The Blind Leading the Blind
Being a Starkova meant Liliya could indulge in the clicking footfalls of her own Prada heels against the marble of the staircase.
Her hands trailed the railing as she descended, fingertips dancing upon their carved underbellies. The manicured edges of her nails explored each dent and crevice, art she never had the privilege to pay mind to before. She held corners of the world in her delicate hands, the seven seas resting upon her very palms.
Perhaps this was what this life tasted like.
But forget the illusions of power, it also tasted like trivialities. The air was scented with the last of Katerina’s lavender perfume, and the chiding from Oliwia for a different fragrance lingered in the crisp atmosphere of Kaliningrad’s winter. She rounded a corner, skipping off from the last few steps and landing with a thud, and flung the windows wide open to lean out into the falling flakes of another Russian storm.
Her hair was coated in white, flaxen dipping into platinum, the apple of her cheeks grew rosier than candied fruits at Christmas. A tingle of frozen excitement ran down her spine as the gales followed down the back of her dress, a temptress’ slithering snake—
The music stopped, “Liliya, it's December for goodness sake!”
She glared at Leo playfully as if he could see her, and as she begrudgingly turned the handles firmly, the piano keyed picked up pace again. Their prodigal son had been instructed to play a chorus charming enough to distract into errors and calming enough to lull into placidity. Whoever was arriving would have not only been grateful to step into the fireplace-blessed heaven of the Starkov living room, but be graced with the most talented of Tchaikovsky.
Visitors were not a rare occurrence; after all, the drawing room had proven itself to be a particularly charming locale for discussions of Russian maritime — yet to the wide-eyed Liliya, she would take any lick of conversation she could scavenge.
Gossip spread fast around the Starkov house. From the stray mentions of their parents to the murmurs of the butler, news of the Clavero visit had soon churned, whispers over the breakfast table passed along in the butter.
Yet the corridors were starkly empty, and each step Liliya took echoed through the hallways’ many doors of opportunity. The heirs and heiresses of Starkov tended to busy themselves with their own frivolities: the idle reads and careless entertainment they deemed more important than the promises of intrigue. She wanted every bit of the audacity wealth and status gave her siblings — it had been months, yet she still felt giddy at calling them брат and сестра.
She recalled the first day she stepped into this frenzy of a family with a small twist of the lips, there and gone, a flash of pearl under the chandelier light.
The same man she had first seen eight months ago stood before her, the only difference hair an inch longer. Hands clasped behind his back, he pondered her presence at the foot of the stairs, pensive. “We are expecting guests, be on your best behaviour,” began the slow words, concise and instructive.
“Yes.” She nodded.
“You ought to entertain the Clavero child,” he continued, ignoring the suppressed eye roll Liliya exhibited in return. “I don't want him causing any trouble.” Despite their short months together, he knew her and her eavesdropping nature too well.
She followed as her guardian strode to the windows, and with languid carelessness he drew the curtains open to reveal a world engulfed in unrelenting white, lit golden by the stubborn street lamps still flickering in the drafts. It took brief moments for her to focus with the backdrop of night, squinting as she edged closer to the glass. Two lone figures braced their way to the gate against the snow, where another awaited, formal and diligent, casting the dark shadow of an umbrella over the hollows of their faces.
The click of the door, the close in a soft tick. The words of her guardian to another with the last remnants of his speech her only reminder.
The distinctive sound of footsteps — four pairs: the proud fall of the family patriarch, the humble restraint of the household butler, the sharp challenge of the hosted visitant, and finally, the unmistakable, clipped steps of a child, harmless against the carpeted floors.
Her shoulders tensed at their approach, scrunching the puffed sleeves of her furred dress. Pointedly, she lifted her eyes from where they had settled on the armrest, knuckles white with pompous excitement edged with anxiety. From the rise and fall of her chest, to the way her tongue pressed to the ceiling of her mouth, everything was too fast, too sudden, too magnified.
Liliya smiled with detached politeness.
She had expected her attention to be ensnared by the refined severity of Madam Clavero, if the whims of her curiosity paid any prices for her interest. She evaded her, however, getting away with no more than a small, reserved nod.
