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Post by viktor petrovich on Jan 12, 2009 19:53:50 GMT -5
 All my little life I've wanted to roam
Even if it was just inside my own home
Then one little day I chanced to look back
Saw you sitting there, being a sad culprit
RULES AND REGULATIONS , rufus wainwright
- - - - - -
IT HAD ALL BEGUN
[/b][/size][/font] with that bloody letter. Post from distant family were few and far between, and so when Aunt Leah’s familiar bold handwriting upon a dainty envelope slipped through their letterbox this past fall, everyone had been bustling about with what news their Londoner relative would bring. Little had Viktor known it had been all about himself. How such atrocities had managed to slip beyond his sharp eye were unknown to him, but was enough to leave him smouldering. Marriage. The third one, at that. Had no one gotten it into their thick skulls that he simply wanted some peace? Did a person not deserve the time to grow up as a true man and successful one at that? Of course not. Marriage was to be his greatest success, apparently; a link between two families. A way to bring Russia to England. That privilege had been set squarely upon his broad shoulders. A tinkering of delicate glasses, the subtle murmur of lips and voices through the ornate golden wallpaper reminded Viktor of where he currently should be. Not skulking about in the lavatory, that was certain. No, his duties were to his guests, and to his aunt for so graciously hosting his welcoming party. Viktor stifled a groan as he firmly thudded his forehead upon the spotlessly scrubbed mirror above the sink. The room was stuffy and heavily perfumed, pushing the air out of his lungs. One hand anxiously gripped the lip of ivory porcelain for stability, the other slipping into his shallow back pocket. Fingers whispered across a neatly starched letter once, twice before the leaflet was swiftly swept into the pale light. Righting himself once more on the heels of his feet, Viktor’s silver gaze eyed the small discoloured sheet. He already knew the script by heart, knew who it was from. It was wholly improper to be carting around such a personal letter in his pocket, but the note had slowly become his mantra in the past week in which he’d arrived. Little Vitya,
Your mother and I send with you our blessings and love. May God protect and provide for you on your long journey. Please mind that we’ve always wanted what was best for you. Be kind to Miss Bennet and give her a chance in your heart. I know you’ll make me proud.
Love,
Your parents
The letter was the only thing hindering Viktor from simply walking out of this predicament. Pride. Yes, he had that; something he’d gotten from his father. He had to keep the family’s pride and honour intact. If not for himself, but for everyone else who were counting on him. A gravely sigh escaped Viktor’s lips as he hastily crunched the letter back into his pocket. Checking the time briefly on the tarnished pocket watch he kept in the breast pocket of his cobalt blue suit, Viktor soundly exited the lavatory after a single backward glance in the mirror to ensure he appeared suitable. The bustle of polite voices rose as he manoeuvred down the short hallway, quickly entering a room bursting at the seams with gentry. The rustle of silks and taffeta were a static noise folded luxuriously beneath the shivering of ice within thin crystal glasses, the whispered gossip of crowded women, and the bold talk of politics between men. The rich smells of warm game foul and dainty canapés forced a rumble from Viktor’s stomach. It rudely reminded him of how little he’d been eating since he’d arrived. It seemed his internal clock was still with the homeland and was always hungry at awkward times. More than once he’d terrified one of the maids while raiding the kitchen for a midnight snack. Following the lonely call of his gut, Viktor strode confidently through throngs of folk, offering a small smile and a greeting to those who welcomed and well-wished him. It seemed that everyone here knew of him and yet he recognized not one face in the crowd. It took a solid quarter of an hour to cross the plush carpeted sitting room in order to arrive at the buffet table. Mind blank of any thoughts but that of hunger, Viktor reached for the miniscule hors d’oeuvres, only to have his arm firmly snatched and his gaze directed towards the assaulter. For a brief wide-eyed moment, Viktor assumed he’d just run into his mother. Naturally that was foolish, though, and it was merely the beaming face of his Aunt Leah. Dressed demurely in pearls and lace, she was still boldly beautiful. Auntie needed no cosmetics to shine in a room; that was certain. Blinking sharply, Viktor concentrated on her words. It wasn’t particularly late in the evening, but he was tired. Tired of greeting and smiling and acting.
