#Sveta: ‘No thoughts head empty’

[victoriadallonfan]

- Heavens 12.7

Victoria!?

You can’t call Sveta a numbskull, she literally DOES NOT HAVE A BRAIN!!!

[svetavorshevsky]

FOR: @viktoriya-kurylenko WHERE: Italian Food Festival. Ext. Opera.

There were only two Russians who dared to brave the Italian-infested scum fest that had descended on the streets of London, both planning to meet outside the opera house where Vika was watching a performance. Opera had never been her thing; she found it too… out there. Sveta had a particular fondness for Russian classics and an unhealthy obsession with early 2000s rave music that her kids, thankfully, also seemed to like just as much as she did.

Standing outside, crossed arms, looking every bit like she'd rather be anywhere else, Svetlana waited for her friend—such a strange word, friend—to find its way into her thoughts. She had little of them. Not far away, Vitaly stood looking every bit ready to ready to rip the head off anyone who came too close. Where one went, so did the other these days. In all honesty, Sveta wondered if Pavel liked it that way. She could keep an eye on him that way. But in truth, she knew her husband would be furious with her by the time she walked through the door tonight. Here, even if he'd told her no. But Svetlana had never been the best with being told what to do.

When the door opened, finally, the crowd emptying out onto the streets, it took everything in her not to snarl at the faint Italian accents that swarmed her like an infected nest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Vitaly physically stiffen. Until, turning her gaze back to the door, she saw Vika exit.

"Can we get out of here now, and go somewhere...better." Preferably with alcohol.

[basilone]

I keep visiting other people’s sandboxes lately! A new adventure this time, set in my own Form & Void verse, as I now visit the world created by @adamantiumdragonfly and @julianneday1701 in Under The Banner. (Full disclosure: I have only read a myriad of excerpts of that work so far, but I could not resist the temptation of working a little of my gods AU into the concept of having two Russians mingle with Easy. ;) And Julianne was gracious enough to give her blessing for the slight Sveta-focus this piece has, ty!) 

to be taught, uncrowned

“Any particular reason why you’re wearing armor today?”

“Any particular reason why Lewis Nixon has you staring at the Russian girl all day?” his god counters, coming to stand beside him in the snow. Her bare feet leave almost no mark upon the icy white. “I would think him perfectly capable of following her on his own..”

Ron huffs out a breath. Watches it mingle with the fog that looms overhead. “She is onto him. Has been from day one, probably, and is none too keen on his observations.” He shrugs with casual aplomb. “I told Nix he’s not seeing things straight. He spotted one thick line wrapped around her that leads to her motherland and is now convinced she will betray us at some point.”

“Treachery is built on distrust. On fear, too, if left unchecked.” Her head tilts slightly in observation of Easy Company out on the line before them. He smiles as her eyes, too, come to rest on the girl he is watching. Her commentary is the same as the thoughts that have run through his mind since he first met Svetlana Samsonova. “She is terribly afraid, Ronald. That is something to be mindful of. Her memories turn against her. She does not trust any one of you save for the girl she traveled with. If you must tell Nixon anything, tell him this.”

“I will tell him it came from you.”

“You may.” She glances at him. Shifts on her feet until the leather and steel of armor and weapons brushes his side. “You know this could be resolved more easily once Charlie says yes to the god that speaks to him, hm? I will not have you staring at that girl for hours on end simply because the intelligence in this battalion cannot get its act together.”

Ron shakes his head. Laughs out soft appreciation for how she always manages to somehow sound put-out and uncaring at the same time. “Charlie will come to his god in his own time, and until he learns how to control his potential to read another’s mind he will not be of use when it comes to resolving the issue that is Samsonova.” His mouth sets into grimness as he watches the girl in question slip into an empty foxhole. Nobody from Easy joins her. “You’re right. She doesn’t trust us. Not the enlisted, not the platoon leaders, not the officers.. and certainly not any of the god-chosen.”

Second Battalion is rife with chosen, with touches of many deities mingling freely among officers and enlisted alike, and neither Russian who joined them seems at ease with the situation. He has seen the other, Zhanna, restrict herself to interactions with non-chosen as much as possible. Sveta merely stiffens at any god-chosen’s approach, as if she is not sure of how to carry herself and expects harm at a moment’s notice. No matter how small he makes himself – and he does try, because they are supposed to be on the same side of this battle – she seems to startle every time he gets near her.

“She’s young, Ronald,” his god says, then, while her voice dips into honeyed notes that make him shiver, “and she does not know us. She was not raised in Imperial Russia, after all.”

“Was it different?”

“Imperial Russia?” Her eyes brighten as she turns to face him. There is radiance in her countenance, bright and luminous, and her hand on his arm burns heat through his uniform. “Ronald, it was beautiful. You would have liked it very much. The tsar, the court, the opulence.. Wealth beyond measure, and so much power it could leave a god breathless. Ruled by god-chosen, like no other nation in this world, though they sometimes believed themselves equal to us.” There’s something of a storm in the quiver of her lip. “I enjoyed it for a time. But then the people came to speak of violence, of uprising, of change, and I enjoyed that even more. I did not think they would go as far as to wish to eradicate us from the earth.”

“You did always enjoy your revolutions,” he hums as he clasps her hand in his own. “Sounds like the people grew tired of being ruled by gods, or by ones who thought themselves like gods. Can hardly fault them for it.”

“I can fault them for this,” she hisses, then, and her gaze is at once dark and terrible as it fixes on the foxhole where Samsonova is now seated upon the edge. “Were you to set foot in Russia now, even with that one vouching for you, they would send you into one of their gulags and keep you there until you forgot the very sound of my voice. They uprooted the chosen from society. Dragged them into camps, beat them into submission, used them and discarded them like objects, drugged them, experimented on them.” Seething heat scorches his hold on her, but he squeezes her hand even tighter in response. “That girl is deaf to the call of any god. Her knowledge of us is limited. She has a healthy respect for you now, honey, born of how she has seen you fight..”

“You’re saying this will change.”

“Once she sees you with me? Sees how exactly you are with me? How I am yours, and you are mine?” His god’s laugh is mirthless. “They have a saying in her country, for one like you who claims his god in body as well as spirit. Merzost', they call it. Abomination. Uzhas, horror, they would claim, and they would tear you apart for it.” She sighs. Leans into his touch until her hair brushes the bare skin at his throat. “Russia hates us. They believe gods are no longer needed. That they can kill us, eventually, through destroying all trace of us.”

