#ah but Ivan be gracious

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

Catholic Cultural Criticism

Have you noticed how society just isn't Catholic anymore? Nobody takes the authority of the Church seriously or internalizes any of our morals! You know where it all went wrong? When people abandoned Catholicism. What is the solution? Why you'll never guess--

[crustyfloor]

Till's name meaning "power of the tribe" or "people" because he's more connected with standing firm on his individuality as not a pet to these stupid aliens but a human with choice

(I don't know what I'm talking about actually)

[qqueenofhades]

Fake dating AU for the idiot Heartrender Husbands! I beg of you!

As ever, I am preposterously easy to enable, and since they will eventually make an appearance in A Phantom in Enchanting Light, I decided to write their backstory for that verse. Also, “fake dating but it’s only fake because they’re both idiots” is an Aesthetic. I love them.

Moscow, 2010

The guy is most definitely late. Fedyor got here early – probably too early, since they’re supposed to meet at eleven and he arrived by quarter past ten – but it’s now 11:08 and still no sign of him. Fedyor has claimed a corner table in the coffee shop just off Red Square with its splendid old tsarist-era décor, surrounded by the murmur of conversation and clicking laptop keys as his fellow Muscovites get on with their daily lives. The rule is fifteen minutes, yes? If Ivan Sakharov doesn’t show up in another seven, Fedyor is free to bail. But it’s been so long, and Nadia, the mutual friend responsible for this set-up, has begged Fedyor to give him a chance. And since it is understandably difficult to date as a gay man in Russia, Fedyor’s patience must be tested longer than usual. He sips his flat white and glances at the door again. Still no Ivan.

Fedyor opens his phone and checks the photo that Nadia sent him, trying to decide if this man is attractive enough to compensate for his tardiness. It’s hard to tell. It is 11:14, and he is absolutely about to pack up and leave by no later than 11:25, when a tall, grim-faced man in a red windbreaker strides in. He stops short, glances around, spots Fedyor, and powers over with such single-minded determination that Fedyor fears he’s about to be arrested. “Hello,” he says curtly. “I am Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov. I believe you are waiting for me?”

“Ah – ? I am Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, yes,” he manages, offering a hand, which Ivan crushes in a Terminator grip. “It’s – nice to meet you?”

Ivan snorts, pulls out the other chair, and drapes his jacket over it, then orders a small plain coffee (black like his soul, evidently). Then he returns, sits down, and claps his hands as if he is calling a misbehaving class to attention. “Where are you from?” he barks. “How long have you lived in Moscow?!”

Fedyor continues to gape. He’s genuinely not sure if this is Ivan attempting to get to know him on speed-run, or if he’s being interrogated by a FSB agent who can’t even act for two seconds like he’s not. It’s ominously possible. Dmitry Medvedev is the president and there are hopes that there might be a social liberalization, but the Orthodox patriarchs and the far right have been increasingly agitating against Russia’s embattled LGBTQ community, and things could just as easily get worse. Is this a setup or a setup? Nadia would never knowingly put him in a dangerous situation, of course, but maybe she was likewise fooled. You’d think that if this was a sting, they could have found a guy who was actually capable of pretending to be on a date, but maybe that’s the point? What the hell is going on here?

Fedyor opens his mouth, then shuts it. As a matter of fact, he is originally from Nizhny Novgorod, but moved to Moscow for university and has lived here for seven years, but if Ivan is with the FSB, he probably already knows that. Is this a trick? Is Ivan trying to match him to some police intelligence file or see if he’s a liar? Fedyor is seriously about to get up and walk out (or maybe sprint out) when Ivan, perhaps realizing that he’s blowing this to a heretofore unprecedented degree, says, “Sorry. I am from Krasnoyarsk. I enjoy rugby.”

Of course he likes rugby if he’s from Krasnoyarsk. This is a disaster. “Uh, what side?”

“Krasny Yar,” says Ivan, in the tone of a man about to stand up and belt out the fight song. “I also enjoy football. Yenisey Krasnoyarsk. Though I have begun supporting Lokomotiv since I came to Moscow. That was five years ago.”