“Darling Vitya! What kind of Russian hospitality are you showing, eh?”[/i] The Russian rolled of her tongue as if she’d never been away from home, and the sound was a cool balm of relief amid the sea of burning nasal English accents. “Stuffing your face in the corner is hardly a way to present yourself so early on.”[/i] She nagged good-naturedly, disregarding Viktor’s painfully baleful look as he dropped the cracker back onto the platter. “Come, Vitya, I have someone to show you.” Her dark eyes twinkled with information Viktor was clearly oblivious of. Allowing himself to be turned –because it was near impossible to argue with any family member of his- Viktor scanned the room sharply, soft mouth pulled in a grim frown. Aunt Leah gestured with a bird-like fluttering of fingers towards a young lady across the room. She stared through the frost-encrusted patio windows, her pale profile shadowed by the by the dark beyond the glass. Her expression was solemn and sallow, the angle of her nose delicate, the thick fringe of lashes shadowing the colour of her eyes. “She,” Aunt Leah interrupted his silent survey, a smile sparking her voice, “is your fiancé.”Viktor simply stared stock-still, his tie suddenly choking off the air supply. [/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Jan 13, 2009 0:21:55 GMT -5
 If the elephants have past lives,
Yet are destined to always remember,
It's no wonder how they scream,
Like you and I, they must have some temperELEPHANTS , rachael yamagata- - - - - - - A SMALL FROWN pulled at the corner's of of Laurel’s lips as she regarded her reflection in the polished glass. Beyond the rustling of skirts and tinkering of crystal the yard lay in a peaceful slumber, blanketed beneath the downy snow. Her eyes traced the wavering shadows that clawed across the glittering surface until she saw herself reflected there like an apparition. That was where she would rather be, floating carefree between the barren trees, the winter air crisp and pure as it filled her lungs. Away from the masquerade that seemed to accompany every party she endured alongside her grandmother – innocent smiles and fluttering of ornate fans disguising the baleful gossip. The murmurs of the girls she was standing with fell way; she could scarcely recognize the girl staring back at her – hair brushed until gleaming and then pulled back artfully, soft curls kissing her shoulders. At her grandmother's insistence, small peal hair pins had been added for embellishment, though Laurel was certain it was it insure she remembered her place this evening. The laces of her corset had been pulled so tightly that Laurel could scarcely breathe, until she had begged the chambermaid to loosen the ties – she know had the assurance she would not faint over the course of the evening while still being unable to enjoy the meal – whilst her grandmother had fretted over which dress Laurel should wear to tonight’s festivities. "…and did you know that Mr. Petrovich is in line for czar? Can you imagine?" She had tittered as she rummaged through the wardrobe before settling on the deep green velvet Laurel now wore. Despite her grandmother’s promises that it brought out the color of her eyes and did wonders for her complexion, all she could think of was how the lace around the bodice and sleeves itched. Still, she found herself marveling at the way the fabric felt between her gloved fingers, she had yet to grow accustomed to this world she was supposedly born for.
A bout of girlish giggles, interrupted her moment of self reflection, and Laurel found herself once more in the midst of girls she had nothing in common with. "Is that him? Oh, it is!" "He's so dashing." "I can scarcely believe he traversed so far – it must’ve been frightful." "I hear he is in line for nobility." "I wonder if my mother can arrange an introduction…" Laurel found herself following their fleeting glimpses to where Mr. Petrovich strode confidently across the room. Suppressing a smile, she pretended to smooth a crease in her skirt. He hardly seemed to be worth the fuss. If it were not improper to do so, she would wager that the majority of the people in attendance claimed to be in succession to a throne somewhere. "Oh, my! He's looking this way!" Again, Laurel found herself seeking out the mysterious Mr. Petrovich against her better judgment. His dark eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she could scarcely breathe. Dropping her gaze, she turned quickly intent on distancing herself from him.
She was tired of maintaining the carefully scripted façade. She had believed that she had escaped her cousins for the chance at living – to forge her own destiny. Instead she had found that she had merely exchanged the confines of one life for another. It appeared all of England was to endure a corseted existence.
With trembling fingers, she accepted a glass of lemonade and raised it to her lips. Servants ghosted through the ornate room, blending into the shadows and vanishing to the eyes of those in attendance. Taking another sip, Laurel watched a young girl of no more than fifteen weave through the throng carrying a large platter. That could have been her, invisible until needed but never wanted. What must it be like to spend every waking moment as a ghost? Laurel could not shake the feeling that perhaps their existences were not so different. A gasp escaped her lips as she watched one of the girls she had been conversing with moments before brush against the girl causing her to trip, the platter clattering noisily to the floor. An annoyed hush fell across the crowded room, the silence only deepening the crimson of the splayed girls cheeks as she rushed to collect the spilled contents. As quickly as the silence had engulfed them, the tittering started once more amongst conversations of "how difficult good help is to find."
Without a second thought, Laurel placed her glass upon the table and slipped silently toward the young girl. The rest of the room had already moved on as though she had never interrupted their evening. "Are you all right?" she murmured as she looked at the young girls flushed cheeks, glistening with fresh tears.
"Yes'm," the girl whispered without looking up.
Conversing with servants at a lavish dinner party was improper, scandalous even. There were too many rules imprisoning society – which fork to use, when to done gloves, how much desert to consume – it was a wonder people didn't go mad attempting to recall them all. Reaching into her handbag, Laurel withdrew a daintily embroidered lace handkerchief. "Here," she said, handing it to the girl.
"Oh, no, miss, I—"
A firm hand grasped Laurel's arm, escorting her away from the girl. "Remember your place, Laurel," her grandmother scolded through terse smile. "Please do not embarrass me. You shall make me proud, I know it."
Laurel stared back quizzically at her grandmother fretted over her, securing a loose curl back into place before smoothing a wrinkle from her skirt. "I am sorry, gra-Aunt Catherine."
"It is already forgotten." Casting a furtive glance toward their host, her grandmother smiled at her, undoubtedly relieved they showed no sign of having seen Laurel's misstep. "Come, I’ve someone I wish you to meet."
Perplexed, Laurel followed dutifully behind her grandmother. She had expected a far more severe reprimand and feared her grandmother was saving it for the carriage ride home. Would she ever find a niche in this new world? All of her instincts were wrong – her opinions too strong, her temper too hot. She lacked the simplistic grace of the other girls twirling about the room like fairies. In their presence, Laurel was aware of everything she lacked.
Her grandmother cleared her throat, causing Laurel to look up with a start. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized where they were headed. She was certain she might die beneath Mr. Petrovich’s penetrating gaze. Looking into his dark eyes she felt as though all her secrets were laid bare, ready for idle tongues to whisper about behind raised fans.
"Mrs. Pratchett," her grandmother greeted their hostess warmly. "What a lovely party you've thrown this evening. Such a happy occasion." Her grip upon Laurel's arm tightened, saying all her lighthearted tone did not – Laure l was not to embarrass her again. "May I present my niece, Miss Laurel Bennet."