“Good thing I’m not planning on forming any sort of connection to Russia,” he comments, and pulls her in far closer than he normally would. His grip on her is iron only because she allows it. “You worry far too much. We are dealing with two women here, not with a whole army. Good luck to anyone who tries to take you from me under these circumstances.”

“This Sveta, she likes who you are when you are away from me.”

He stills in her arms as the message begins to take hold. “There is no me without you.” He voices the definitive, the certainty, the thing he has known for all his life. “Whatever I am, I am through you and because of you.” He brushes a kiss into her unruly hair. Another onto her furrowed brow. “I will give you all you miss of Imperial Russia. The gold, the jewels, the dresses, the furs,” he murmurs, mind’s eye flashing with her memories a moment as she pushes marvel into his limbs and wonder into his heart, “and so much reverence of your power that you would beg me to stop.”

“Oh, what’s that,” she teases, lifting her head from his chest and smiling up at him, “do you suddenly think there is a life away from this forest after all? A life in which you can gift me all these things, and get on your knees to please me until my voice gives out?”

“If there is,” he says, “I will find a bed to lay you down in.” He smirks as her smile broadens and her eyes turn warmer still. He bends down until his mouth brushes her ear, with his nose buried in her hair, and is rewarded with a shiver he knows as anticipatory. “I will make sure they will hear you all throughout that former empire that you toppled on a whim. I will let you cry out what it means to have a chosen fall to his knees before you and offer you the fruits of battle. I will make them understand this.”

“You are incorrigible,” she laughs into his mouth as he nudges a kiss against her lips.

He hums assent. Turns away from his god and silently resumes his observation of the now ashen-faced but determined-looking Russian that he knows full well is no traitor. Nixon has no ground to stand on with her. He will ensure the intelligence officer knows it, too. He likes Samsonova well enough to grant her that courtesy of interference. His hands deftly light a cigarette. He holds the lighter up in invitation a moment. Is not at all surprised when she turns away.

“You started a fight there, honey.”

She doesn’t sound the least bit sorry about it.

“Better me than Nixon. Better me than Charlie.” He makes this his mantra anew, as it has been since he set foot in these woods and began to understand the futility of refusing a god’s sway. “If anyone is to get into that head of hers, it should be the likes of me.”

“Incorrigible,” she says again, and her voice is warmer than any fire. “No wonder I love you.”

He shakes his head. Watches as Samsonova all but recoils from Talbert’s sway as the man snaps out words he cannot hear from this distance. Squeezes love into his god’s hand when he hears Chuck Grant’s laugh diffuse the tension moments after. Samsonova’s presence becomes smaller in the presence of Easy’s staff sergeants.

There is so much to unteach her.

He has time.

[fancyfanfiction]

Soon It Will Be Spring (Chapter 2)

At this rate I’ll be giving GRRM a run for his money with writing speed.

Cross posted to AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242599/chapters/51959866

Summary: The blue glow of the pre-dawn sky had only just begun to peer through the boarded-up windows of the old Kazan Cathedral when Katya woke. She and Vaganov had been lucky to find a way in.  He was huddled against the wall, still sleeping. 

The blue glow of the pre-dawn sky had only just begun to peer through the boarded-up windows of the old Kazan Cathedral when Katya woke. She and Vaganov had been lucky to find a way in.  He was huddled against the wall, still sleeping. Katya stretched, hoping to release some of the tension that had pooled in her back from sleeping propped against a wall. The cold seeped in past the layers of clothing sending shivers radiating through her slight frame.

           She shook Vaganov awake. “It’s morning.”

           Gleb rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn.

           “What time is it?” He pulled his coat closer around himself.

           “Just before dawn.” A few pops accompanied Katya’s stretching. “I never want to sleep propped against an abandoned church wall again.”

           “Again? I wasn’t aware you made a habit of sleeping in abandoned churches,” Gleb quipped.

           “You know what I meant,” she dismissed.

           Katya’s stomach cut off the argument with a low gurgle. She hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. The borscht hadn’t been fresh, and the taste of beets made Katya want to wretch, but food was food and she needed more.

           “We should go eat. The question is where…” Katya figured that two people wanted by the Cheka couldn’t easily walk into any old bakery and place an order, no matter how early it was. She tapped her fingers against her jaw, racking her brain for any place that might work.

           “I know a place.” Gleb picked up his pack taking the lead.

The backstreets of St. Petersburg were lined with people huddled against the cold, their garbage can fires long reduced to embers by time. Gleb and Katya plodded along their path, making eye contact with no one and keeping their heads down. Sympathy panged in Gleb’s chest at the scene of the poor huddled together and clinging close to the stone walls on either side of the unpaved alley. The new order was supposed to cure this—to ensure none of these people would be warding themselves against the cold with no roof over their heads or food in their stomachs. Could he have really been so blind to this suffering? The thought settled in his gut so heavily, he was unsure if the churning he felt was from hunger or shame.

After nearly fifteen minutes, the pair reached the backdoor of a shop. The windows were boarded up, though the broken glass had been long since swept away. The memory of that night added to the cold currently attempting to suffocate the man who had spent many an afternoon playing in that same alley all those years ago.  Gleb rapped on the weathered wood.

           “Glebka!” A woman opened the door almost instantly, a smile bursting across her features. Wrinkles and crowfeet lined her flour-dusted face; her greying hair was tied back into a once-tight bun, a few strands framing her face.

           “It’s good to see you, Sveta.” He returned the smile. “May we come in?”

           “Of course, of course! You know you’re always welcome here.” Sveta ushered Gleb and Katya over the threshold, closing the door behind them.

           The perfume of baking bread wafted through the warmth of the kitchen. The heat that embraced them brought feeling back to Katya's face and hands while the red glow of the kitchen stoked a nostalgia in her--a memory one can't quite place and that may not have even been real to begin with.

          "Sit, sit," Sveta placed a loaf of bread and some cheese on the small, worn, round wooden table that sat next to her stove and pulled out the chairs before turning to put on some tea. "It's been a while since you've brought a girl by, Gleb."

         Gleb coughed, trying not to choke on the bread he'd just bitten into.

         Sveta turned to Katya pouring hot water from the samovar, "How long have you been seeing each other?" She placed the steeping tea in front of the younger woman.

         "Oh, we're not...um..." Katya chose her words carefully, "Seeing each other." She valiantly fought the flush she felt on her cheeks but lost.