Instead, her gaze landed on that of a youth, and for a moment, it felt like staring at herself through a twisted mirror. The eyes that stared back were a reflection of her own, distantly lost in their own world beneath a radiant halo of blond curls. Angelic, almost, in a way more reminiscent of Lucifer than Gabriel.
Sly and elusive, a demon must have possessed her to offer a wink.
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x | LILIYA STARKOVA @Noel Clavero Translations: brother; sister Location: Starkov manor, Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia Date: 23rd December, 2025 |
INPC of Archer Duncan
The Blind Leading the Blind
 | x | Noel Clavero ─────────── 1st Year Durmstrang |
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Speech: #304655 «Bonjour» |
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NC 23.Dec.2025
| N | As ever, the words between him and his mother dwelt in French waters. Quietly, Noel therefore asked in that very language what it was that they were now doing in Russia. Quite unlike him and his dark-blond hair with its lighter tips, the cold seemed altogether at ease. Perhaps the strands wished to sweetly caress him for the question. So the boy, Italian by birth, chose to imagine it— even though his mother already regarded him with tempered eyes. «That is of no consequence,» she replied at once, briskly dismissing his curiosity in the most archaic form imaginable. Noel cast a critical glance up into her blue eyes. Marietta Clavero’s darkened. The clear sky gave way to a clouded unrest of designs she had never been willing to share. «We are here on account of the Du Clermont connections. They are aware, and it is time to attend to those ties.» From her feminine lips it sounded no different than any other rule or unprompted lesson that left her throat. Expectantly, she held him in her gaze, her expression pressing into his stubborn mind. Noel inclined his head. It was so elegantly that it twisted almost into a refusal, unnaturally rehearsed, and stiff in its execution. His attention had not yet fully turned toward the estate when her next words followed: «You will speak Russian in this household.» The accompanying sharp exhale drew his eyes into a quiet roll. Blessed be the small defiance of motion, for his thoughts remained otherwise bound of any spoken curse. Another question slipped from his lips, «Is German now to become the new Italian?» — spoken as though already consigned to the next dictionary his mother would bury beneath the dust of the past. Until each word would once more invite her criticism. That he ought to let their history rest and that he was now whatever their next homeland required him to be. Her heels began to strike against the snow as she conquered a path toward the gates. Over her shoulder she hissed, almost tenderly, «Do not make a mockery of yourself. You are French. We shall remain with French.» The words struck against him as they deserved. They slipped into one ear, were received as new rule, and passed from the other like useless, withered plants. They haven‘t been alive to begin with but for courtesy and respect of his parent, shall be tended to alike the dead. On the way, the rest of the information was not neglected. With every measured click of his mother’s heel, there followed a calm French explanation of the place. The name Starkov settled beside the newly given rule. They were in Kaliningrad, and it was expected of Noel to present himself at his very best. The call to the latter came as less of a surprise to him than being greeted by a formally dressed man once they had passed the gate. With a sense of obligation, he adhered to the rules of manners. In a quiet motion, he straightened the sleeve that had twisted uncomfortably along his arm. The dark coat was fitted perfectly, yet seemed rather displeased by the weather. At least the remainder of the walk passed in a pleasant stillness. The cold snow seemed more devout than that which lay on Durmstrang‘s grounds. It was quieter, and colder, as though one might at least trust in its foreign boldness. Noel could almost enjoy it, but alas they had already reached the estate. When its grand doors opened, he did not need to review his mother‘s reaction in the face of such aristocratic intimacy. Noel knew her shoulders would draw themselves upright. Whenever the structures of social authority closed about her blond hair, it was as though she were returning home. Entertaining a glimpse, the boy observed her as she moved through the Entrance. Along great windows, their edges framed only by heavy curtains, a quiet weariness settled over his lips. Whereas Marietta seemed to glow. Elegance flowed through her stride, surpassed only by Noel himself, whose youth had not yet stiffened his dutiful spine. What followed unfolded like a chosen and well-practised move upon a chessboard. So Noel understood it, as they were escorted by the patriarch of the family and a butler. Like the sacrifice of a queen that leads to a forced checkmate, Noel followed behind Marietta like a lamb within her ritual. His posture remained attentive. Elegance and composure lingered within his fine features, resting beneath dense lashes