"How do you do?" she mumbled, curtsying in what she prayed would pass as demure and graceful, even though she was far from either, lest she shame her grandmother for a second time that evening. |
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Post by viktor petrovich on Jan 22, 2009 9:25:18 GMT -5
Maybe I won't suffer
If I find a way to love her
I'd be lying to myself
But there is no way out that I can see
WAYS AND MEANS , snow patrol
- - - - - -
THE GLANCE RETURNED
[/b][/size][/font] to Viktor was hooded, wide misty eyes shuttered as they met his. It was like facing a wall –something he’d been told a time or two about himself. In this case he was unsure whether the girl –he simply refused to title her as his fiancé- was as unemotional as the rest of London women or if she was simply cold. Viktor reasoned it was likely a mixture of both. He’d hardly met a person on this wet island that carried a warmth and vitality of life that he’d grown so accustomed to in his own home country. Regardless, Vitya could not help but marvel at the youthful glow of her complexion in contrast with the chilly reception he’d received from that single look. Laurel quickly turned away from him, leaving him feeling as if he were the only curious party between the two. Then again, he was the only person between the two aware of a reason for curiosity in the first place. Exhaling softly, Viktor returned his attentions to his lovely host. A brief shrug heaved his shoulders, reminiscent of a young boy uneasy and awkward at a dress-up party. Then he was business once more. “She’s quite,” a brief pause punctuated his masked aggravation. What was there to say? He’d never even met the girl. “…quite fair.” The description was bitten off concisely. His fingertips unconsciously brushed at the fine cloth of his suit pocket, his parents’ letter burning against his thigh. A reminder. His Aunt merely sent him a withering look from beneath her dark lashes. “Darling, she’s more than fair. She’s simply perfect for you. Trust me.” She sent him a reassuring pat on the back, an action a mite improper, but it was her home and she could do as she liked. Viktor frowned. Perfect for him? How would anyone know who is perfect for him when even he didn’t know? And, honestly, at the moment he hardly cared. Why was the effort even being wasted on him? “I trust you, Aunt Leah.” Viktor murmured, eyes falling down to his well-shined shoes. All he wanted to do was walk out of this stuffy party and find the nearest meat pie shop and stuff his face. He’s come across one by accident when he’d wandered off from the city centre of London. He’d only had the briefest of whiffs of the strong savoury aroma before his Aunt had once more found him and whisked him away. Oddly enough, it was the one thing –pending marriage aside- that he couldn’t get off his mind. Turning quickly, dark brown lowered harshly at the sudden introduction thrust upon him, Vitya found himself staring into those mysteriously mossy eyes once more. His heart skipped a beat, throat closing dangerously with nerves as the delicate being before him curtsied with elegance and utter perfection. Her words were quiet and cultured, dainty as everything about her. Bloody hell, Laurel Bennet certainly was perfect. And that was a bit boring, was it not? Viktor bowed briefly before her, his back straight as an arrow, his mouth set plain and unsmiling. Raw silver eyes caught hers in the briefest of looks. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet.”[/color] His deep voice rumbled with the strength of Russia, his accent thick despite a lifetime of English lessons. “I am honoured you and your charming grandmother could attend.” In an automatic sweep of breeding, Viktor deftly kissed Mrs. Alcott’s gloved hand, setting it down softly. “How is the winter treating such ladies? It is quite soggy here, no? I am used to kilometres of snow.” He conversed politely, hand resting within his pocket, letter tucked into his palm. He’d do it for his family’s pride, and nothing else. [/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Jan 24, 2009 2:16:01 GMT -5
I was a little girl
Alone in my little world
Who dreamed of a little home for meDREAM , priscilla anh- - - - - - - RISING, Laurel breathed a silent prayer of gratitude that she had not toppled into Mr. Petrovich, only to find her grandmother’s slender hand snake about her forearm once more, an unshakable reminder that Laurel was not to forget herself again. Keeping her eyes lowered, she waited to vanish once more. That was her purpose, she had discovered, - to be present without existing. Her duty was to smile and curtsy. She was no more than a porcelain doll, dressed in finery and compared against others. Her value rested solely in the opinions of others. She was certain that Viktor Petrovich would prove no different from any of the other young men in attendance.
“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet. I am honored you and your charming grandmother could attend.”
Laurel’s brow rose with shock as she raised her eyes in question. How did he know? She was certain that the truth of her ancestry was more carefully guarded than the Queen’s jewels, yet her grandmother said nothing, smiling whilst her fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh of Laurel’s arm. No doubt she would find some way to place the fault upon Laurel – she had blinked at an inopportune time and, as Mr. Petrovich was skilled at discerning what such actions, he had discovered their secret.
“How is the winter treating such ladies? It is quite soggy here, no? I am used to kilometers of snow.”
She could feel her grandmother’s eyes upon her, waiting for an answer that proved her clever and witty to their hosts. “It is quite…” her voice trailed off as she searched for the appropriate word. Winter had proven to be a misery. Other than the social calls her grandmother insisted Laurel accompany her on, she had been confined to their home. Her days were filled with intolerable lessons from her governess – ones she seemed incapable of mastering – and her nights with polite conversation while sipping tea and perfecting her needlepoint. The damp, chilled air brought about aches and complaints from her grandmother and so, they had not taken walks in the park, and Laurel had quickly learned not to request one of the servants to chaperone lest she feel their disdain more strongly. “Confining,” she murmured finally.