         "Gleb Stepanovich," Sveta took her seat, "Did you get married without telling me?" Her smile had fallen into a stern, almost unreadable mask.

         "No. Sveta, I wouldn't--I--we--" Gleb sputtered, suddenly a teenager again.

         Sveta's sternness lasted all of ten seconds before she burst into laughter. "Don't worry, dear. I'm just kidding. You’re just as easy to tease.” She smiled, affection for the young man before her brimming over.

         Gleb exhaled, relief overtaking his features. He took a sip of his, still too light, tea. He seemed younger, more at ease here, to Katya. It was an ease she's never seen in him before. The three sat in companionable quiet, enjoying the fresh, soft bread.

         "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, dear," Sveta broke the silence, turning to Katya.

         Katya swallowed, "Yekaterina, but please, call me Katya."

          "Yekaterina." Sveta's gray eyes were far away, "That was my daughter's name. We called her Katyusha." The faint smile of reminiscence traced its way across Sveta's aged face. "She and Glebka were like brother and sister."

          The familiar grief pricked in Gleb's memory. Katyusha had passed so long ago, he'd nearly forgotten his childhood confidant and companion’s face. The intervening decades had taken as much as they had given. "Sveta and my mother owned this shop together; she's more or less my aunt," Gleb explained, matter-of-fact tone disguising his wistful distraction.

         The silence returned, tinged with melancholy this time. Katya thought back to her own childhood, to her little brother and her cousins all playing together in the summer. Their white linen clothes and the heat of the beach felt just beyond her fingertips. Her father and his own cousin, their faces so similar, as they laughed at the antics of their children were nearly there before her.

         "Sveta, do you still have my father's map?" Gleb asked.

         "I think so. Let me go check." Sveta rose and ascended the steps in the corner of the room.

         "She's sweet." Katya observed. "We could bring her along."

         "She is. And she'd never come with us." Gleb's grim certainty closed the question.

         "Found it!" Sveta called as she returned from upstairs. The rolled-up paper she held had browned with the years, small tears and missing chunks the edges further confirmed its age. She held it out to Gleb as she returned to the table.

         "Thank you." He took the map, sticking it carefully into his pack.

         "Where are you two headed then?" Sveta sat, propping her head on her hands. She looked from Gleb to Katya.

         "Paris, ideally, but out of Russia for sure," Katya answered.

         "I see." Sveta's expression was blank: whatever she thought of the answer was her own secret. She looked to Gleb again, "Promise you'll write when you get wherever you're going."

         "I will," Gleb assured her, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.

         With the tea and food finished, Sveta walked her visitors to the door, offering each a warm embrace and a small parcel of bread and cheese as they re-entered the alleyway.

          "Thank you for everything." Gleb took Sveta's hands in his, pressing a few rubles into her palm.

         "Gleb, I don't--" Sveta began to protest.

         "Please, take it," He insisted.

         "Thank you." Sveta kissed his cheek. "Be safe."

         The sky was still painted with pastels as the pair left the tea shop. The alley had emptied of its formerly sleeping residents leaving Katya and Gleb to walk alone through the silent shadows.

         "Why can I never seem to escape Paris?" Gleb griped to no one in particular.

         "If you're that opposed, we can go our separate ways once we're out of Russia." Katya shot back. "And if you must know, my family is there." She crossed her arms in front of her, knuckles white as she gripped either side of her coat.

          "Your family?" Gleb repeated dumbly. He hadn’t thought she had any family.

          "Yes. My mother, brother, and step-father are there," Katya said, protective of the information, as though the buildings on either side would run off to tell the Cheka on her.

         "The offer to split up later still holds." Any warmth Katya had shown when talking about her family was chased away by the ice in her tone.

          "I promised I'd make sure you got where you were going safely. And that's a promise I would like to keep." Loathe as he was to admit it, the short-tempered cleaning girl had grown on him in their time together.  

          "Well, if you insist on sticking together, we'll have to get to the train station soon."

          "We'll need a plan first and foremost," Gleb countered, holding up his father's map.

          The pair walked the few blocks to the park, the increasing bustle of the waking city offering the protection they’d lacked last night. Still-bare trees hung over the park, spindles of wood stark against the clear sky above. The park was blessedly empty, save a couple of children playing. The stone bench retained the bite of the April morning as Gleb and Katya sat, the map spread between them.

           “The best way out will be to take the Moskvosky from Nikolaevsky station.” Katya traced the railway on the paper with her finger, “Then from Moscow to Warsaw to Berlin and Berlin to Paris.”

           “Oktyabrsky station to Moscow is fine, but we should head from Warsaw to Vienna instead and enter France from the south though Italy,” despite his emphasis, Gleb’s voice was low as he glanced around for prying eyes and ears. His heart thrummed, if the wrong person caught their conversation it wouldn’t matter which way they wanted to get to Paris.

           Katya scowled at the man across from her. “Why do you insist on changing the names of everything?”  

           “Why are you so upset by it? It’s not like you have any attachment to the names,” Gleb shot back.

           Katya sputtered before giving up the fight. The former Deputy Commissioner had won this round. She’d agree to his plan for now, if only to keep them moving.

           The knell of bells marked the hour as Gleb rolled up the map and replaced it in his bag. The ninth and final chime rung out and the unspoken understanding that it was time to go passed between them. They rejoined the flowing river of people once they reached the Nevsky Prospekt allowing the eddies to carry them to their destination.

[leiascully]

Fic:  Between A Rock And A Hard Place (Part Three)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces My Struggle in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters:  Mulder, Scully, Tad O’Malley, Sveta (established MSR) Content warning:  canon-typical body horror (mentions of abduction, forced pregnancy, etc.) A/N:  I’m collecting all the related stories that go with Visitor/Resident under the title “All The Choices We’ve Made”, because it felt right at the time.  This story is an alternate My Struggle that reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.  

Part One  |  Part Two

They drop Scully and Sveta off at the hospital.  Driving the limousine into the non-emergency lot at Our Lady of Sorrows feels even more pretentious than cruising the streets of DC, but at least Scully can still leverage a few privileges there.   

"Call me when you're done," Mulder says to Scully.  They're standing in the corner of a hospital waiting room with their heads close together.  It feels like old times.  He's aware of how easy it would be to slide back into that life.  There are some things worth salvaging from their days on the X-Files, but they've worked hard to rebuild the rest.  

"Where will you be?" she said, tipping her face up to his.  It always made him want to kiss her.  It still does.

