Chapter Text
The first meeting occurs at the court of Catherine the Great, three years before her death and eighty years before Bulgaria is finally wrested once and for all from the iron grip of the Turks by her great grandson after five long centuries of slavery.
Bulgarian nobles living in exile in Russia, the lucky ones who escaped massacre thanks to their magical ability or luck or forethought, often visited the fabulous palaces of the Tsars to renew oaths of fealty and in exchange receive promises that one day the yoke of the Ottomans would be overthrown.
“A fine thing to say when they host Turks as diplomats and ambassadors.” grouses one such noble to his eldest son as their carriage came to a stop in the snow outside the Winter Palace, the monumental facade of the baroque dream impressing upon the pair of men their insignificance in the grand schemes of Imperial Russia.
“They must. It is one empire to another. They do not want to step on each other's toes until they are ready to crush them. And they have only just been at war.” says the son, a young man named Viktor. War, a word with as much interest to him as the word Woman. The two great words. The two grand loves of any man with hot, red blood flowing through his veins.
“Smiling masks hiding savage grins, my boy. Do not forget, that is all that court is. If you even receive smiles.” advises the father.
The pair, dressed sumptuously in dark green military uniforms embroidered with gold, prepare themselves to be slighted.
And slighted they are, though not crassly. That would imply that the Francophile Russians were on the same level as the exiled Bulgarians who they would one day rescue out of the jaws of the Sultan. Never on the same level. All Slavs are not alike. It is Russia first, the vast mother, all are part of her, wayward children and satellites.
“Fetch me another glass of champagne, would you, my boy?” whispers Viktor's father into his ear as one group of courtiers break apart, only to reform around another grandee.
“Certainly, father.”
“...And stay away from the Empress.”
“Of course, father.” Viktor bows to the middle aged woman he was conversing with, and goes in search of a footman, a difficult task given the number of people and all the bowing that is required of him since almost everyone outranks him.
Although it's dark outside the vast windows, inside the state room it’s as bright as a summer's day, bright with thousands of candles, and so warm one could forget the words ‘snow’ and ‘ice’ for a time. To witness the court in action is to witness the inverse of the animal kingdom, where males shine. At court the women glitter in lavish gowns of every shade, while the men wear variations on the same dark uniform. Not that that stops the male of the species from festooning their breasts with as many grand military badges of honour as possible, or tightening their breeches to dangerous levels, or shining their boots to blind. Viktor, of course, looks more magnificent than most, being in possession of a most pleasing build and height and facial structure, making his uniform do even more for him than it would've anyway…which is why his father routinely tells him to stay away from the notoriously man-hungry empress. Of course, should he become a favourite, he would become extremely wealthy and powerful and even possibly influence the might of Russia to swing its bulk towards his beleaguered country, but no loving parent wishes to see their child become a whore.
Still, Viktor feels compelled to catch a glimpse of the great woman, as dangerous as it is. He's at that age where there is no such thing as danger. Not for him and not for others. At the end of St George's Room the Tsarina sits, surrounded by her ministers and favourites, the former of which includes many old men, and the latter of which includes many young ones. Although most favourites hold some sort of important position, one can still easily tell who is there solely for function, and who is there for form too.
And there, seated between the gorgeously attired men, young and old, seated on her golden throne, is the empress, ruler of so much of the world. Even in her sixties she's spectacular. And lascivious. Ferocious. Unquenchable. Her ‘love’ has killed before, and it might still kill again. ‘The Great' - is a disingenuous title whenever it's conferred. The great, in evil usually. However such people do suck all the air out of a room, and Viktor finds himself pulled towards the Tsarina despite himself and his father's warnings. Many warnings. All the way to Petersburg. All the way back. Everytime. ‘You are too handsome, my son. Too talented. Stay away from her. She will chew you up and spit you out, gnashing your bones till there is nothing left. Take heed of the examples I have taught you. I thought I had lost you when you were presented to her. Do not make me go through that again.’
And like the predator she is, the instant Viktor gets far enough across the glossy floor, the ruler of all Russia’s eyes flick away from one of her men, weaving through the crowd, to land on fresh prey. Eyes full of teeth. Seeing him before he sees her. Young and juicy. Yes. The empress determines this new dark haired stag is all that. But weak? No. And the prey must be weak, because predators are lazy and afraid for their skin. She feasts her gaze on him as he approaches near, and asks an attendant his name, but only tentatively places it on her list of potential bedfellows. So much trouble comes from choosing badly.
Unable to simply stroll up to the woman as one might a serf or a regular harlot, Viktor finds himself engaged in conversation with a military man of superior rank, a general whose experience he defers to so pleasingly that the man offers to present him to the empress. Of course, of course Viktor can't refuse. Literally can't.