The grip upon her arm tightened considerably as Laurel melted beneath her grandmother’s withering stare. She had failed yet again. With a breathy laugh, her grandmother launched into a lengthy conversation about the springtime and how she could not wait for it arrive – tea parties and rose gardens, walks and dances. It was all she could do to keep from yawning at the utter boredom of it all. If they all walked away now, Mrs. Alcott would continue talking – Laurel had come to the conclusion that her grandmother would be content to converse with a rock so long as it gave her its rapt attention.
This is the life you were meant for, she reminded herself silently. The life her mother had led; the life Laurel was terrified to disgrace. She wished desperately she could remember more of her mother, instead of the memories that slipped through her fingers like breath on a cool evening. She had only the stories her grandmother readily provided of how kind and nurturing she had been, graceful and polite. Yet she had left all this behind for a different life. For love, the very thing Laurel feared she was incapable of ever receiving. Shielded beneath a polite smile, she had never felt more alone or dejected. |
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Post by viktor petrovich on Jan 29, 2009 17:57:38 GMT -5
Winter is a killer
When the sun goes down
I'm not really stubborn as I seem
Said the knuckle to the conrete
EVEN IF IT KILLS ME , motion city soundtrack
- - - - - -
IT WAS NOT
[/b][/size][/font] the suit that strangled him, nor the artfully decorated tie that cut off his air supply or that caused the winter cold to feel far closer than simply frosting up the windows. It was the clenched smiles, the endless dreary conversation as grey as any London day, the false gestures of niceties and the blank shining doll eyes. Viktor had never been able to immerse himself in light-hearted, falsified conversations. It may have seemed as such to the untrained eye, but Viktor was merely using tricks and artifice. He repeated the same conversations he’d had with others in the past within the current conversation. He borrowed anecdotes and comments from other guests only to turn around then use them in later conversations as his own. No one noticed because no one cared, and everyone unanimously found Vitya cool and remote with a sneaking hint of charm. The charm, of course, was utterly fabricated. The cool exterior was a mask for nerves. Viktor was a doer, not a talker, and anything more than light conversation –though unbearable as it was- would likely send him into some mild form of a panic attack. People were not his gift, numbers were. As conversation continued, Viktor couldn’t help but keep his attention plastered on Miss Laurel Bennet. He had right –did he not- to inspect his future…his new acquaintance as thoroughly as possible. His piercing judgement found her to be unusually quiet –even for the demure ladies of the time—and exceptionally boring. She was not even attempting conversation at times, as he was faithfully trying. Though he had to remind himself that there was a possibility he’d scared her –it wasn’t a particularly unusual thing to occur around him. But in this case, his Aunt had sharply and discreetly elbowed him at the word ‘grandmother’. It was true Viktor knew much of Miss Bennet without the reciprocation of such knowledge of himself. As sterile and cold as it sounded, Viktor had been previously…briefed…on Laurel’s life, gossip and all. He was aware of her orphan status, and he knew Mrs. Alcott was almost assuredly Laurel’s grandmother. The higher your societal class, the longer your ear extends. And though it had initially made him anxious to know such intimate facts about a person who meant absolutely nothing to him, Vitya now reasoned it was better he get to know her in that way rather than trying to pull information from that clamped bear trap of a mouth. Though he felt terribly regretful of the death of Miss Bennet’s family, he truly hoped she was not some depressed mop of a creature who mutely slunk around the house. Although, he mused with bitter humour, at least he would hardly have to know she was there. The most curious thing occurred at that moment. As if in tandem, Aunt Leah and Mrs. Alcott simultaneously excused themselves, disappearing with hasty goodbyes, abandoning Viktor with Laurel. Mouth agape in mute protest, Vitya had to forcibly stop himself from reaching out and grabbing onto his fleeing aunt. He was suddenly faced with a fear he was unaware he possessed –being alone with Miss Bennet. Staring into his inevitable future and imagining the bleak life ahead of him. Viktor frowned at her wordlessly for a brief moment, his mind hiccupping blankly. Shoving his hands in his pockets in suddenly boyish display of attitude, Viktor deepened his inspection of Laurel, searching for any spark of life within her. “Where, ah…where do you like to go here? In London, that is.” He clarified uselessly, “I have seen very little of the city...”[/color] Viktor trailed off, having miraculously forgotten all of his conversational skills. How was he meant to remain clear-headed in the presence of his future wife? [/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Jan 30, 2009 15:42:02 GMT -5
Tired of always saying sorry
It's just another fighting story
And I can barely walk a straight line
I'm tired of learning life the hard way
I wish that being strong was easy
But I wanted more this timeDYING TO LIVE AGAIN , hedley- - - - - - - THEIR WORDS FELL HOLLOW upon her ears as Laurel’s eyes wandered through the crowded room. She could feel the curious stares of the girl’s she had been forced to converse with earlier as they appraised her next to the prize – Mr. Petrovich. They were waiting for her to fall, to provide them with something to whisper and giggle about at teas to come. Laurel was certain that before the night was over she would not disappoint, that was all she ever did. She could still see her Aunt’s eyes as they bored into her with disgust when she would return to the small cottage covered in dirt, stockings ripped and hair tangled from climbing trees or building castles in the brush. It was there, in her pretend world, that she had felt as though she belonged. Tea parties with her dolls had been carefree and without the restrictive rules society. A part of her longed for the simplicity of her childhood once more.