"I don't know.  He seems to have a plan."  He jerks his head slightly at Tad O'Malley, who is staring into his phone again, conspicuous by the door.  "Divide and conquer, right?"

"We're too smart for that, aren't we?" she murmurs, more than a hint of irony in his voice.  "Mulder, he's got to have something he wants only you to see."

"Don't take the bait," he says.  

"You too," she says.  He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, because what the hell, he can.  Their attachment to each other is no secret.  She closes her eyes briefly.  "Be safe."

"You know me," he says, and winks.

"That's why I worry," she tells him.  He chuckles as he turns away and strides back over to O'Malley.  

"I think they've got this," Mulder says.

"Good, because I've got something to show you," O'Malley says.  "Something for the eyes of true believers."

"And seekers of truth?" Mulder asks.

"Them too."  O'Malley nods at the limo.  Let's get going."

It doesn't take that long to get there, or at least, not as long as it took to get to Low Moor.  They stop at a gas station, and O'Malley reaches into a bag Mulder hadn't noticed and takes out a black hood.

"Top secret," O'Malley says.  "I'm afraid I have to ask you to wear this."

"I'm not signing any dungeon-related paperwork," Mulder jokes.  He reaches for the hood.  "Allow me."

"I expected more resistance than that," O'Malley says.

"This isn't my first top-secret rodeo," Mulder says.  "At least it's not a rubber gorilla mask."

"Didn't see that in any of the reports," O'Malley says.

Mulder slips the hood on.  "Just don't break any fingers," he says.  His voice is muffled by the cloth.  It's hot, of course, but at least it's smooth, and it smells fine.  Could be worse.  He doesn't try to keep track of the twists and turns.  There's no point.  He just sits back and relaxes until the limo stops.  O'Malley opens the door and then helps Mulder out.  Mulder walks obediently wherever he's guided.  He hears the creak of heavy metal doors opening.

"I want to prepare you," O'Malley says, a little too close, "for what you're about to see."

He pulls the hood from Mulder's head.  Mulder blinks and looks around.  It's what he expected: empty space, esoteric equipment, men in blue coats.  A scientist sees them and starts walking toward them.  Somehow there are rarely any women doing this kind of science.  At this point, he's convinced it's because women have more sense than to fall for it.  There's something recognizable, though.  

"A Faraday cage?" he says.  "For what?"

"Do you know what an ARV is?" O'Malley asks in a smug voice.

"That's what you brought me here to see?" Mulder asks.  

O'Malley just smirks.  "This is Garner," he says as the scientist arrives.  "He'll walk you through the science."  

"Right this way, Mr. Mulder," Garner says, and Mulder and O'Malley follow him through a gate into the Faraday cage.  There's a craft inside, triangular and glossy.  It's surrounded by a team of scientists who are making adjustments and taking readings.  The thing is covered with little panels.  

"That's an alien replica vehicle?" Mulder asks.

Garner nods.  "Given your background, I would've thought you'd seen one before."  

Mulder gazes at it.  "Seen the real thing, or as real as it gets.  Seen some convincing fakes too.  Never seen one like this."

"What we're showing you, we do at great risk," Garner tells him.  "Colleagues have had labs burned to the ground and work destroyed by our own government."

"I know how that feels," Mulder says.  "May I?"

"Of course," Garner says, inclining his head.  "Be my guest."

Mulder reaches out to touch one of the panels.  It's smooth under his fingertips, warm and vibrating gently.  The craft hums slightly louder and begins to hover, rising until Mulder's hand slides off it.  One of the scientists is controlling it, he's certain, but it is impressive.  

"It's running on toroidal energy," Garner tells him.  "So-called zero-point energy.  The energy of the universe."

Mulder imagines Scully would have something to say about that. "You're talking about free energy?"

"We've had it since the '40s," O'Malley interjects.  "No fuel, no flame, no combustion."

"A simple electromagnetic field," Garner says, frowning very slightly.  

"Kept secret for seventy years while the world ran on petroleum," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Oil companies making trillions.  The Middle East tearing itself apart.  For nothing."  

Mulder refrains from commenting on the quality of O'Malley's political analysis or the fact that O'Malley profits from every conflict.  He gazes at the craft.  Garner steps to his side.

"What I'm going to show you next is the most unbelievable part," Garner says.  He's talking only to Mulder, Mulder thinks.  O'Malley believes a little too much, tries to build hype around it when the facts are shocking enough.  Garner thinks Mulder will see past the hyperbole to the actual miracle.  Garner waves two fingers at one of the other scientists, who nods and flips a switch.  The surface of the craft flickers and the air around it almost shimmers.  When the glimmer clears, the craft has vanished.  

"Gravity warp drive," Mulder breaths, and Garner nods.  "How?"

"Element 115," Garner says.  "Ununpentium."

"Where did you get it?" Mulder asks.  "We can create it under lab conditions, but not in any stable state, and not in any quantity."

"Salvaged," Garner says.

"From where?" Mulder asks.

"You know where," O'Malley says.  "Roswell.  1947.  Along with the original craft and its pilots."

"Of course," Mulder murmurs.  

"That's where it all came from," Garner says.  Another flip of the switch and the ARV shimmers back into existence.

"It all comes back to Roswell," O'Malley says dramatically.  "Every advance we've made.  Every war we've fought.  Do you see?"

"I do," Mulder says.  It's the only answer O'Malley wants.

"We should be getting back," O'Malley says.  "It's late."

"That sounds like my cue," Mulder says, and O'Malley hands him the hood.  

"You see how important my pursuit of the truth is," O'Malley says in the car, once he's freed Mulder from the hood again.

"I see that it's made you rich," Mulder says.  "Funny how much truth looks like conspiracy."

"You of all people would know," O'Malley says.

Mulder shrugs.  "My pursuit of the truth has never been lucrative.  I lost everything."

"And yet you fought to get it back," O'Malley says.  "I respect the struggle."

Mulder smiles tightly.  There's nothing to say to that.  O'Malley cannot conceive of what he and Scully and their families have been through, to say nothing of the countless people he's interviewed with stories like Sveta's.  Stories of pain and suffering.  Stories of loss.  Not clickbait to spook the masses and sell airtime at a steep markup to war profiteers.  

They drive back to collect Scully and Sveta from the hospital.  Scully looks a little pinched and Sveta looks tired.  Mulder gives Scully a questioning look and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.  <i>Later.</i>  

"I think we'll just get an Uber back to our car," Mulder says.  "It's a long drive back to Low Moor.  We don't want to keep you."

