![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Savor
Fandom: Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
Characters: Irina/Mirnatius
Word count: ~1800
Warnings: None
Notes: A treat for![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
illumynare for Yuletide.
The tsar, for about a week, regarded his wife with terror and awe. Then his customary sarcasm began, if shakily, to reassert itself.
He had no more magic to repair what ailed him, and no malign passenger to drag him however unwilling through the halls, and so, although he bore no serious injuries, he stayed in bed. It was on the edge of this bed that Irina sat, back from a day of playing tsar herself, holding out a spoonful of broth.
“I’m being hand-fed by the ruler of Lithvas,” he said. “How my fortunes have risen.”
“How can I be feeding you, if you won’t take anything?” Dear little Irina, grown implacable as a glacier, still held that offering in an unwavering hand, though the soup must be cool now. And did not contest that she was the ruler.
“What, am I your pet? Am I meant only to prettily accept your gifts?”
Irina smiled. It was a bland and unobjectionable smile, except that it was so cold. She was good at that. She had been born to statecraft. “Is that not what you wanted? To be free of all duty, and for someone to cherish you?”
He thought sometimes that he could like her, if he knew how to like people. To think she’d hidden that wit from him - from everyone - for so long. He straightened his shoulders importantly and tried not to let on that the jab had met its mark. “That’s hardly reassuring. You could just as easily poison me - then I’d be free of duty, and some people would cherish my bones. Or the opportunities they create, at the least.”
The smile vanished. She lowered the spoon back into the bowl. “Mirnatius. I would never hurt you.”
But why not, he thought, when he and Chernobog had made such concerted efforts to hurt her?
And another part of him thought, You mean “again,” you would never hurt me again, you arranged to have me beaten to a pulp and stuffed into a fireplace.
Yes, he sometimes thought they would get along.
Her expression became placid again. “It isn’t poison. I’m surprised the tsar doesn’t recognize the smell of fennel.”
Ah, yes - another legacy of Chernobog’s little games. The demon had liked to singe his throat, sear his tongue, fill his nose with smoke, so that no perfume could please him and nothing had a flavor. He had been denied all pleasure but the demon’s pleasure. Meat and fruit were dull beside the drinking of a human life.
But Chernobog was gone, and he was healing. A few days since, he had taken a bite of a pickle and spat it back out in shocked indignation. If all this time vinegar had tasted like that, what else didn’t he know? He had not explained himself and Irina had not asked, but she had entered a conspiracy with the kitchen staff to expose him to all manner of herbs and spices, one by one. Where she found the time he couldn’t imagine.
“You will eventually need to know these,” she said, even as she gave up and set the bowl on the stand by his bed. “For trade purposes, and for hosting banquets.”
“Is that all?” Mirnatius sneered, flopping back onto a pillow.
“Some you may even enjoy. But if not, you may have to learn the lesson every child does, and not grimace when served something you dislike.”
“I’ll be damned if I let you deprive me of grimacing.”
“Another time,” said Irina pleasantly, which meant Fifty more times, until you give in or we are both dead. “Meanwhile, there is another matter.” Mirnatius indulged himself in a protracted groan, which she ignored. “From now on, your clothing will have to last you much longer. We’ll have some made that you would not object to wearing twice. Do you think you can tell people with a straight face that you’ve had a change of heart?”
“I repent of my profligate ways. I have come to abhor waste,” he said in leaden tones, rolling his eyes. “Inspired by the example of my beloved wife, whose austerity and generosity -” He broke off. His wife was generous, wasn’t she? Her preserving his life could be attributed to less lofty motives, but what did she gain by all her prattle about the populace? What calculated purpose for caring about squirrels? Something like shame, or an awareness of his own ingratitude, stopped his tongue.
“I doubt that several pounds of Staryk jewelry mark me as ‘austere,’” said Irina.
“Several pounds of Staryk jewelry make you so interesting no one will argue.” The bitterness was reflexive, not sincere.
“Poor dear. Do you want that attention for yourself?”
“No, keep it,” he said with a disgusted shudder. “The longer you can be an object of fascination -” But again he found himself treading too close to something true and raw, and stopped. Abruptly he said, “It’s a shame your handsome Tatar died. Feel free to find yourself a new one.”
Her face colored with indignation. Her mouth thinned to a line. “It is a shame. You sent flowers and a month’s pay to his family.”