The grip upon her arm lessened, and Laurel was grateful that she was permitted to disappear into the shadows once more. “I’ll only be a moment, Laurel. Wait for me here,” her grandmother soothed before flitting away, leaving her alone with Mr. Petrovich, much to her mounting horror. His eyes were on her, searching for something she couldn’t be sure of, but was certain she lacked. His brow furrowed in disappointment and discontent as he shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. Biting her lip, Laurel resisted the urge to remind him that it had not been her idea for them to be introduced or left alone. If he wanted to leave that would be fine – preferable. His eyes followed after his aunt’s for a frantic moment before returning to her face once more, asking her yet another superficial question about a topic she was certain he did not care to know the answer to.
“Nor have I. My Aunt”—her eyes met his in silent challenge at the word, daring him to elaborate on his knowledge of her family—“is not given to sightseeing. Unless you include the countless parlors I’ve frequented. If you care to know, which I am certain you do not, I can tell you which of your distinguished guests have the nicest wallpaper or the loosest tongues.” With a roll of her eyes she glanced about for a chaperone or the domineering presence of her grandmother as she returned. She was tired of pretending. Ever since her arrival in London, everything had been a carefully assembled façade that she had been made to participate in. What choice did she have? It was either follow the path her Aunt and Uncle had presented her with – marrying her horrible cousin Robert – or play a part in an elaborate ruse. With each introduction as Mrs. Alcott’s beloved niece, Laurel felt another piece of herself die. She longed to discover who she was, and feared she would forever be playing a part.
“I must apologize, Mr. Petrovich, for it seems you are better acquainted with me than I, you. How did you know?” The words rushed past her lips before she could halt them, brushing past the careful mask of politeness and protocol.
Laurel was not certain what frightened her more – the lie or the fact that someone might actually know the truth. |
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Post by viktor petrovich on Feb 23, 2009 16:08:14 GMT -5
A cold heart will burst
If mistrusted first
And a calm heart will break
When given a shake
This is how my heart behaves
HOW MY HEART BEHAVES , feist
- - - - - -
THOSE PECULIARLY MISTY EYES
[/b][/size][/font] sharpened like claws, scraping against the line of his cleanly shaven cheek. The change from waif to wolf was a shock to Viktor’s system, and utterly unexpected. Vitya’s eyes widened briefly, a snap of astonishment cracking his previously neutral expression. He found himself staring at Laurel’s eloquently styled hair rather than staring into that accusing spotlight of a look. Heat crept stealthy around his starched collar, a line of fire and sweat travelling down his spine. There was hardly much Viktor despised more than being put on the spot –especially if he had to lie. He found lying particularly distasteful, and all the more vile because of its necessity in life’s trials. There was no shred of cowardice within his bearing, though, and Viktor was often regarded as a gentleman who did what must be done under all circumstances. Laurel’s gaze could bruise and scrape but Viktor’s could slice and shred. His initial shock at the disturbing candour of Miss. Bennet dampened into a heavy feeling in his gut of neurosis and uncertainty. That she should so openly question him on such personal matters was wholly inappropriate and no business but his own. To make matters slightly more convoluted, the business was in fact about the spirited girl in question, and so the difficulty of whether or not the truth should be shed so early on weighed heavily on Viktor’s mind. In reply to being put on the spot by such a line of questioning Vitya could only react in the singular manner in which he was comfortable with. Cold indifference. Viktor’s back stiffened in reaction, regal demeanour slipping on like a comfortable pair of boots. Strong jaw clenched firmly, words slipped out hard as ice and just as frigid. “You should hardly concern yourself with such things, Miss Bennet. Surely, no one is more acquainted with you than yourself. I would go as far as to say some might faint with fright if they were to be personally acquainted with you.” [/b] His mind fell blank as untouched snow, frozen by his own reaction. Viktor could only spare a single hard look before he nodded his head to Laurel and turned on his heel, sweeping towards the balcony doors. Inwardly cursing himself for losing his temper so quickly and on such an important matter, Viktor swiftly slipped out the doors and flung himself to the edge of the rail. Large hands gripped the cold wrought iron bar as he leaned over, inhaling the crisp winter air. A huff of breath exhaled like spirits as he stared through his own misty breath into the darkness. “Fool.” Viktor spat sharply. It was already frighteningly clear to him that this relationship could go nowhere. Not when it had begun like a war. [/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Feb 28, 2009 23:51:30 GMT -5
Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark
Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms
Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?
The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stoneYOU ARE THE MOON , the hush sound- - - - - - - THE AIR IN THE ROOM DISAPPEARED. Her breath hiccupped, becoming desperate, sharp. Despite the ice trapped within Viktor’s glare, Laurel felt heat rise to her cheeks, hot pricks piercing her spine as a dozen curious eyes turned toward her. The words that had slipped from her lips only moments before tasted of bile. His words were barbed, embedding themselves deep, tearing apart the thin veneer of strength she hid behind. Tears burned, threatening to spill as he finished. Viktor turned his stoic gaze upon her once more, their eyes locking in a battle she had already surrendered to. There was no trace of compassion or remorse for all that had been said, only indifference. With a curt nod, he turned, dismissing Laurel as though she were nothing more than an annoyance as easily forgotten as the servants.
He was right; he was wrong. Somehow, he had seen the truth of the girl hidden beneath layers of lace and finery. He had seen what she could not find within her own reflection. The girl destined to disappoint and fall. Unlovable and undesired. As Laurel watched him slip silently from view, she knew this was how it would forever be – her disappointing and others walking away. Surely, no one is more acquainted with you than yourself. His words burned against her mind, unwrapping questions as it embedded itself deep within her consciousness. How could she ever expect someone to care about her, to want to get to know her, when she did not understand herself?