"Oh, I'm putting Sveta up in a hotel for the night," O'Malley says.  "I've got a show to tape in the morning.  Got to look fresh."

"I could stay if you will need me again, Dr. Scully," Sveta says.

Scully hesitates.  "That might be wise."

"Don't worry about it," O'Malley says, patting Sveta on the shoulder.  "It's my privilege to help her share her story with you."  He hands Mulder a card.  "This is my personal number, if you need me."

"Glad to hear it," Mulder says.  "Good night, Sveta.  Mr. O'Malley."

"Good night," Sveta says.  

It doesn't take long to find an Uber.  Mulder and Scully climb inside and talk about nothing, as if their day hasn't been filled with abductees.  Scully checks her email.  Mulder reads a message board.  Not until they get into their own car does she turn to him.

"Mulder, whoever that girl is, something has definitely happened to her.  I don't know about alien DNA, but she's traumatized, and her body shows signs of something strange.  She has stretch marks that could have resulted from a pregnancy.  She also thinks she can read minds."

"Can she?" Mulder asks.

"She knew we're together," Scully says, "but that isn't a stretch.  She said that you had been depressed in the past."

"That isn't a stretch either," Mulder jokes, merging into traffic.

"She said we had a child together," Scully says quietly.

Mulder says nothing for a moment.  "I don't think that's a secret," he says finally.  "We were being watched.  Surely that information is out there."

"She doesn't seem like the kind of person who would have dug that deep," Scully says.  

"Did Byers?" Mulder asks.

Scully sighs.  "She also claims to be telekinetic, but says she can't move things with her mind all the time."

"That's the rub, isn't it?" Mulder asks.  "Can't get that Vegas gig bending spoons for the crowd unless you're consistent."

"She says it comes from the alien DNA," Scully says, and he knows she's thinking of William.  

"When will you have the results?" Mulder asks.

"Soon," Scully says.  

"Do you believe her?" Mulder asks.  He pinches his lower lip between his fingers.  God, he could go for some sunflower seeds.

"She seems to believe in her memories," Scully says.  "I've seen strange things in the course of our work.  Inexplicable things.  I'm inclined to accept the possibility that something happened to her that has not been fully investigated."

"But not that it was aliens?" Mulder teases.

"It wasn't aliens who took me," she says.  "At least, I don't think it was."

"There was a ship, Scully," Mulder says.

"There was a light," she says.  "A light so blinding it could have obscured the less-than-extraterrestrial origins of an experimental plane.  Whoever did what they did to me was human, Mulder, starting with Duane Barry and ending with the chip that CGB Spender gave you to put back in my neck."

"I remember chasing the train," he says.  “One of the trains where they did their work.”

"Cassandra Spender was taken to one of those trains," she reminds him.  "If aliens took her, humans took her apart."

"She reminds me of Max Fenig," he says.  "Sveta, I mean."  

"I agree," Scully says.  

They are silent for a moment, remembering Max.

"I don't trust Tad O'Malley," Scully says at last, as they're parking on their street.

"Nobody should," Mulder says, setting the emergency brake.  Just one of the many precautions he takes these days.  "He's a snake oil salesman peddling poison."

"He wants to divide us," she says.  

"I agree," Mulder says.  "And I think you're right, he'll come to you next."

Scully makes a disgusted noise.  

"Not ready for the lifestyles of the rich and famous?" Mulder teases.  "I'm sure he'll offer you all that and more."

"He's a sleazebag," Scully protests.  "Handsome enough, but a sleazebag."

"And what do you say behind my back, Agent Scully?" Mulder asks, reaching for the door handle.

Her face softens.  "I love you," she tells him.  

"The most inexplicable thing," he teases her, and they go into their house together.

[sturdybackbone]

aubade to things long since past

plum-hued eyes and a misty morning balcony

I. “What are you cooking?” You ask, voice high and light, scratchy and half-raw in that way that young children’s voices are. You are four. Your hands are on the countertop, and your feet, buried in the slippers everyone wears inside the house, are standing on their tiptoes. You are not a tall child. You have never been, nor ever will be. Your mother flinches, as if struck. Her fingers still. She is cutting green onions, the knife gone still and dead at your little piping voice. Knives are fascinating things. Sharp and glinting and something like half-alive, at times, gliding and cutting and then being stowed away like a coveted, precious thing. Her great big white eyes stare down at you, and you blink up at her. And then, you shift on the spot, uncomfortable in your own brown slippers. Once upon a time, Sveta had clued paper eyes and ears scribbed brown onto them, to make it seem like you were wearing little bears. All that remained of that was the marks left by hot wax. “…You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wanna.” You say, eyes drooping and drooping down until they cling to the pale floorboards. She stares. Her fingers, pale and skinny and bony, tighten around the knife. She speaks, now. Translated to English, the words are too harsh to be ‘Go away’, but are too soft to be ‘Fuck off’. Mother never swears, not like Father does, and never will. But the intention is still the same. The firmness is still there. The shaking fear there too would have made a creature smarter and older than you pause and think. But you are a little child. And when your mother spits at you in a cruel tone, all you can do is stare up at her with big wet eyes and a trembling lip, and then stagger away, into the arms of someone who can grant you comfort. The problem was, Mother was your comfort. And when you stagger to Sveta, her shoulders draw up tight, up to her ears, and even though you crawl and writhe onto her little lap, fishing for attention as you feel heat and wetness on your cheeks, all she can do is stare into the empty room, fingers tight around her dolls, and say nothing even as her own eyes shine. You wring your arms around her neck and you taste snot and salt on your lips, as you open your mouth, about to wail something out, in the needy and high tones of a child scarcely grown from infanthood. And then your face burns, and your bum and your back is on the wooden floor, and you are blinking up at your red haired, red faced sister. Who looks down at you, eyes wide and white in horror, and as your face scrunches up and your hands move to rub at your sore spots, you find her pudgy, childish hands joining them. She pulls you close, a girl of eight, and she speaks into your feathery black hair. The same hair as your father, your brother. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—” She chants into your scalp and you clasp around her like the little monkey you are, and weep into her chest, tears startlingly hot on your face. “Dad told me Dad told me and Mom and I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry—” You are a young boy of four. You do not know what cruelty is. What pain is, beyond a bleeding booboo you get at the playground that makes Mom pour iodine into your wound. Later on, you would pinpoint this moment, this memory, as the moment you realized that life would not be the same. That you floating out of that countryside chasm, by nothing but some secret power hidden in you all your life, would not bring along miracles and happiness and goodness. No.  But at the time, all you could do was cry and wail, wanting nothing more than for Mom’s hand soothing your hair, for Dad’s hand firm and solid on your shoulder. Instead, all Dad does, a few rooms over, is growl at the rumbling tv with beer bottles strewn all around him. All Mom does is gaze down at the knife in her hands with wide white eyes, and think how easy, how easy, how easy it would be. II. You are six. You are much, much, much wiser, and smarter, than the you that has been. But you are still a stupid little child. So monstrously stupid, that looking back, you faintly wonder how you didn’t drop dead from sheer stupidity. Two years. It has been two years, since you survived falling into a great hole which was meant to be your grave.  A lot can, and has, happened in two years. There was a time, once upon a time, when your Mother meant home, meant safety. When Father was a great big allmighty tree of endless knowledge. When life was still hard, but simpler. Better. You scarcely remember it. Six-year-olds are not famed for their memory, after all.