and settling upon his lips. The heels of his mother rang muffle out against the carpeted floor. It was as though they belonged to the very setting of a Russian chapter in a book of which Noel had not yet formed an opinion. The curtains, however, he liked. And the high ceilings held a certain charm, too. The atmosphere was oppressively formal — so it seemed to the blond-haired boy. Quietly, he followed the adults, offering at fitting moments a gracious nod or the faint frown across his brows. The random decision of fate be thanked, for the distance was not great, and Noel’s charade of attention did not have to endure a prolonged opening. His mother would owe him from this day onward, or so he thought as locked his eyes onto her perfectly straight shoulders. As they at last entered the desired rooms, the thought of the withered flower hissed faintly through Noel’s mind. Russian, he was meant to speak. Yet would not French, given their family origin, be equally fitting? The twelve-year-old kept his expression composed upon his finely cut face. The courteous smile lay almost petrified beneath a too neutral gaze. His eyes passed on from his proud mother. They glided over the polished floor, the patterned carpet and luxurious furniture until they came to rest upon the hem of a dress. It was perhaps that very sight which now stirred the question of how much the Starkov family might know of his linguistic abilities — and whether the girl, whose face he had yet to examine, spoke French the way he‘d been made to learn Russian. Making use of the few steps that still had to carry him further into the room, Noel observed her. She was seated upon one of the chairs. In form, they reminded Noel of those from the eighteenth century — the French Rococo period upon which Marietta so often indulged in lengthy tirades. A second glance was unnecessary to classify it as a Louis XV fauteuil. Noel was no great admirer of luxurious chairs, yet the term had long since begun to appear even in his dreams, where his dear mother arranged entire houses to her liking. That spiral of thought was only broken by the puffed sleeves of the girl’s dress, for together with her neck and the face that rested above it, she seemed almost like a doll. She reminded him of how he imagined his Mother was as a child, always behaved and beautiful. When all of a sudden, the girl winked. Immediately, something within Noel flickered to life. His lips parted, freed from their polite stillness. He could scarcely believe it! Had she truly winked at him? Of all places, he had not expected to encounter someone he might actually wish to speak to. Least of all in a room so steeped in Russian opulence. Especially not a person seated like an ornament, adorned in a gown of puffed sleeves. It made no sense, whilst perhaps it did, because of it. A genuine curiosity began to take hold of him. Noel tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. A critical gaze slipped into his grey-blue eyes. A strand of hair fell across the bridge of his nose. Then Marietta’s long fingers brushed over his left shoulder. He would have wished to shrug her off. His shoulder sank. It was almost imperceptibly, a fraction lower to escape her long fingers. She spoke of something about adult conversations — and the name Liliya. The rest followed the familiar course of such occasions. Noel did not need to nod. He closed the remaining distance between himself and the intriguing figure in long graceful strides. Once facing her, his head inclined in quiet respect. At closer range, he thought he could discern that she was older than he — although Noel himself stood above the average for his age. «It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance», he added, deliberately in French, his voice gentle enough not to overtake the conversation of the adults behind him. Drawing himself back into a schooled posture, a small smile, too, returned to his lips. It differed from before. It was no longer stiff and cold, but touched with the faintest hint of genuine warm wit. Noel very much hoped that the girl with the blue eyes might escort him from this air thickening room. He hoped, the further removed from the weight of social hierarchy, the more interesting his stay might yet become. |
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mentioned: @Liliya Starkova ; Note: - ; WC: 1498
The Blind Leading the Blind
Liliya Starkova, raised on a diet of empty stomachs and emptier social circles, was a girl who craved companionship. She had been deprived of friends for the tumultuous first few years of her childhood, any connections made painfully shallow. Her truest friends resided more in her imagination and the pages of books than the real world. Popularity, fear, respect, these had never been what she ached for — only fellowship. So when Noel responded to her wink with what seemed to be dismay, disbelief washed over her herself, and she could not help but bite back a smile as she beckoned this friend-to-be to her side.
I want to talk about everything with at least one person as I talk about things with myself.
As soon as they overcome this tedious language barrier of verb conjugations and grammatical exceptions that is.