Her blurred gaze travelled through the room, searching for the familiar disapproval that would shadow her grandmother’s expression once more. Still trembling, Laurel swept gracefully from where she stood, stealing into the silent shadows that claimed the corners of the merry room. Resting her head against the wall, she closed her eyes, shutting out the world she would never be accepted in. She could hear the girlish giggling as they gossiped round the refreshment table. The soft swishing of stiff satins and silks across the floors. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to disappear. It would be for the best. They would titter about her over tea, speculating over what could have become of the strange girl until some other scandal eradicated Laurel from their minds. It would not take much, she knew she was entirely forgettable.
The musky perfume her grandmother wore wafted like a warning toward her, and Laurel pressed herself more firmly into the corner. She did not want to be lectured and questioned, for the fault to rest squarely upon her shoulders for Mr. Petrovich’s hasty departure. This time her grandmother would be right. Had Laurel been the sort of girl others found desirable she would still be standing before him, conversing lightly, eliciting envy from the other girls. But that was not her, and he had realized that within moments of speaking to her.
No matter how desperately Laurel tried to convince herself that the opinion of Viktor Petrovich did not matter, she could not shake the feeling that it did. And that made all the difference. { ooc - ugh. soooo lame. sorry |
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Post by viktor petrovich on Mar 14, 2009 9:07:57 GMT -5
You'll never contemplate that I am near
And help goes unseen
You're the cave admitting who you choose
And I could be there for you
I COULD BE THERE FOR YOU , eisley
- - - - - -
THE COLD
[/b][/size][/font] was a comfort, a relief from the inherently stuffy nature of the foreigners packed like sardines in a can within the room to his back. This life was a suffocating one, Viktor knew. He’d chosen it, chose it over a quiet and mundane life of marriage and children, chose it over hunting the pelts he so expertly sold. He had purposefully walked into a life of finance and thick dusty ledgers, an abacus aglow beside oil lamps. Again Viktor would choose this life if he had to start anew –or so he thought. If it wasn’t for all the strings attached he would be living his dream. The frequent parties, the droll conversation, the bizarre food and now an even more bizarre city. What was he to do with the life he’d so readily chosen? The clarity of his beliefs was becoming muddy. Then there was the case of Miss Laurel Bennet. The floor had nearly collapsed beneath him upon a single meeting of worlds. Hanging his head in strained resignation, Vitya clenched his teeth, caging the beast within him that desperately wished to make its frustration verbal. He wanted to tear the rail from its hinges, walk back into that room and tell everyone where to put their well-wishing. Yet, more than most folk, Viktor knew responsibility. It had not taken long for him to realise that in London, at the very least, there was not a sense of family loyalty such as that in his homeland. People ran wild here, without a care of how they might hurt or affect the people that cared for them. Everyone was a alone; alone because they chose to be. Thus, Viktor Petrovich would not disappoint. He would not be the reason for the fall of his father’s time-honoured business, and he refused to fail himself either. Vitya’s fingertips had begun to numb in the unforgiving night cold, reminiscent of a feeling he was beginning to sense spreading through his bones, his nerves. It had nothing to do with the cold. Thoughts drifting back to the moment of explosion between himself and the volatile Miss Bennet, Viktor was confident he’d been in the right in guarding his knowledge of their future arrangements. As of this moment, he knew she would be anything but prepared or understanding towards the information he kept so close. Heavens knew he was still reeling. He was meant to create a relationship with this prickly creature before divulging any important information. Both families had entrusted him with the duty and he’d managed to alienate Laurel before dessert. Well, in truth, she’d done the whole of the harassment, Viktor mused with a twitch of lips. He’d merely defended himself. The girl was high-strung, surely, but she was also undoubtedly beautiful. There was a chance he would work with that, Viktor realised with a spark of hope. It wasn’t as if he was marrying some reclusive hag. It certainly could be worse. Tugging at the cuff of his sleeve with a hint of neurosis, Viktor took a centring breath and stepped back into the parlour, allowing the warmth of food and cologne to engulf and overwhelm him once more. Expression stern, Vitya surveyed the room, nodding briefly to those who attempted to grab his attention. His eyes avoided his aunt, who quietly fumed over her nephew’s indiscretion. Well, it was hardly his fault was it? There was no blame to sit upon his shoulders. Somewhat… A brow flicked in miffed curiosity as it became clear that Laurel was the single guest to be utterly alone. Aside from himself. Frowning, Viktor made his way towards her, long strides carrying him with assumed confidence. Her back was to him, glossy ringlets of dark hair teasing the delicate white skin of her back. A look of uncertainty shaded his face crimson for a brief moment as his gaze travelled the long line of her neck. Clearing his throat with unnecessary force, Viktor leaned forward minutely, speaking quietly in her ear before she could whirl at angry face upon him. The thought that he might be terrifying her by an unheard of gesture such as this hardly occurred to him. Viktor knew he had to get through this, and quickly, if he was going to mend what had already been broken. “My apologies for my earlier…indiscretions, Miss Bennet. I am…” he paused, unsure of the heart that beat heavily within his breast, “quite ashamed of my behaviour. You are most certainly a captivating person that I would…I would feel honoured to be personally acquainted with you.”[/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Mar 16, 2009 0:58:32 GMT -5
Etch this into my brain for me
Tell me how its supposed to be
Where everything will go
And how I'll be without you by my sideNEED , hana pestle- - - - - - - ALONE. The sounds of the party faded to obscurity as Laurel allowed herself to drift into the familiar cocoon of solitude. The tips of her fingers slid silently over the soft frost on the window pane. The delicate curlicued feathers melted beneath her tentative touch, forming a thin scab of ice as she moved on. Her brow furrowed with concentration as she sought to repair the damage she had done to the intricate artwork painted there. With her touch, the image continued to mar until they original image was lost to something new. Dropping her hand, Laurel stared at it absently. Despite the new scars there was still a subtle beauty. Although it had been changed its essence remained, still glittering, still lovely, it merely required someone to look closer to find it. People, she realized, were too preoccupied with their own scars to look past and discover the beauty hidden within another person. They wanted to find someone who had not been tainted – a piece of glass beneath curious fingertips. Laurel Bennet could not be that person.