So, he’s definitely a hooligan. Fedyor does his best to keep smiling. In the flesh, Ivan is definitely not unattractive. His hair is crisp and brown, there are glints of hazel in his eyes, and he has that hard, chiseled handsomeness that Fedyor always ends up getting suckered into. Except for the fact that he is lively, extroverted, and outgoing, likes clubbing and mingling and making friends, and this man does not appear to have ever heard of a single one of those things. What was Nadia thinking? It’s not like her to whiff this badly. Or did she have to be so circumspect in asking Ivan if he would like to meet Fedyor that, even if he’s not an undercover cop, he is in fact clueless about the true nature of this social engagement? Thinks it’s guys being pals?

“Did you have somewhere you were coming from earlier?” Fedyor asks, after another excruciating silence. “Is that why you were – ?”

“My apologies. The bus was late. I am normally very punctual.” Ivan scowls ferociously, as if the bus ever dares to do such a thing again, he will personally murder it. “What hobbies do you enjoy, Fedyor Mikhailovich?”

“I think you can call me Fedyor, yes?” They are clearly nowhere near “Fedya” and “Vanya” just yet, but “Fedyor Mikhailovich” always makes Fedyor look around warily for his grumpiest professor at MSU. He tries to think of subtle conversational gambits to find out what Ivan knows, without being obvious. Oh God, he really should just cut his losses, but something – perhaps the pathetic conviction that even a terrible date is better than no date at all – keeps him in his seat. Presuming that he does get out of here alive, he will call up Nadia straightaway and ask her many, many questions, mostly consisting of Why??! “Well,” Fedyor says at last. “I like having fun?”

“I also enjoy fun,” Ivan says, stone-faced. “I am very funny.”

Russian humor is normally extremely deadpan, to the point that Fedyor does wonder if Ivan is in fact a diabolical troll genius, but somehow he doesn’t think so. The rest of the conversation proceeds in this fashion, but by the end of an hour, Fedyor still has no idea if he has just been on a date or a trip to the gulag. Ivan gets up, administers another bone-crushing handshake, thanks him for his time, and marches out. Fedyor can practically hear the Red Army Choir thundering some patriotic anthem in his wake.

When he gets home that afternoon, Fedyor is resolved to write off the whole thing, except it was weirdly kind of not as bad as he first thought, maybe, somehow. If nothing else, he’s fascinated by this, like watching a slow-motion train crash. He takes out his phone with the intention of calling Nadia, only to see a text message from an unfamiliar number. When he opens it, it reads, Hello. Your company was agreeable today. Thank you. Perhaps we could meet again next week. Please reply yes or no. The message uses the formal styles of address, and some of the spellings are slightly old-fashioned. He has also signed it – Иван Сахаров – in case there might be some confusion with another Ivan the Terrible at Dating of Fedyor’s recent acquaintance. It is a bit like getting a text from the undertaker.

Fedyor stares at it, insanely tempted to burst out laughing, and finally, just because now he’s too curious to refuse, texts back his gracious acceptance. Still chuckling, he makes dinner, and then, as his phone pings with Ivan’s response, wonders in horror what on earth he is getting himself into.

This is how things continue for the next six weeks. Ivan and Fedyor meet up for the second time, stroll sedately around one of Moscow’s many city parks together, then part ways, and this time it’s Fedyor’s turn to ask if he would like to do it again. He isn’t sure exactly why, except that Ivan is unexpectedly easy to spend time with, and he nods in stoic approval of whatever Fedyor says. Of course, they follow the usual rules of dating which are especially important in Russia: don’t talk about politics, don’t talk about religion, don’t talk about America, don’t talk about Ukraine, don’t talk about Chechnya. From what Fedyor can glean, Ivan’s views tend to the doctrinaire, but he is surprisingly undogmatic, and willing to at least act as if he has an open mind. If he was an FSB agent, it feels like he would have busted Fedyor by now, but maybe he is waiting for him to do something unmistakably gay. That’s not it. Right?

