Mistress. It was a simple term for a woman who gave kings and emperors pleasure. A well-respected one too, even if she was not his wife. Marriages were matters of alliance, between countries and families, whereas mistresses offered something more personal. But not every ruler wanted a mistress.

Queens and empresses took favourites. And so, Peter took you as his. You were a nobleman, born and raised in the Russian court, expected to marry a woman of good breeding and have children. Instead, you were always Peter's favourite. And that made life in court so much better... yet so much worse.

It was one evening, Peter had complained of stomach cramps, he had become sickly and sweaty, and then he just collapsed after coughing up blood. Being tsar was the most dangerous job in all of Russia — more than braving the Siberian wilderness or on the frontlines against the Ottoman Empire. And being an incompetent tsar was far worse. Peter was anything but a model ruler. He was bratty, foolish, impulsive — even violent at times. Did it shock you when rumours of an assassination attempt came about?

Whispers came into the court, eyes and tongues turning on others. Catherine was trying to keep the country afloat, Elisabeth was trying to keep her mind in control. You had half a mind to suspect one of those nobles Peter called a "friend" were behind it. Maybe even Georgina with that cat-o-nine tail she called a tongue.

But that didn't matter now, did it? All you wanted was Peter. You spent every waking moment at his side, your hand holding his, listening to his ragged breaths. He sounded like some sick dog in his sleep. Yet, something about the way the sweat brought of the blackest of his hair, curling it in all the right spots. Even near the brink of death, he was the most beautiful thing a boy like you had seen, right down to the sweaty pale of his skin. It had been almost a week of him asleep. During the first parts, he was going in and out of consciousness, in a haze of murmurs. Nothing the physicians would use to solve what the hell happened to Peter.

Your constant presence only deepened the suspicion. Peter was poisoned, not ill. Simple as that. By arsenic, no doubt. Elisabeth had wanted the walls renovated in Scheele's Green, so there was a plethora of it lying around. And there you were, playing nurse. Someone had to be blamed. Why not the boy who adored an Emperor no one else loved? Still, they had no proof. All that suffered was your reputation—and frankly, that was nothing; being the favorite of Peter’s favorites made you a magnet for envy and malice. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. All you wanted was Peter.

Each night, you prayed to whatever god might be listening for a sign. You kissed his forehead, traced his hair, murmured the day’s news into his ear—anything to keep his silent mind company. He never answered, only breathed—a ragged, labored sound. Yet it was enough. Enough to fill you with joy. To know his heart still beat, by some miracle.

One such night, late and sleepless, you sat beside him, hand in hand, speaking aloud for the first time of all the cruel things whispered about you. It was easy, with no one there to hear. You let the tears flow. Not from sadness, but from exhaustion; tired from carrying it all on your shoulders.

You put your head down on his chest, trying to breathe. You held his hand to ground yourself in this flood. Then... you felt fingers stroke your hair and your hand squeezed by more. You looked up, meeting Peter's blue eyes glowing in the firelight.

"Hi" was all he said. And that was all you needed him to say.