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Vasily wasn’t working for the future of a kingdom, in fact he wasn’t working at all. The teenaged prince was lounging in the lapis drawing room with a glass of kvas in hand, lip pouting unconsciously, thoughts tumbling along with each brooding sip. The room itself was astonishing in wealth and was almost beautiful, with panel after panel of royal blue lapis shimmering in the early light. If only he could get rid of the clashing ocean blue armchair and sea glass table in the center.
Too Nikolai.
He took a long drink from his glass. He knew his little brother loved the sea, despite only one summer trip to their dacha in Udova. Ever since then, their favorite colors became more particular. While they both loved the color blue, Vasily had gravitated away from teals and towards the more expensive indigos and deep cornflower blues. But why on earth do we have to share Ravkan blue?
Ravka’s national color was the pale shade of blue adorning every flag from the Os Alta to Os Kervo. From ribbons to buttons of their handmade coats, the color represented the royal bloodline, further proved in the family’s striking blue eyes—minus Nikolai. At least he doesn’t have that.
The golden ormulu clock on the lapis mantel ticked away.
“An hour until dinner.” He mumbled to himself.
The Lantsovs ate dinner at around seven and unlike most royal families on the continent, they ate as four and only as four. His mother insisted.
To keep the King from staring down the bodice of the visiting countess. That's what the servants whispered in the kitchens and what they tittered as they cleaned a newly emptied guest room. It was beneath them to insult his father, but he found he was more interested in what they had to say than to risk never hearing their gossip again. Still, he hated the idea of the servants giggling at their betters: at a terrible sex life. Why shouldn’t he look at a countess’s buxom figure if he feels? But that answer lied in a certain emerald. Of course, he knew his father’s wayward eyes bothered madraya. But her Fjerdan nature made sure that it was never said aloud. Despite their rocky beginnings as a couple, she still tried to keep their family unit together, even if that unit fought with more vigor than the goddamn First Army. Only after she had Nikolai. That was the running gag the Saints kept since he was five years old. Everything good, everything fun, everything involving love and happiness was crushed with the weight of the young puppy.
Not everything. I still have Dag.
Vasily’s greatest love involved a large liver chestnut stallion— named Dagrenner. Gifted to the tsesarevich at the age of four, Dagrenner was the wildest horse in the royal stables and a retired Caryevan winner of three years under the royal trainer. However, his wild nature mixed with his aging body requires constant doses of pain medicine, countless bottles of fly spray, and more frequent herd deworming. Thank the Saints for modern medicine. While he hated change and wasting money, he had to admit that the funds that Ketterdam’s elite had put in veterinarian work helps his horses live longer, more comfortable lives. That money is about to pay off. As long as the servants didn’t- The dinner bell rang in a high-pitched set of dings.
Two servants dressed in gold and white flung open the doors to the favored dining room of the family. Seated at the table closest to the door was his mother adorned in a lavender evening gown with her blonde waves half up, the smallest pieces framing her face beside simple pearl drop earrings. Opposite her was his father in standard military uniform with metals poised neatly on his breast. His eyes looked rather awake for a change as they caught Vasily's in a quick non-committal smile. Vasily was seated furthest from the door, facing the many large windows before him. From them, he has a view the gardens dedicated to his grandfather, King Alexander II. If not for the dumb twelve-year-old child blocking the view of hedges upon hedges. Nikolai walked in. It was right after a lesson with his fencing teacher. Vasily's tired half-lidded eyes glanced over Nikolai’s clothes. How the fuck? Despite the muddy practice space that his brother used, his boots were sparkling. His pants were neatly tucked into the tops of each shoe, the fabric rather heavy for the spring weather, and his shirt was as perfect as the rest of his appearance. Nikolai's saber was strapped tightly to his side. Even his buttons were shimmering in the chandelier light. How the fuck? Nikolai was barely dressed up compared to Vasily who was sporting his military uniform and yet, his parents’ eyes steered right to his younger brother, garnering a warm smile from each.