“Your imperial majesty-” the general goes through the rigmarole of introduction. So formal and prescribed yet so elegant, but Viktor is not paying attention, either to the sound of his name being presented to the ear of one of the most powerful people in the world, or to the woman and her hangers on.
Well, he is not paying attention to most of them. A young man in a darker and simpler yet more extravagant uniform to the rest stands close to the throne, right beside the throne, his thigh a hair's breadth from touching the armrest, and arm, of the empress. He can only be her current favourite lover, and such a thing should repulse Viktor, and it does, until he looks into the man's face. Not only is he clearly not entirely of Russian blood, but a fresh scar swoops up his cheek from the corner of his jaw, beginning in a beautifully cultivated black beard, the tip of the thin red claw stopping just below his left eye. War. He must have fought in the last one, unlike Viktor, who was kept carefully at home. The scar objectively damages the young man's dark good looks, but subjectively it does the opposite, and Viktor finds himself mightily intrigued, especially when the favourite locks eyes with him, and not a flicker of contempt swirls through them. Instead he seems just as interested by Viktor as Viktor is by him. The sound of thousands of voices dies to nothing and Viktor is only saved from a terrible faux paux when the unknown young man widens his eyes and flicks them down and to the side in an expression which says ‘Pay attention, fool!’
“Your imperial majesty-” Viktor saves his skin by making an endearingly awkward bow and greeting to the empress.
Viktor's father eventually receives the champagne he asked for, and his keen gaze picks up on a certain giddiness in his son. It's not the unstable, temporary giddiness that comes after meeting the pretty girl one will one day marry, but it's not an entirely different species of excitement either. If it were not that they were not currently doing their duty at the imperial court then the man might ask if his son made a friend. But there are no friends at court. Not for them.
“Did you meet anyone interesting while on your mission, my boy?” Father looks past son, gaze slipping over satin, silk, and brocade backs, hoping, for once, not to see a messenger from the empress. If one comes, he doesn't know what he will do. To draw a sword is to end perhaps more than his own life.
“Yes. There are many interesting people here.” Viktor would rather not expose his disobedience, and the favourites of the empress are not men of good moral standing. Not people he should be associating with. Aside from being whores and leeches, they drink, gamble, and duel their hollowed out lives away. His voice wavers, so he takes a deep sip of his drink to steady it.
“Hmm.” Sensing trouble but too careful a man to come down heavy on his adult child’s head and potentially drive him further towards whatever has piqued his interest, Viktor's father holds his tongue. For now.
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Court holds sway over the days and nights that follow, but it's that first night that begins something that will endure for more than a century. Whilst standing outside in the snow, waiting for his father to be done conversing and for the servants to bring their carriage round, Viktor is approached by the unknown favourite, his footsteps crunching over freshly fallen snow.
“Yours says seventeen ninety-three too, does it not.” Even away from his benefactor the stranger in black and gold maintains his presence and sense of strong personality. Of course. Catherine is not interested in the milquetoast. She likes a bit of fire. Not too much, but enough to warm her. Without waiting for a reply the young man pushes back the sleeve of his left arm to expose his wrist. Four black marks mar the olive skin there, four black marks it is impossible to pretend are simply ordinary birth marks. They form the numerals - 1793, quite clearly, just as if some brute of a tutor drew them there in ink. A reminder of some exceedingly important date. When a witch or wizard is born, the marks are white, but as soon as one meets one's ‘soulmate’, they fill in black, and remain that way for the rest of their bearer’s life. Not everyone receives one, and not everyone's mature to black. Viktor felt his come to fruition when he locked eyes with this stranger, and he made sure after dashing behind a sumptuous curtain and checking, so doesn't bother to act confused. Instead he familiarly grabs the man's arm like they've been friends from childhood, holding it just above the elbow. The other only smiles benignly, when in all other circumstances such an act would cause him to demand a duel.
“Do not attend the empress tonight. Do not sell yourself.” Viktor urges.
That prompts a laugh. “Oh, this is going to be interesting. Why did God send me a moraliser?”
“Because you are an incorrigible idiot, obviously.”
“Hahaha!”
Boyish laughter puts a scowl on Viktor’s father’s face, a scowl which only deepens when he gets a look at who his son is laughing with. He only manages to lighten his expression a tad and place some sort of civility into his voice while the pair excitedly say their goodnights, still without learning the other's name. But when he's finally alone with his son in the carriage, then he lets it be known that he is not happy.
“Half a Turk and a bastard to boot. His mother was a former concubine in the Sultan's harem, and his father was a favourite of the Empress before him. Do not have anything to do with that creature, my son.”
“Is he not a high nobleman, father?”
“Do not be seduced by titles bought with blood, my boy. The title is the only thing separating him and his from the gutter.”
Viktor gives no hint that the choice is already out of his hands.