She had believed in a lie, fallen wholeheartedly into her grandmother’s promise that this world was the one she belonged to. It had been so easy to accept it. The warm embrace it had presented her with was welcome after years of being alone. That was all she wanted, to be held and to know she had finally found her place. This – the party, the endless rules of society, forever waiting – was not her world. She wished she could be more like the giggling girls that had glared at her in envy as she had been introduced to Viktor Petrovich. She could not be like them – diminishing until she existed only to please another. There had to be something more… And yet she had seen his reaction to her outburst. His words still seared against her memory, forever imprinting themselves until they echoed alongside the voices of so many others. Dread clawed at her till she had to grip the sculpted molding along the window to keep from falling. She would never be enough. She was not what they were looking for and she was tired of trying to fit in. All of her efforts were in vain. Her hand fell limply to her side. The problem with chasing a dream was the realization that was all it would ever be.
The sound of a deep voice clearing his throat broke her reverie. With a startled gasp, Laurel looked up. In the dark, the window acted as a mirror, reflecting back the person she was certain she would never hear from again, Viktor Petrovich. Her chest constricted painfully, caging her frantically beating heart. In the darkness he looked more foreboding. He leaned forward, his breath warm against her ear, eliciting a trail of goosebumps along her neck, he murmured an apology. Her eyes widened in surprise before she looked at the ground. What did he want from her? A fight? Laurel had already surrendered to that battle. “You needn’t apologize for speaking the truth, Mr. Petrovich,” she murmured as she turned to face him.
Her eyes searched his face for an indication that he wasn’t here to taunt her. She was tired of being alone. Of standing in a room and pretending she knew how to belong to it. There were a dozen other girls eagerly awaiting an introduction, a chance to win his affection. They both knew there was nothing about her that warranted an apology. “The fault is my own.”
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Post by viktor petrovich on Apr 1, 2009 5:30:45 GMT -5
But your lips
When they speak
Are the valleys and peaks
Of a mountain range
On fire
GIRL INFORM ME , the shins
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RELIEF FLOWED
[/b][/size][/font] through Viktor’s tensed muscles, relaxing his mannerisms minutely. Rather than furrow his brow in confusion, his gaze only sharpened almost harshly on the wide-eyed woman presented before him. He hastened to conclude whether Laurel’s words had been uttered with integrity or sarcasm. It took him mere moments to note that there were no hidden barbs in her speech, and if he was to be optimistic, no hidden intentions either. Of course, the single fact that she’d accepted the blame of their tiff was enough to take him aback. No woman admitted to their faults. Most assuredly she was being polite, as the conversation called for. It was possible she was cursing him beneath those lovely smoky eyes while expertly going through the etiquette. Most women would be, Viktor supposed with a flicker of humour in his eyes. He would have to tread on eggshells with this woman, he concluded soundly. No one was as guileless as they appeared -certainly not this intriguing creature. Bowing slightly in silent acceptance at her words, Viktor could only turn away from that imploring stare to stand idly beside her. To anyone else in the room, the couple may have appeared to be calmly taking in the scenery and guests while comfortably standing side by side. Viktor appeared the most confident man in his radius –and he felt the most awkward. His mind was not on the guests who watched the newcomer from the corner of their eye, weighing and judging his worth to their society. His mind was hardly on the once more silent beauty dwarfed beside him. Viktor was reliving the moments of his and Miss Bennet’s meeting. How swiftly she’d morphed from soft silent debutante to fiery female. She was a match simply waiting to be ignited at any moment, and Viktor had been completely blind to that. Even glancing quickly at her now would only evoke an imagine of mousy girl -a girl who’s speech could turn a man into a pile of ashes. It was only at this moment of stillness between the pair in which Vitya was powerfully struck by the splendour of her sharp tongue and variable expression. Perhaps there was more to Miss Laurel Bennet than he initially imagined, Viktor admitted silently. Or perhaps he was getting ahead of himself and she was simply a meek young girl with a foul temper. This would be his most dire undertaking in the weeks to come. “One would imagine that at my own party there would be guests which I’m familiar with.” Viktor spoke suddenly, his deep Russian intonations floating unnoticed among said company. Angling a half-hearted smile towards Miss Bennet, his expression was easy, though his eyes were brimming with regret. Turning away once more, a half smile of what could only be icy sarcasm was pasted upon Viktor’s chiselled features. “Perhaps you might fill me in on all of the…more entertaining visitors.” He nodded towards a massive gentleman in the centre of the room, quite balding and bawdy, who appeared to have perspiration troubles. “Mr. Abernathy there…”his eyes flickered warily towards a young man who commanded the attention of several young and eager ladies, “And that man. Vladimir something. He certainly does not look Russian to me.”[/b] [/blockquote] |
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Post by laurel bennet on Apr 13, 2009 0:43:40 GMT -5
Stop staring, you're the reason I feel so unhappy all the time
I've given you everything I know how
You're standing on the top of my shoe
Keeping me from gaining ground
I'm sorry if you feel like I let you down
SHOULD BE LOVED , blue october- - - - - - - IN THE SILENCE that blanketed the pair, Laurel waited. She waited for him to sharpen his tongue once more in her direction, shredding her fragile confidence anew. She wished she could hate him – walk swiftly away without a backward glance or regret. Instead she found herself inexplicably drawn to his icy gaze and gruff voice. So many treated her as though she were made of glass, easily splintered with a word. Viktor Petrovich had been the first to see the truth of her and speak it. He had not cared if he injured her in the process. Even now, he did not attempt to soothe her with fragrant apologies and assurances. She doubted he felt shame for what he had said, nor did she think he had reason to. It was not his words that held her firmly in place beside him but the transparency he seemed to see her with. Despite the firm knowledge that he saw through her every action, Laurel felt herself sinking into the familiar embrace his silence provided her with. When she did not speak she did not disappoint. She had already fallen short once this evening.
