconcernedly.

He sighs. Those dogs used to really be something, a monument to his patience and dedication, as loyal and ready to serve as any hellhound could be. Until Penelope spoiled them with treats and too many afternoon naps. His wife. Ever the unexpected interruption of his structured life.


-

I was going to do more with this, but I ran out of steam. And got distracted by conversing with a certain someone

Katerina and Cassius with a teeny blip of a mention of Grisha.

-




He comes back, comes home, comes to her.

Two weeks of him handling his estates, his investments, his life that is unconnected to her. Vast and different.

Katerina wants to sketch him first. It is a ritual, by now. She has papers of him – inks and charcoals and watercolors – from every time he’s ever returned. Documenting the subtle changes of the days: dirt beneath his fingers, longer hair, dry lips, or a shadow of beard across his jaw. This time, there’s a bruise across his ribcage, mottled and purple. An accident with a horse, Cassius tells her, his eyes like pellet holes in his face, dark. He drinks three fingers of scotch while she stares at the bruise, thinking the palm of her hand could cover the majority of it.

“Could you come here, zaichik?” She asks, placing the parchment down.

“Have you missed me?” Cassius starts walking to her before he speaks, though, does exactly what she tells him to, even when he’s a bit unsteady on his feet. Drinking more scotch and trying to smile. “Or you were entertained by your friend?”

“Which friend?”

He scoffs. “The mammoth one.”

Katerina laughs, but it sounds similar to a hiss. “How much have you had to drink?”

She finds his American arrogance endearing, so she does not mind it when he won’t answer her. He comes to her chair, slinking into the air around her, making a cage for her when he places his hands on the arms and leans forward. Katerina presses herself firmly against the cushioned back, but only to get a better view of his face, then she lays her hand over his ribcage. Glances down with her pear colored eyes, smiling slowly. One slight slip of her fingers, and, yes, she was correct. Her palm mostly covers his purpled skin.

When she presses on it, Cassius inhales sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He’s a lean man, wolf-like with the cunning to accompany the physicality, and she can almost feel bones. He surprises her, though, when he leans into her hand. So Katerina keeps pushing, not scratching or digging, just feeding pressure against his ribs until … until … She searches his face, her teeth white when she grins with victory because, there, now, the pain melts into desire.

The harsh lines around his mouth relax, he lets his eyes close, and then she kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

More writing! Because this came to me kind of on a whim and I had to. Thanks to my Muffin for the support and encouragement.

Cassius meets Grisha. Ooh la la.

(  ...  )

Katerina and Grisha. Working on their backstory.

It just ends, because I can never seem to create an ending point. That's extremely frustrating, mind you, and something I intend to eventually work on. But not tonight.

The horse breeds mentioned are, of course, Russian breeds. The term golubushka means "dove" and is specifically used to/for a female.

( ... )

I just had this horrible experience with a pregnant spider outside my door. It was horrifying in every way possible. But besides that, here's a little bit of old-timey Katerina and Cassius. In my mind, she's been modified and upgraded from her previous state and, while I still need to work out new details since her lady-love is no longer in the picture, I think this faired okay enough.

Things to note: this is intended to be before Cassius leaves her and finds her in the arms of some woman. It is, however, supposed to hint on that occurring in the future. I kept it with Cassius sort of already being her patron, mildly informally now, though he (if memory serves) is certainly that role later on. Also, russians use animals as terms of endearments (zaichik means hare and is actually relatively common for affectionate nicknames). Lyubimy means beloved. Lastly, I can't remember where this was supposed to take place. I knew it wasn't Russia, that Katerina came from there, and I didn't think it was Europe ... but then America didn't sound right either. Still, I just stuck them in some nondescript place there. I also assumed Cassius was American then too.

--



The tea is strong, sweetened with black cherries. Your fingers taste like the fruit, stained from where you plucked them from the container, impatient and uncaring. There are wild mushrooms and succulent lamb dumplings. Well-chilled vodka that you follow with marinated herring and imported caviar. Pickled cucumbers and salo, the Russian bacon you love, ate raw. This is an offering - the foods of your homeland spread neatly.
His American tongue, you find, savors such delicacies.



“You smell like winter.” He says this with his mouth to your skin, his eyes dark. You want to paint him like this, the almost lazy, indulgent way he drapes his arm across your sharp hips. How his hair falls close to your thigh. There is nothing about him that demands you, but he seems to be weighing and valuing the experience. It shows in the quick, clear cut of his gaze. How he is not afraid to let his hand dip between your legs, his fingers stretching you and playing you as though you were the keys of a harpsichord.



His family disapproves.
Your family is buried in Russian soil.

You do not require his wealth but his reputation. An opening to this world of dreary colored skies and iceless grounds. The women here are simple – they use the same vocabulary to discuss politics as they do to discuss fashion. They know nothing of art, and the blunt way you have of speaking simple observational truths unsettles them. You could unlace each corset string and they would still be unable to breath in your company.
The men find you beautiful but it is a beauty unsuited for this culture. You are, at once, too simple and too elaborate. The drastic cut of your dresses, the way you go barefoot and unaccompanied across the lawn, the company you keep and the hours you favor.
“The problem,” he says, kicking his feet up on the table like a commoner, “is that you do not understand silence. Not in the way they would have you understand it.”
You open the pearl buttons of your gown. “So, teach me this silence.”
And he does.



“Zaichik.” You call him, humming it into his ear. Down the center of his spine when he is trapped inside your linens. You spell it on his skin, tracing the letters elegantly, till he is bristled and quick. Till the backs of his shoulders reveal your foreign thoughts.
But you infuriate him as much as you bewitch him. You sleep late into the day and complain when he arrives, unannounced, seeking your attention. “If this were Russia, I would tell my servants to lock the doors. Leave you in the snow to freeze.” You never clean, and you distrust your staff so that, for days, plates clutter your rooms. Glasses of wine stained burgundy. Cigarettes burn the carpet. You throw whatever your hands can find at him. Once, you almost succeeded in tearing his eyes out (though he tells the story differently).
In a year, you are engaged.
The ring is heavy and cold. “To remind you of my family’s disapproval.” He says. Naturally, it is a perfect choice.



There is a book of poetry on the parlor floor. His feet knock into it. The pages are worn, but he recognizes the words from all the early morning dawns where you sat and read them aloud. You in your snow-skin and a massive fur wrapped halfway around your body, as intimate as he had ever seen you. Never cold but always seeking the shelter of animals.
You are less intimate when he looks up but the air in the room is the same. Louisiana humidity and reckless emotions. It crawls down his neck, slickening the collar of his shirt, making him feel foolish. It’s the uneven pallor of your skin, the awkward fall of your dress, how your eyes stare too directly into his. The servant, a pretty fresh thing with auburn hair, stands too close to your chair and does not raise her eyes from the floor. He feels like a stranger, suddenly, but he places the book on the table as though he knows every inch of this room. Every shadow and every deceit.



“Lyubimy.” You whisper, cream-sweet and the crush of your body beside him.
But he will not hear you.