“That was kind of me. Flowers, though - was that not extravagant? Given the late season -”
“It was what he deserved,” said Irina, firm, the red already fading from her cheek. “I expect, if you ever choose a handsome Tatar for yourself, or some unattached boyar, you’ll give him the same or greater courtesy.”
He barked a laugh. “As if you would allow me that.”
“I would not prevent you.” A pause. “But this is beside the point.” Their marriage was still unconsummated, and it was beside the point. She wanted him, and she no doubt wanted to bear his child so he could be disposed of, so she could parcel Lithvas out between herself and that father of hers - and he, for all that he feared, for what little he even knew of wanting, could sometimes see it in himself that he wanted her. And that was beside the point. They would trade barbs about sleeping with armsmen and simply return to business. The woman astounded him. “It would be a unifying gesture, and in keeping with your previous eccentricities, if you spread your custom between several towns.”
“My custom,” he said, confused.
“Yes. I speak of your new suits. Vysnia may have the finest market, but weavers in other towns work no less hard. You might plan to purchase cloth from all over Lithvas, and have it sewn into clothes symbolizing the value we have for all of your subjects, however distant.”
Mirnatius snorted. “I don’t suppose the people of distant towns have already brought their wares here.”
“It would be a hardship on them to travel so far.”
“So you propose to drag me hither and yon through the countryside,” he said, “looking at fabric.”
“If it doesn’t come from magic, it must come from somewhere.” Ah. He sensed that troublesome nurse’s hand in this. Irina went on: “It will be good for the people to see us, and for us to see them.”
He spread his hands. “Behold, the witch’s boy, un-bewitched. Show them how you’ve drawn my fangs. Yes, I see how that would serve you.”
Irina drew inward. “It’s not that. We’ll be too late to outpace the stories, but we may… correct them, a little. I will wear my silver and let them touch my hands, and they will see that we live and breathe -”
His lip curled. “Why would you let them touch you?”
“So that I don’t become a fairy tale.”
“Well, I won’t do the same.”
“But you will come?”
He sighed. “Whatever you wish.”
“Then I wish you would eat.”
He scowled, but held out his hands, and she gave him the soup bowl. “Don’t you have orphans to fuss over?” he said. “Baby birds to tuck back into their nests?”
“No, they’ve all fledged by now.”
“The orphans?” he said. “That would be a sight.”
All at once he felt ridiculous, sitting in bed, eating soup, while the ruler of Lithvas watched him, his hair not even combed. There was no judgment in Irina’s face, but there was so seldom anything in Irina’s face that he savored the rare moments she made herself readable. At length he said, “I suppose I’ve been here long enough. Are your excuses for me growing thin? Or does anyone care where I’ve been? They have their heroine to look at, after all.”
“I would be happy to have you back at my side here in the waking world.”
That didn’t answer his question. And yet no one had ever been happy to have him by their side. Tsarina Irina was calculation down to her marrow, but he had never known her to speak untruth. The only remaining doubt was, to what end?
He put the bowl aside again. “I’m going to have a bath,” he announced, pitching his voice to carry, sending servants scrambling to fetch water, “and then I want my sketchbook. If I’m limited to a few new garments, I’m going to design them, and they are going to be” - he imbued the word with all the ominous weight he could muster - “complicated.”
“So much the better,” said darling Irina, no doubt cooking up strategies already.
He climbed out of bed on the side opposite her, uncomfortable with the feeling of warmth starting under his ribcage at the thought of her approval. The life debt he already owed her was enough; the dignity he had already lost was bad enough. “And I’ll be at court tomorrow. Though I don’t promise I’ll show my face every day.”
“Not at first,” she said, calmly. “Since you’re still recovering.”
He huffed. “And how long will I be recovering?”
“I’m sure we’ll negotiate something, at your convenience.”
“My convenience? What a pity. I’m busy that day.” But he did owe her his life, and he did like her, almost, and if she didn’t stage that coup she was no doubt planning, they might be together a long time. Concessions were in order. “You always smell of myrtle,” he said. “I am learning. The herbs, I meant. Your efforts aren’t wasted.”
Her answering smile was for once not cold, but he couldn’t say whether it was sad or hopeful, fond or filled with pity, for him or for herself. He found he did not quite want to know. He wanted to keep it to himself, to mull over - to set it down on paper and look at it this way and that. He cleared his throat, feeling that uneasy warmth again, and left for the bath.