Nadia calls, wanting to know how it’s going, and Fedyor grills her for forty minutes over whether Ivan is a law enforcement plant, a lonely guy looking for a friend, the world’s most method practical joker, or just extremely stupid. Nadia insists that he is actually very nice once you get to know him (HA, thinks Fedyor) and has no particular affection for either the ruling classes or the oligarchs. He can certainly be an acquired taste, but he is not evil.

Forced to accept it, still chickening out of asking Ivan whether he knows they’re dating, wondering if they are dating, if Ivan knows that Fedyor knows they’re dating, if Fedyor only thinks he knows that they are dating while they are not actually dating, or if Ivan thinks he knows that they’re dating while they’re… whatever the fresh-fried fuck is truly happening here, Fedyor trudges off for what has become his almost-weekly rendezvous with Ivan the-Maybe-Not-Quite-So-Terrible. They manage to have a few conversations verging on meaningful, and Fedyor has found himself telling Ivan about his family and Nizhny Novgorod and other such things. Fedyor likes to talk and Ivan likes to listen, though he breaks in now and again with a bone-dry quip. He’s still never what you would call loquacious, or easily forthcoming, but Fedyor likes that. Ivan is tough, complex, enigmatic, guarded, occasionally willing to let down his walls but only if the other person is worth it, and Fedyor finds, to his surprise, that he wants to be worth it. If this is a long-con mind game, he almost doesn’t care. (Almost.)

The problem, however, is that they’ve been seeing each other regularly for a month and a half and they haven’t gotten any closer than walking through a park, outdoors, in full view of their fellow comrades. Even the first time Fedyor takes the plunge and invites Ivan to his apartment, they sit three feet apart on the couch, watching a badly-Russian-subtitled version of Die Hard and providing critical commentary. Fedyor’s English is a lot more fluent than Ivan’s, and his middle-class family, while not exactly wealthy, is definitely better off than Ivan’s hardscrabble clan of miners and loggers in Siberia. That upbringing certainly does explain, to some degree, why Ivan is the way he is, and Fedyor wonders anxiously if Ivan views him as an insufferably posh city boy. Ivan barely finished high school and went straight to working in a Krasnoyarsk aluminum factory. He definitely did not faff around Moscow State University and attend global development seminars in Paris.

Nonetheless, despite their obvious differences, they do get along, and Fedyor is unable to deny the fact that he would, if it’s all right with everyone, like it to be more than that. Of course, finding out if Ivan knows, etc. etc., has been the paramount challenge, and there is no way to find out other than to go for it. Fedyor is 75% sure that they’ve been going steady for two months, but if it’s actually the other 25%, this is going to get awkward in a hurry. Is this essentially a fake relationship, or is it only fake because they’re both idiots?

After having duly commended his soul to God, Fedyor invites Ivan over on Saturday night. He rents a tiny flat by himself since he’s been burned on rooming with strangers, but Ivan is used to it by now, and it doesn’t feel too small with the two of them. Fedyor strains his limited culinary skills to cook supper, probably making his babushka cluck her tongue and sigh in a judgmental fashion back in Nizhny Novgorod, and they sit down and eat in silence for five minutes. Then Fedyor says, “Vanya?”

The consistent use of the diminutive has started sometime in the last few weeks, neither of them remember quite when. Ivan doesn’t correct him. “Yes?”

Fedyor clears his throat. “Do you…” He winces. “Do you… like me?”

“Yes?” Ivan says again, looking confused. “I would not have spent so much time with you if I did not, don’t you think? We are friends.”

“Yes, I know that we’re friends, but…” Fedyor looks at the ceiling. It doesn’t help, so he looks back at Ivan. “Are we… special friends?”

Ivan continues to look blank. “Are we?”

Fedyor resists the urge to tug at his collar, thinking that it’s a damn good thing that he didn’t go with his other idea of just leaning across the table and passionately kissing him. With absolutely no change of tone or expression, Ivan says, “Please explain. Special friends how?”