Dinner was already in front of them, an extravagantly plated meat with pickled lemons off to the side. Vasily eyed his brother’s plate. This had better work. Everyone else had lemons limply hugging their slice of meat except Nikolai who favored cucumbers soaked in an herbed vinegar which were meticulously bred like all other produce in the witch’s hothouses. And if sobachka wants it, of course he gets it. At least the cooks won’t have to bother anymore.
“Boys, how was your day?” his mother asked looking contemplatively at her younger son’s shoulder length hair. And like always, it was gleaming. How the fuck?
“Good.” Nikolai grinned back at her under a giggle for Saints know what. Vasily’s lids drew low as his lips threatened a sneer. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his temper back.
“I hear Tutor Mitkin was thoroughly pleased with your history report,” his father butt in.
“I’m glad to hear that, Papa. It stole my whole afternoon yesterday.” Nikolai replied.
“And you Vasya?” his mother turned her face toward him, her vibrant blue eyes a deep shade of indigo from her Tailor.
“It was alright. I spent my morning penning a response to Poliznaya’s request for more sabers. I don’t see the point in their wanting them, they have plenty of supplies already.”
He didn’t see the point in most of his work, besides tradition and principle of the thing. Vasily always thought of tradition as a necessary evil he would never get out of. But, if I can manage to keep skipping the Winter Fete, then maybe there is hope for the future after all.
“If it makes them stop requesting guns,” His father stated to him. “If all they want is a few swords to plunge into some Fjerdans, at least I won’t have to make room for those new aged rifles. They are a hell of a cost and all they do is make us look cowardly.”
His mother looked quickly down to her ring laden fingers. Her Lantsov emerald sat snuggly between two sapphire bands but, her eyes were focused on a small opal ring with a silver band. She gazed upon the ring anytime Papa talked about the war with Fjerda. Vasily didn’t know where it came from but, she had been wearing it since Nikolai’s birth. The silver was imported from Djerholm by a new, fancy shipping company. From what the ministers said, it was doing surprisingly well despite the owner’s reclusive nature. “The big dog has to hide somewhere.” That’s what they always said.
Nikolai was first to finish his meal. The table chatter was slow but not uncomfortable. If there was nothing to be said there was nothing to be said.
“You are oddly quiet, brother.” Nikolai stared at him with questioning hazel eyes.
“You’re oddly nosy.” He sneered back. Shut up, Nikolai Nothing.
“Vasily, please he was only asking out of love.” His mother replied trying to keep the peace.
“I don’t need it.” He knew he sounded immature for a seventeen-year-old, but he prided himself on his honesty. He thought she might press further but his mother only huffed a sigh.
Once everyone had finished, the servants replaced their plates with dessert, a chocolate cake filled with a fluffy coco mousse dusted in icing sugar. A Kerch recipe. The rest of his family ate their way through quietly. Surprisingly, Nikolai didn’t add a single word. Vasily had been starting to stare off at the gardens when he heard his papa’s voice getting louder.
“Vasily, you did tell them that we can provide swords, right?”
“Of course, Father.”
“And did you- “ His thought was cut short as Nikolai’s body slumped to the floor with a thud, his saber providing a clink as its handle bounced off the ground.
“Nikolai!” His mother yelped and ran after him, servants and guards running to his place on the floor.
“Get the doctors!” His father shouted at the servants who were still gawking at the fallen sobachka.
Tell Poliznaya I have one extra saber for them.
While Vasily hadn’t paid off the court doctors, they sure acted like it. Don’t they know we pay them to do a job? I mean, they suck at that too, but it couldn’t kill them to show up. Nikolai's eyelashes fluttered open, squinting against the chandelier light. The doctor’s assistant finished vitals, explaining that they were relatively fine. Nikolai's eyes closed again, resulting in two servants and a stretcher.
"He will need to be monitored for now, but he should be ok." Vasily watched as his mother clutched her heart.
“Is he in such a grim condition? What happened?” She asked, her voice shaking.
"Let's bring this conversation to his room," Papa said.
The servants took Nikolai out first, followed by the doctors and madraya. She stood to follow them out the doors and down the hallway to her youngest’s room. Vasily heard the doctor's assistant trying to calm her.