Characters: Irina/Mirnatius
Word count: ~1800
Warnings: None
Notes: A treat for
The tsar, for about a week, regarded his wife with terror and awe. Then his customary sarcasm began, if shakily, to reassert itself.
He had no more magic to repair what ailed him, and no malign passenger to drag him however unwilling through the halls, and so, although he bore no serious injuries, he stayed in bed. It was on the edge of this bed that Irina sat, back from a day of playing tsar herself, holding out a spoonful of broth.
“I’m being hand-fed by the ruler of Lithvas,” he said. “How my fortunes have risen.”
“How can I be feeding you, if you won’t take anything?” Dear little Irina, grown implacable as a glacier, still held that offering in an unwavering hand, though the soup must be cool now. And did not contest that she was the ruler.
“What, am I your pet? Am I meant only to prettily accept your gifts?”
Irina smiled. It was a bland and unobjectionable smile, except that it was so cold. She was good at that. She had been born to statecraft. “Is that not what you wanted? To be free of all duty, and for someone to cherish you?”
He thought sometimes that he could like her, if he knew how to like people. To think she’d hidden that wit from him - from everyone - for so long. He straightened his shoulders importantly and tried not to let on that the jab had met its mark. “That’s hardly reassuring. You could just as easily poison me - then I’d be free of duty, and some people would cherish my bones. Or the opportunities they create, at the least.”
The smile vanished. She lowered the spoon back into the bowl. “Mirnatius. I would never hurt you.”
But why not, he thought, when he and Chernobog had made such concerted efforts to hurt her?
And another part of him thought, You mean “again,” you would never hurt me again, you arranged to have me beaten to a pulp and stuffed into a fireplace.
Yes, he sometimes thought they would get along.
Her expression became placid again. “It isn’t poison. I’m surprised the tsar doesn’t recognize the smell of fennel.”
Ah, yes - another legacy of Chernobog’s little games. The demon had liked to singe his throat, sear his tongue, fill his nose with smoke, so that no perfume could please him and nothing had a flavor. He had been denied all pleasure but the demon’s pleasure. Meat and fruit were dull beside the drinking of a human life.
But Chernobog was gone, and he was healing. A few days since, he had taken a bite of a pickle and spat it back out in shocked indignation. If all this time vinegar had tasted like that, what else didn’t he know? He had not explained himself and Irina had not asked, but she had entered a conspiracy with the kitchen staff to expose him to all manner of herbs and spices, one by one. Where she found the time he couldn’t imagine.
“You will eventually need to know these,” she said, even as she gave up and set the bowl on the stand by his bed. “For trade purposes, and for hosting banquets.”
“Is that all?” Mirnatius sneered, flopping back onto a pillow.
“Some you may even enjoy. But if not, you may have to learn the lesson every child does, and not grimace when served something you dislike.”
“I’ll be damned if I let you deprive me of grimacing.”
“Another time,” said Irina pleasantly, which meant Fifty more times, until you give in or we are both dead. “Meanwhile, there is another matter.” Mirnatius indulged himself in a protracted groan, which she ignored. “From now on, your clothing will have to last you much longer. We’ll have some made that you would not object to wearing twice. Do you think you can tell people with a straight face that you’ve had a change of heart?”
“I repent of my profligate ways. I have come to abhor waste,” he said in leaden tones, rolling his eyes. “Inspired by the example of my beloved wife, whose austerity and generosity -” He broke off. His wife was generous, wasn’t she? Her preserving his life could be attributed to less lofty motives, but what did she gain by all her prattle about the populace? What calculated purpose for caring about squirrels? Something like shame, or an awareness of his own ingratitude, stopped his tongue.
“I doubt that several pounds of Staryk jewelry mark me as ‘austere,’” said Irina.
“Several pounds of Staryk jewelry make you so interesting no one will argue.” The bitterness was reflexive, not sincere.
“Poor dear. Do you want that attention for yourself?”
“No, keep it,” he said with a disgusted shudder. “The longer you can be an object of fascination -” But again he found himself treading too close to something true and raw, and stopped. Abruptly he said, “It’s a shame your handsome Tatar died. Feel free to find yourself a new one.”
Her face colored with indignation. Her mouth thinned to a line. “It is a shame. You sent flowers and a month’s pay to his family.”