“Friends who want to…” Fedyor takes a deep breath. “Be… more than friends?”

“How?” Ivan orders again, ruthlessly. “Be clear, Fedya.”

“Are we maybe… boyfriends?” Fedyor’s voice squeaks on the word. “As in… we have feelings for each other that aren’t just… friendly? Like… feelings which are… romantic?”

Ivan continues to stare at him like a statue for several more seconds, and Fedyor contemplates the feasibility of tunneling directly through the floor of his apartment and running all the way to Latvia. Then at last, Ivan throws his head back and – startling Fedyor deeply – breaks into real, genuine, belly laughter, the kind that he has never heard from Ivan before. “Oh my,” he chortles, slapping the table. “Your face. You were sweating bullets.”

“WAIT, WHAT!?!” Fedyor pushes his chair back and stands up with a clatter, incandescently outraged. “Are you – were you messing with me?!!”

“Maybe a little,” Ivan says, wiping his eyes. “You know, all this time, I have not been sure if you are shy or a terrible prude. Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“God’s Mother in Heaven – ” Fedyor feels another prick of disloyalty to his babushka for swearing on the Bogomater, but some people deserve it. All inhibitions forgotten, he charges at Ivan like a runaway train, as Ivan springs out of his own chair in readiness, and starts pounding on his chest in transports of fury. “You are the worst! You are the worst person ever! For two months, what have we been doing?! I have been afraid this whole time that maybe you don’t know what’s really going on, and now – ?! You are the worst!”

Ivan catches Fedyor’s flailing arms, holds them away from him, and picks him up bodily, swinging him around and pushing him against the wall. “Maybe I am just a dumb country boy from Siberia,” he remarks, “but even I am not that stupid, Fedyor Mikhailovich.”

“I hate you,” Fedyor pants, their faces and their mouths an inch away from each other. “Get out of my apartment.”

“Mmm?” Ivan cocks an eyebrow. Then he plants both hands on either side of Fedyor’s head, leans in, and deeply, savagely captures Fedyor’s mouth with his own.

Every remaining vestige of barely rational thought in Fedyor’s head evaporates in screaming shock. He still wants to shove Ivan away, knee him in the balls, or break a chair over his head, but if he did that, he would have to stop kissing him, and he can’t do that either. He moans, Ivan’s tongue takes the opportunity to slip into his mouth, their hands clutch and claw and their legs melt out from under them, they turn away or break contact only to gulp a breath before diving back in again, and the next time Fedyor is aware of anything, they have collapsed on his kitchen floor in a wrung-out, entangled, gasping heap. Ivan says in his ear, “Do you still want me to leave, Fedya?”

“No,” Fedyor manages. “Because now, I am really going to make you suffer.”

Ivan’s smile is dark and full of promise. He pulls back, gets to his feet, and holds out a hand. “Then I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

(Ivan doesn’t leave Fedyor’s apartment that night. He doesn’t leave it the next night either. At the end of the week, Fedyor calls up Nadia and informs her that he hates her so much, and when they do next see each other, he’ll shake her by both shoulders and then thank her for introducing him to the no-good, truly awful, very bad love of his life.)

[orangegreet]

Photo by Peter Chiykowski on Unsplash

It was an impulsive decision she made, veering off the road.

Trotting her tired pony through the bog, Alina thought to reach the pond directly by cutting through the grounds.

She only realized the graveness of her error when the beast whined, its hooves stuck in the thick mud.

Alina cast a glance above at the unforgiving sky.

Meaning only to get the weary little pony a drink, she ended up stranded in the treacherous earth between road and house where few could notice her.

In earnest, she raised pleading cries toward the manor—pleas which were lost as the rain began to fall.

All that could be heard were the sheaths of water which fell in cascading waves over the grounds.

The vast estate around her might have been beautiful with the help of the sun gleaming down on its features but in the gloom of autumn dusk and the haze of rainfall, everything was colored into shades of gray and black.