It was out of all the languages of Noel’s great linguistic reservoir that he chose to torture the young Russian with one of her exceptional hatred. Having been forced to hunch over tables during her youth and traumatised by the gender-marked flashcards of her childhood, it was most inconvenient that Noel decided to assume her barely existent fluency. His words were polished, clipped, and refined, in the same way hers were taught to be but never seemed to resonate in. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Ah?” She asked, tilting her head. The language came as a surprise. It was one she had not heard nor spoken in years. Her eyes glimmered slightly, almost enamoured by these sudden use of the tongue, if not slightly in dismay of the rash assumption. How cocky of him to think just anyone in her small oblast of Kaliningrad would understand his French. Her words came out naturally in her native of Russian, a drawn out ‘yes’ of uncertainty, before pivoting to the one Noel was more comfortable with, and returning the sentiment. She managed a smile. “Да… Enchanté.”
In truth, Liliya was quite flattered by this petty exchange of languages. She paused before speaking, mulling over the syllables as doubt wondered if she was even pronouncing them correctly anymore. Her mouth seized up, before her eyes met Noel’s, and found an odd sense of solace in those reflective pools of grey-slated blue. Alost encouragement, hidden in those stranger’s depths. Her words were courtly, using the formal second person address in places where there was no such necessity. A sense of detachment washed over her as her lips pursed. “I love that you assume I can speak French, appreciate it.”
Then, she laughed. The sound broke the barriers linguistic tedium may have prompted, and further the barriers any social hierarchy may have imposed. Laughter need not be bound by any constraints, and certainly not any of the manmade confines that had limited their conversation. What slipped out of her mouth was crisp Russian, completed with an endearment half sarcastic. She twirled a strand of her hair, circling it over a delicate finger, before letting it fall in curls at the side of her face. She turned her eyes up towards Noel, and with a small, barely distinguishable smirk, spoke: “Oh but, милая, you are in my country; you ought to speak my language. Have enough dignity to not embarrass yourself with faux cocksureness speaking a foreign tongue.”
She stood, and stepped closer to her, only to realise they were already gapping in height. Liliya had always been a rather small child, and even the imposing genetics of her father was not enough to boost her lack of height. Standing at only just over 5’1, Noel’s above average height was already catching up to her own. It was not helping with her self-confidence at all. “Noel Clavero — you are quite tall.” She observed bluntly, although it was meant as a compliment. Then she inclined her head in curiosity, a small smile gracing her lips as she asked of his studies, “You go to Durmstrang, do you not? Do tell, which year are you in again?”
Taking Noel by the hand if he would allow her, Liliya would rush would rush him through a few rooms and up the staircase, her heeled feet hitting on the marble of the steps. “Come now!” She cried, an enthused grin spreading across her lips as she knew where exactly to take the foreign boy. It was a room she had loitered in for hours on end when she first explored the Starkov house, and there was a childish joy within showing it to someone new. “There is much of this house to explore. Not even I am familiar with all of its nooks and crannies. I am certain it is far more interesting than your mother’s business negotiations.”
Mildly dusty, she pushed open a pair of doors on the second floor and within was a room adorned with display cases, maps, timelines, documents, and an array of other exhibits she was yet to all explore. It was humble of size, no ballroom or living room, but to her, it was the museum its door plaque boasted. She walked first to one end of the room, where on the left wall was a large timeline spanning from the tsarist Russia, through the Soviet Union, and to their modern day control. Displayed in cases below the timeline was a row of preserved notes, records, and heirlooms.
She was a part of this history. This living, breathing history that was her family. Family that served a much nobler purpose than her dark roots, and family that, exuding through each morning quip, each evening dinner, and each late night conversation, loved her. So many names written on these walls, and at the very end, an array she was more than familiar with. Her fingers trailed along the glass, and she threw a glance back at Noel, as if to ask, Is this not amazing?
Even in the face of a stranger, especially in the face of a stranger, she felt an undoubtable sense of pride.
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x | LILIYA STARKOVA @Noel Clavero Translation: yes; honey Location: Starkov manor, Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia Date: 23rd December, 2025 |
INPC of Archer Duncan