Mother is in the hospital. Little Maxim, still slumbering in her belly, was far too eager to claw his way out of her womb. Mother is just barely eight months pregnant, and yet, she’s in labour. Not like you really knew the finer details, like these, back then. All you knew was that mother was in the hospital, in a furious fight with your unborn little brother. There’s a small degree of satisfaction, there. Of not being the littlest male in the family anymore. That is, if your brother survives. But such a thought did not run through your head then. It was unthinkable, even as you read about all sorts of tales and books with deaths and heroics in them.   There had been a point, just a week ago, where you gloated about reading a hundred page book about the Greeks and Romans. You had been mighty proud of yourself. Like all children wishing to gloat, you took the book, pressed it to your chest, and toddled to your home. And stopped dead in your tracks, dirty sneakers poorly protecting you from the hot May asphalt of Moscow’s streets. And you turned back, face burning with the memory of what happened last time you did such a thing. Seeking Father in such a time. Paying back for the book, which had torn into so many little fluttering pieces under Father’s fingers, had taken an eternity. And had made the librarian’s eyes go from tender and soft to hard and averting.

LIttle you had not been truly looking to gloat. But to have a parent look down upon you, and be proud. To approve of you. To see worth in you. But in Father’s eyes, seeking approval and gloating were one and the same.

The last shrieking crimson baby in your family was Anya, but she had grown, and was now was a three-year-old girl with great bright eyes and thick red hair that was quite a few shades lighter than Sveta’s, almost shockingly bright. Her hair was the talk of all of the cooing adults. Sometimes, you wondered how you would look like with her hair. And shuddered at the mental results. The buds of sarcasm were just that, at this stage of your life. But they would not remain as such for long, bless little you. You’re avoiding it, you know? Avoiding this memory. Because what else am I to do? Let’s cut to the chase. This isn’t nearly the most traumatic memory you have, after all. There’s no need to simper about such a thing. Six is the age when Father hits you for the first time. Perhaps it is the stress of his wife being caught in a great labour, and him being stricken with worry. But if that was truly the case, he could have been there, in the hospital, holding her hand and soothing her hair away from her face. But he’s here. At home. Like some grey, pasty ghost, sitting on the floor in his dusty pants, a bottle of mostly empty vodka held like a lifeline in his hands. He stands, at some point, hand on the wall, supporting him as he staggers out in the cramped grey corridors of the apartment. You aren’t around to witness this, but you would presume that’s the case. You’ve seen it enough, after all. You’re huddled with Andrei and Sveta, who’s holding little Anya. Andrei has puffed his chest out, trying to soothe all of your worries, even as Anya frets and worries into Sveta’s shoulder, who provides her with quiet comfort. They are a comfortable trio, all on a squalid couch on their own. You, an outsider, sit on a sofa, leaning into them almost horizontal like. You’re not sitting on Father’s seat, of course, but on the guest seat. Uncle Vladimir’s. Sveta never sits on it. Neither will you, soon enough. They’re whispering and then Anya’s eyes grow shiny with tears as Andrei lets slip that, sometimes, sometimes, women don’t survive childbirth. And she wails. And Father, who had been having a very loud piss, hollars from across the apartment. You all still. Even Andrei, as much as he is his father’s favourite. And then the sound of Father shambling across the halls come, and as the door bursts open, Andrei and Sveta clench around Anya, and Andrei hisses, eyes shining with something that is not quite malice nor tears, “Artur did it!” Father’s bloodshot eyes shoot towards to the sofa where your little body sits. Instantly, your muscles tense, and your legs pull towards your body. Father looks worse than almost any other time you’ve seen him. He is all blotchy and pale and eyes both lined red and bloodshot. His lips are red, having been worried by his teeth so much. His nose is red. His hair has not been brushed or tended to in days. Andrei might be Father’s favourite. But everyone, from Mother to distant grandmothers to even yourself know that out of all of Nikoli Kalinkalovsky’s massive brood, you look the most like him. It is something you will hate hate hate hate in years to come. It will not be the only or first thing you hate about yourself, and nor will it be the last.

His eyes shine out of something that is not quite malice nor tears, though massively leaning towards the former, and he stomps to you, even as you see Andrei ease in your peripherals. Andrei is a vicious idiot, above everything else. But he still covets his normal family. And for you, so abnormal that you might not even family? Something not wholly different from delight shines in his eyes as he sees Father cross the distance.