“That was kind of me. Flowers, though - was that not extravagant? Given the late season -”
“It was what he deserved,” said Irina, firm, the red already fading from her cheek. “I expect, if you ever choose a handsome Tatar for yourself, or some unattached boyar, you’ll give him the same or greater courtesy.”
He barked a laugh. “As if you would allow me that.”
“I would not prevent you.” A pause. “But this is beside the point.” Their marriage was still unconsummated, and it was beside the point. She wanted him, and she no doubt wanted to bear his child so he could be disposed of, so she could parcel Lithvas out between herself and that father of hers - and he, for all that he feared, for what little he even knew of wanting, could sometimes see it in himself that he wanted her. And that was beside the point. They would trade barbs about sleeping with armsmen and simply return to business. The woman astounded him. “It would be a unifying gesture, and in keeping with your previous eccentricities, if you spread your custom between several towns.”
“My custom,” he said, confused.
“Yes. I speak of your new suits. Vysnia may have the finest market, but weavers in other towns work no less hard. You might plan to purchase cloth from all over Lithvas, and have it sewn into clothes symbolizing the value we have for all of your subjects, however distant.”
Mirnatius snorted. “I don’t suppose the people of distant towns have already brought their wares here.”
“It would be a hardship on them to travel so far.”
“So you propose to drag me hither and yon through the countryside,” he said, “looking at fabric.”
“If it doesn’t come from magic, it must come from somewhere.” Ah. He sensed that troublesome nurse’s hand in this. Irina went on: “It will be good for the people to see us, and for us to see them.”
He spread his hands. “Behold, the witch’s boy, un-bewitched. Show them how you’ve drawn my fangs. Yes, I see how that would serve you.”
Irina drew inward. “It’s not that. We’ll be too late to outpace the stories, but we may… correct them, a little. I will wear my silver and let them touch my hands, and they will see that we live and breathe -”
His lip curled. “Why would you let them touch you?”
“So that I don’t become a fairy tale.”
“Well, I won’t do the same.”
“But you will come?”
He sighed. “Whatever you wish.”
“Then I wish you would eat.”
He scowled, but held out his hands, and she gave him the soup bowl. “Don’t you have orphans to fuss over?” he said. “Baby birds to tuck back into their nests?”
“No, they’ve all fledged by now.”
“The orphans?” he said. “That would be a sight.”
All at once he felt ridiculous, sitting in bed, eating soup, while the ruler of Lithvas watched him, his hair not even combed. There was no judgment in Irina’s face, but there was so seldom anything in Irina’s face that he savored the rare moments she made herself readable. At length he said, “I suppose I’ve been here long enough. Are your excuses for me growing thin? Or does anyone care where I’ve been? They have their heroine to look at, after all.”
“I would be happy to have you back at my side here in the waking world.”
That didn’t answer his question. And yet no one had ever been happy to have him by their side. Tsarina Irina was calculation down to her marrow, but he had never known her to speak untruth. The only remaining doubt was, to what end?
He put the bowl aside again. “I’m going to have a bath,” he announced, pitching his voice to carry, sending servants scrambling to fetch water, “and then I want my sketchbook. If I’m limited to a few new garments, I’m going to design them, and they are going to be” - he imbued the word with all the ominous weight he could muster - “complicated.”
“So much the better,” said darling Irina, no doubt cooking up strategies already.
He climbed out of bed on the side opposite her, uncomfortable with the feeling of warmth starting under his ribcage at the thought of her approval. The life debt he already owed her was enough; the dignity he had already lost was bad enough. “And I’ll be at court tomorrow. Though I don’t promise I’ll show my face every day.”
“Not at first,” she said, calmly. “Since you’re still recovering.”
He huffed. “And how long will I be recovering?”
“I’m sure we’ll negotiate something, at your convenience.”
“My convenience? What a pity. I’m busy that day.” But he did owe her his life, and he did like her, almost, and if she didn’t stage that coup she was no doubt planning, they might be together a long time. Concessions were in order. “You always smell of myrtle,” he said. “I am learning. The herbs, I meant. Your efforts aren’t wasted.”
Her answering smile was for once not cold, but he couldn’t say whether it was sad or hopeful, fond or filled with pity, for him or for herself. He found he did not quite want to know. He wanted to keep it to himself, to mull over - to set it down on paper and look at it this way and that. He cleared his throat, feeling that uneasy warmth again, and left for the bath.