Vasily trailed his father as they took their place behind her. The doors were opened briskly by two palace guard who waved some servants out from tidying the bed. Nikolai was placed on top of the sheets, unconscious from Vasily’s work. I wonder if he even knows. What an idiot. His mother signaled for a chair to be brought out beside his bed for her and her husband. His father waved it away. Looking faintly insulted, she sat and gathered a cushion she had half embroidered, before she began to get more frequent headaches. Another problem Nikolai caused. The court doctor stood up from his knees beside Nikolai and began to explain what Vasily, for once, already knew. His brother had been poisoned.
“I had first thought that he had faced some sort of head trauma from his fencing practice earlier today but, there were no signs of any damage or swelling to the head. His vitals were not dangerous either. Typically, he is perfectly fit, very active, and only twelve. However, he is extremely pale and he squinted at the light like it caused him pain. The muscles around his head and neck are extremely tight. His reactions are extremely similar to you, moya tsaritsa, when cursed with a headache of a weeks length. Therefore, my only guess is that he was poisoned by a high dose of something in tonight’s dinner. Something that would absorb quickly and cause headaches painful enough to pass out. ”
His mother was pale, staring down upon her passed out son in fear and anguish. The court doctor saw this and reassured her that they would be taking tests of his spit to see if the fabrikators could find anything that was suspicious. His mother only grew whiter. Vasily knew she didn’t want grisha craft anywhere near her son but, this kind of testing was done out of sight at the Little Palace, so she did not decline. Anything for sobachka. His mind cried as his mood turned more impatient. All she does is dote over him. And you, another voice inside him peeped out. He knew he was being unfair to Nikolai, that he was trying to kill his brother who was second in line, and hopefully a bastard. Not to mention, Nikolai adored his brother. He wants to be like you. He shut his conscience out. A lot of people do, but not everyone is born with the blood of Kings. His father looked upon the scene before him and as if he had decided it was a waste of time, he turned on his heel and walked down the hall. Vasily didn’t know where he was going but it was more important than this. He quickly glanced at his most likely dying brother, then to his tearful mother, and sauntered down the hall.
The rest of the night held no news. All he could do is hope that the high concentrate fly spray he had poured into Nikolai’s cucumbers would do the trick. He had gambled with how they would taste but didn’t think it would be too much of a risk. Nikolai’s sense of smell had been ragged since he broke his nose as a child. And with sense of smell, comes sense of taste. The spring weather that forever plagued the Lantsov watery eyes was the added cherry on top. Vasily wasn't sure what the symptoms of such a chemical would be. He was no expert in poisons in fact, he found them boring. But, the prospect of turning eighteen, a man, an heir to a throne, without an interested eye on him was infuriating. Vasily couldn’t pinpoint what made him so angry when he was with his brother. He was pleasant with everyone else in the family. But, with Nikolai it was different. He stole the attention off Vasily since his conception. Besides, he had the resources —why not just try? So, when he was tending to Dagrenner that afternoon, well it felt like fate.
The next morning, Vasily felt invigorated. No, eager. He needed to know how his brother turned out. As he raced down the hallway, he saw servant and guards standing as normal. He turned left into the main hall past the library, and nothing looked different. No black mourning flags yet. The staff are pretty damn lazy. As he reached the double doors to his brothers’ bedroom, he noticed that the chair his mother had commandeered was back in its original position. Maybe she passed out too. He would definitely have to pay her extra compliments to make it up to her. Vasily glared at the guards by the doors until they swung one open. Vasily stepped in quietly. How the fuck?
His younger brother was hanging over the side of his bed, vomiting noisily into a vase. Nikolai Lantsov was moving. Awake. Alive. Vasily leaned against a bookshelf, rage filling his ears. He should have been dead. He felt as his face got hotter, his cheeks bright red. How the fuck?
As his brother finished gagging and coughing, Nikolai caught Vasily’s eye—his hazel eyes looking knowingly upon his oldest brother.
Sobachka winked.