Things happen quick. Father is hungover.  He is stressed. Fear has gripped his belly and wracked him raw with the powerlessness that comes when there is nothing you can do but wait and utterly rely on someone else. And, above all other things, the thing that Father loathed most was powerlessness. Even so young, you half-understand this concept already. A hand lunges for you, to try to grip your t-shirt and drag you up into the air. But, tragically, fight and willfulness has not yet been beaten out of you. And so you duck, and slide from under his left side. And find a wall against your back, and a brawny arm latching around your waist. You are just a touch slower than him. Trying to flee was your mistake. And you are rewarded by being shoved against the wall, and then pain blooms in your nose. There is a long, long, long moment where you do not know what has just happened. And all you are aware of is a pain that is almost acidic, seeping down into your bones, and causing your face to swell in pill-bitter pain. Warmth slides down your lips, and you taste tangy iron, and blood. Father, somehow, looks more surprised than you. His features are, somehow, more white, more wide, and it seems like his vicious hangover is cured, for a few moments. Even Andrei, the vicious idiot he is, is struck mute and still at the sight of your nose blooming with blood, and you squinting up at your father with confusion written all over your face. And then Father’s senses return to you. He hauls you by the front of your shirt, peers over at his other spawn, barks a “What?!?” Which makes all three of them flinch, and look down at the floor. Father tosses you onto the balcony, locking the door behind him. You don’t know what happens next. If he yells at your siblings, or immediately stomps away, or what. Because for the next several moments, all you can do is stare at the wall, even as the blood starts sliding towards your ear, and all you can feel, at the moment, is a bright hot betrayal that turns your innards cold and solid and gelid. Your throat burns. The corners of your eyes itch. You curl up, on old baskets and onions and old kitchen rags, your hands curled into fists at your eyes, and you bawl, face twisted up and little mewls slipping out of you. What is the point of crying, if no one will come to your aid, you wonder, as you nonetheless continue to weep.   Ah, so young, and already a philosopher. You wipe away blood and snot and tears with old rags and bundle them up and tuck them in your pocket to wash later. Your nose, when it dries, itches. You make the mistake of scratching it, and not only are you rewarded with more pain but fresh blood, too. Father develops a taste for smearing your face with blood very, very quickly. It’s the catharsis, the power, he’s been looking for this entire time, you suppose. Or maybe he’s simply bored. Mother comes back two weeks later. In her absence, Sveta, the oldest girl, and you, the one entrusted with a good few simple chores, have systematically burned and butchered your way through many meals which made Andrei cough soot and Father’s fists grow itchy. You wonder, faintly, how long he’s been waiting to strike you. Mom is wan and more skinny and haggard than ever before, and, behind her, Father cradles Maxim with something like horror in his expression. He had a similar expression when Anya was born, you think, but you can’t really recall. Fatherhood does not suit him. Mother stumbles into the house, all but dropping out of her coat and shoes, and she turns to her children. One of them sports a great purple bruise on his face, and a nose that’s still a bit red and fragile to the touch. She pauses and looks and looks and looks, her expression unreadable, as Father, behind her, shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable with holding such a vulnerable little creature in his arms. Maxim, in turn, does not seem comfortable in being held by his darling sire. Mother sniffles. Her head raises. Her jaw tenses, and then relaxes. There is a moment, here. A moment, in which, things could have gone so, so, so differently. There was steel, in her gaze, for a moment. You are not accustomed to seeing anything less but mewling patheticness in her. There is a moment in which a world bloomed in front of you, a world where you are happy. But Father clears his throat behind her, and she tenses and she jumps and she instantly dots on little Maxim, and then fusses about the state of the apartment, where Father replies that it’s like this because she wasn’t here to tend to it. When her eyes wander back over to you, your eyes are shiny, and you are biting your lip to keep it still. Her eyes are blank. And blank forever more.

[joneswilliam72]

Tallinn Music Week: a love letter to Estonia

There’s a sort of fascinating melancholy in travelling East — and everyone knows jet lag always hits harder when you head in that direction too. A constant anxious wreck by default (a trait that doesn't necessarily combine well with an unexplainable need for constantly being on the move), I experienced this firsthand last month as I was given the opportunity to go to Estonia for Tallinn Music Week - the annual music and culture event that should be mandatory for everyone at least once in their lifetime.

Where do you even begin to write about the beauty that is Estonia? A country whose imagery hasn’t been spoiled by media overexposure and Pop culture saturation. A country mixing the old and the new, inevitably emanating a sort of patchwork quality both in its lifestyle and through the relationship it has with its own identity. A country where over-advertising is noticeably absent, as is agressive stimuli bombarding and visual pollution. A country where it sometimes becomes hard to tell the year you’re living in — maybe even the century.

It is indeed one of life's greatest privileges to visit a place which you have little to no references of: you are aware it exists and where, know about its Soviet occupation past, but not much info has been provided through media. So it becomes an exciting discovery, your mind a blank canvas waiting to be painted with the real colours — not the ones you have mistakenly absorbed through movies. You force yourself to open your eyes and see, as no previous meta-formed idea has conditioned you to look in any particular way.

Travelling to such a place can be both a soothing and a disturbing factor. But there is no agression. There is no over-sweetening of the pill either. Everything about Estonia is so brutally honest, which in a world of constant make-believe and increasingly shallow first (and second, and third) impressions can feel like the Holy Grail.

Well tucked between Scandinavia and Russia, Estonia musically drinks from the best of both worlds after emerging from oppression in the early '90s: from its proximity to Finland and Sweden come the same unexplainably addictive Pop genes that North area seems to have incorporated in their blood; from the East emerges a certain anti-Imperialist pride that endures to this very day, preventing their music from relying too much on Anglo-American standardisation which could ruin its spontaneity and unique character. But what else would you expect from a country whose independence was brought about by a Singing Revolution if not a visceral connection to the overwhelming power that is music?

Tallinn Music Week is one of Europe’s most carefully curated showcase festivals, offering a unique opportunity to catch the acts you’d probably never see otherwise since yes, internet is democratically(-ish) liberating when it comes to music finding, but it also castrates your curiosity by offering you unlimited content you often have no idea how to deal with. So it comes as no surprise that the only "Western" acts I actually got to see were meticulously selected — and also felt immensely out of place.

YASMYN by Patrik Tamm

A late arrival due to Mercury retrograde-ridden flight cancellations dictated YASMYN to be the first act I saw. Not only her stage presence is hypnotising, but the blend of R&B, pop, and hip-hop she incorporates in her music make for an exciting business card in what comes to the future of Estonian contemporary Urban.

A sucker for record sleeve design, I kicked off day two at Malcolm Garrett's talk with John Rudd during which he discussed his career with an obvious focus on his connections to Duran Duran and Buzzcocks. I also learned he was never impressed with Joy Division; in his opinion, and having seen them since they called themselves Warsaw, it was Martin Hannett who did a spectacular job with Unknown Pleasures — eventually forcing the band to up their game in order to play like the record live. Speaking of records and sleeves: a mandatory stop at the record fair felt like an Iron Curtain-ish cultural melting pot. As I browsed through tons of amazing Melodiya pressings of the likes of the Byrds, Bon Jovi, and ABBA, I also found the first (and only) Russian pressing of a Revolver + Sgt Pepper double LP to feast my eyes upon. I didn't buy anything though; everybody knows music journalists are poor.