“One would imagine that at my own party there would be more guests which I’m familiar with,” he said suddenly, breaking through the dark clouds of her reverie. Laurel turned a questioning look to him but remained silent. There was no way he cared what she had to say. “Perhaps you might fill me in on all of the…more entertaining visitors.”
It was a trap. Although she wasn’t certain what the consequence of indulging him with gossip was, Laurel was certain that he was attempting to coerce her into gossip to find more fault within her. Her eyes roamed through the crowded parlor of faces both familiar and foreign. In the far corner, Abigail Daniels stood, glaring daggers at her for monopolizing the attention of the evening’s guest of honor. She was more than welcome to Viktor and his barbed tongue. Abigail was Laurel’s opposite in every way – pale blonde with gray eyes, a quick wit who always said the correct thing no matter the situation. She was everything Laurel wished she could be.
“As you have not yet met them, I would not want to sway your good opinion,” she began formally, attempting to remember the proper etiquette. Her eyes met his then, the carefully constructed words falling mute upon her lips. Why should she pretend? He had already shown that he saw through her, understanding the pieces she thought were hidden. An amused smile teased the corners of her lips. “Although, it must be said that there are many in attendance who are undeserving of good opinion. I would certainly be counted amongst them. No one is as they seem and everyone is playing a part.” Sighing Laurel followed Viktor’s gaze as he surveyed his guests. “I am certain your aunt will see that you are properly integrated into society. Though I must warn you, there will be plenty of times where you are bored into catatonia. I have found that making up stories about those you are made to socialize with is most enjoyable. I suspect you would be quite skilled at it. It would seem that you see more than most.” |
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Post by viktor petrovich on Apr 19, 2009 10:26:02 GMT -5
Isn't it romantic to be romantic
When you don't understand what you love?
Or if a word like that could ever mean anything
When what you want is on it's way out
CENTURY AFTER CENTURY , idlewild
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SUBTLE SARDONIC HUMOUR
[/b][/size][/font] coloured Miss Bennet's voice as her muted tones filled the space between them. Viktor found it novel and intriguing how relaxing it could be to listen to a woman speak. Most often it was his mother or aunt nagging at him or droning on about impossibly boring subjects. He did enjoy the time of his young twin sisters when they longed for his attention, but there was no authentic conversation there naturally. Viktor's idea of comfort was a stiff drink beside a roaring fire, or perhaps enjoying the drama of a piano piece. Certainly not exchanging pleasantries with a woman he'd only just met. Yet he found this woman's words oddly touching. Their wisps of meaning encircled him, went through him in the same way his very own thoughts did. Most certainly he'd felt the need to project a certain image to these noble Londoners from the beginning. It was necessity in this fashion of life. Even more true was the 'catatonia', as Miss Laurel so blithely coined, that struck him in situations such as this party. The feeling that he was simply going through the motions, a planned and graceful dance everyone knew. If you missed a step, everyone would note it, everyone would judge. Quiet smile mirroring Laurel's own, Viktor's strong gaze fell upon her minutely relaxing expression. "I assure you, Miss Bennet -I need not fabricate any tales about myself. Being a newcomer appears to be all the excitement my guests can handle at this point." [/color]Watchful stare flickering back towards the mingling crowd, Vitya pursed his lips curiously. "For fear of sounding most concieted, I am positive that rumours are already in flight without my help. Though I would rather they say I was a fearsome man who killed a bear with his own hands rather than a man who might rule Russia if nineteen people just happened to pass away."[/color] Upon his words, Viktor quickly recalled what he had heard of Laurel Bennet. Both parents had passed away at some point, grandmother posing as an aunt. He could hardly comprehend the sheer mass and variety of talk that surrounded her. The force of realisation at how many curious stares she must recieve trouble him. Perhaps the rumours of marriage that would later circulate would work against him when it came time to tell her the full truth. Viktor was quite confident that at this point their engagement was airtight -but secrets never remained secrets for long in this world. He could be sure of that. Turning quickly, aiming a fiercely searching expression towards the curious creature beside him, Viktor spoken quickly, his voice a deeply accented rumble, "Laurel, I..."[/color] from the corner of his eye, Viktor noted with aggrivation a group of ladies and their chaparones eagerly awaiting his company, hunger and curiousity brimming in their eyes. Pulling back warily, Viktor smiled and shook his head in regret. "I apologise, Miss Bennet. It seems my services are needed elsewhere at this time."[/color] His eyes lingered warmly upon her face for a brief moment before they were hidden by heavy lashes, his head lowering as he bowed, taking her hand delicately to place a firm, quick kiss upon her soft glove. "I do hope we can continue this conversation sooner rather than later... Goodbye"[/color] Without a backward glance, cursing himself the entire way, Viktor Petrovich moved into catatonia. [/blockquote] |
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