Among the first acts I actually got to see from my preview list were Sybil Vane, who together with Erki Pärnoja, provided yet another proof of the exciting diversity that is Estonian music. Pärnoja creates mystical filmic environments through his music and is currently working on the successor to his 2017 sophomore album Efterglow. I then headed over to Swedish duo GHLOW's set at Sveta, where an outside hut provided a very welcoming lounge area, the discreet smell of Estonian weed emerging from times to times to bring about an uncannily familiar ambience.

GHLOW by Ken Mürk

As day three peaked through the window my body was beginning to complain about the amount of hours I was sleeping each night and the ones I was spending standing on my feet — the former obviously largely surpassing the latter. But a couple of glasses of white wine in an empty stomach at sundown made wonders to the part of my brain that rules tiredness and physical pain, and Iceland-via-Berlin Rokky did the rest, making sure I was properly warmed-up for what was probably the only UK act I ended up seeing: Red Telephone. I, unfortunately, had to cut their set short to run to Trees before doing the wise thing and actually having dinner. A short stop at the Folk stage afterwards proved a wonderfully weird cultural gap as Catlin Mägi made sure she put a mesmerising spell on the whole room with her skilful Jew's harp playing.

Finnish garage psychers Teemu & the Deathblows were another band from my to-see selection that did not disappoint in any way — I actually felt their set was too short, which is always a good sign. Plus, they got my blood properly immune to the harsh Baltic winds so I could sweat everything out at SADO OPERA's brilliant show. I danced like I hadn't danced in a very long time, and it actually came in handy that the venue, Erinevate Tubade Klubi, requested that all guests took their shoes off and put some slippers on instead. Fuck the slippers though; dancing barefoot is one of the best, most liberating sensations in the whole world.

SADO OPERA by Kristelle Ahone

I thought this was the end of the festival for me, but I was subsequently dragged first to the metal stage to see a Finnish band called Cumbeast (yes) and then back to the Estonian Academy of Arts for a set of Irish electronic duo Lakker. I never say no to good new experiences and the night seemed to go on forever, properly fueled by good Irish whisky and lack of sleep euphoria. The last stop was an afterparty at Sveta where the DJ was playing Shocking Blue's 'Love Buzz' as I arrived; I pride myself of being a lady who can hold her liquor, but I got emotional and almost cried.

When I was a little girl, I used to watch loads of Eastern European fantasy films. One of them, a Czech fairy tale called Princess Jasnenka and the Flying Shoemaker, stayed with me the longest: I would revisit it from time to time, fascinated by those aerial plans showing towers, castles, dungeons, and seemingly impenetrable city walls. In spite of the obvious geographical differences, Tallinn did feel a bit like being inside one of those films; the first day I was wandering around the Old Town looking for St. Catherine's Passage when I noticed a semi-hidden entry in the medieval wall. I got in and climbed upstairs, eventually finding my way to the tower through what felt like endless steep stairs carved in the stone. As I was alone in a round room with windows overlooking the city, I remembered when the king locked princess Jasnenka in the tower to try and prevent the witches' curse of her marrying a shoemaker; but the shoemaker made himself a pair of wings in leather, flew to the princess's room, and they fell in love.

You can never escape your own destiny, especially since it's you, either conscious or subconsciously, who gets to decide when and how to fulfil it. That's when I realised all roads had recently been leading me to Tallinn, and I mutely thanked the universe that it was so.

from The 405 https://ift.tt/2FOsbNe

[southernbridemagazine]

Exclusive Peak at WWE's Lana + Rusev's Bulgarian Wedding

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We are so honored to have the pleasure of sharing the exclusive feature of WWE's Lana + Rusev's Bulgarian Wedding. Rusev and Lana said their "I do's" twice. One Hollywood worthy soiree in Malibu and one elegant and traditional wedding ceremony in Rusev's native home, Bulgaria. Here are the special details of this celebrity couples love story and their European wedding.

The First Encounter

On August 12th, 2015 Rusev popped the question in our swimming pool! I thought he was playing a prank so I asked him if it was a real ring and then I started screaming for 10 minutes. It was perfect! I loved that I had never looked at rings and had no idea that he was going to propose. Our fans will see the moment on the E! reality show Total Divas.

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In Preparation

We decided to have two weddings to be able to celebrate with all family and friends, one in Malibu California and the other in Bulgaria. The Bulgarian wedding was mostly planned by my husband and his Mother; I just picked out the colors. I spent most of my time working with my gown designer Olia Zavozina, designing my dream dress. I wanted the Bulgarian wedding to be uniquely different so I spent a lot of time on an inspiration for my gown and bridesmaids dresses. I have always wanted a long train but I felt it did not fit the beach wedding in Malibu, so I decided to incorporate it into the traditional Bulgarian wedding. Olia turned my dream wedding gown into a reality, which took over 300 hours to sew with lace imported from Paris, Italy and Russia. Olia was kind enough to name the gown after me, which will be available to other brides for purchase.

The Big Day

We incorporated so many Bulgarian traditions. It started with Rusev, his entire family and wedding party coming to the apartment to pick me up, complete with Bag pipes and accordion. The tradition is for the groom to break down the door and negotiate with my bridesmaids and my mother to "buy" me. Once he got into the house, he had to find my shoe, that we hid, and fill it with money until it fit me. Then we danced in the street and everyone in the town started dancing with us. We headed to the Greek Orthodox Church where crowns were placed on our heads for the traditional wedding ceremony. At the reception the traditions continued. First, we had to see who could drink the homemade moonshine the fastest, the winner is considered the boss of the home. Next, we threw the empty glass on the ground and the number of broken pieces of glass represents the number of children we will have. Then there was the breaking of the bread and whoever takes the bigger pieces is the leader of the home. I won both competitions! There was a lot of singing and dancing with all of the guests coming up giving us flowers, gifts, and blessings. It was magical! Total Divas filmed the entire experience to share with our fans around the world. Bulgarian weddings are so special every bride should have a Bulgarian wedding and be treated like a real life princess.

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The Retreat

We spent five days in the Seychelles, in our own private villa with an infinity pool. We then went to Dubai, ate the most amazing Lebanese food, and finished the trip with a traditional Turkishspa. We stayed at Four Seasons in both the Seychelles and Dubai two amazing resorts that made our honeymoon spectacular.

:: credits ::

Caterer/Reception: The Island Restaurant | Ceremony Venue: Sveta Marina Orthodox Church | Gown: Olia Zavozina | Honeymoon Accommodations: Four Seasons Seychelles & Four Seasons Dubai, Jumeirah Beach | Photographer: Digital Studio | Bridesmaid Dresses & Groom's Suit: Olia Zavozina

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