How terrible this journey had become. A sickly old pony for a sickly little woman. Together for a week of travel from their coastal home in the south and up into the ever-dreary wilds of the north country. It had been a long, arduous journey.

Only now to be nearly swallowed by the grounds of Blyth Fell? It was a poor omen.

How deeply troubling to be so far north from everything she had ever known and completely at a loss for what to do next. Would she die here, helpless and sodden?

The thought throttled her heart and she melted into a shroud of self-pity.

No one would hear her. No one would see her what with the rain and the closing of the day. She would surely catch her death within the hour.

Or perhaps she would grow so weak as to slip off her horse and become pulled into the earth herself where the mud would expand into her ears, her nose, her throat.

Drowning in sludge on the eve of her employment—it would be a fitting end to her tragic little life.

When her tears began to fall, she was thankful they could blend in with the rain drops running down her face; the tears and droplets would be fast friends in their wallowing.

So preoccupied was she that when two large hands clamped around her waist, she shrieked in fright and kicked at her assailant.

“Calm yourself, blamed woman!” The gruff voice shouted above the din of the storm.

Sharp eyes cut into her own, black and menacing to her enervated state.

“You are in need of assistance and I am unfortunate enough to be passing by.” He told her. Water covered his face and dripped from his nose and his jaw.

Alina was dumbstruck by his beauty.

Enough that her tears abated for the moment.

“I will have to set you by the carriage.” The man continued.

Her eyes lingered on the dark, wet locks curling from under the brim of his hat. She nodded in acquiescence though he had already begun to tuck her over his arm like a paper doll and trudge up the hill.

A great, black carriage stood at the top of the slope, door ajar and horses nudging at the road in impatience.

“Inside.” He commanded, setting her down with haste. Alina stepped into the shelter obediently and watched as the man worked his way back to the front of the coach.

The driver already had one of the horses unhitched and together the two men trailed the steed back down the hill toward her distressed pony, stopping just short of the bog land.

Alina tried to watch their progress through the carriage window, eyes squinting through the bleary haze.

After a few minutes she thought she saw her that her pony had drifted further away even as the black stallion veered back.

The window fogged. She wiped it away with her wet sleeve and pressed closer. Her sweet, dear little pony was now very deep in mud. The base of its hauches no longer visible.

The carriage door swung open and she shrieked.

The dark haired man cast her a haughty look and then shifted into the carriage, moving across from her while he rummaged in his belongings beneath the bench.

“Ah, there.” He was holding a long musket aloft with one hand and stuffing the muzzle with another.

“Should be quite fine.” He leveled the rifle and, as if remembering her existence, looked up again, “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the beast will need to be put down. Look away, if it please you.”

It did not seem to make a difference for him.

His eyes skipped right over the horrified look on Alina’s face and he swept out of the coach again, door rattling in his wake.

The black tails of his coat billowed behind him in the wind and she swore he adjusted his hat into a perfect tilt as he balanced the firearm and aimed.

Bang.

Even the tragic sound of mercy was muffled by the rain.

Alina was too shocked to make any noise. Mouth agape, she watched the blurry figures through the window as they slogged back up the hill to reattach the black horse to his harness.

She was too shocked to do more than shuffle away from the door in a daze when the man stepped inside again.

Saddle bags dropped at her feet and he reached into the bench seat to remove a rag.

He tapped the front window once seated and the carriage took off again.

The pause in their journey suddenly felt as natural as if they had made a stop-off to pick wildflowers.

The man eyed her warily as he cleaned his gun.

Alina opened her mouth to speak and closed it several times, the carriage jostling her as she floundered for words.

“I never intended to…that is, I meant to...It seemed prudent to get the pony some water. We do not—that is to say…I never fathomed such terrain…” her hand covered her mouth in shame before she could continue.

“Hmm.” He smirked and returned to his task. “Well in your desire to care for the poor beast, you quite ensured it’s doom.”

Though tears sprang to her eyes at the condemnation, she found her anger at last and glared.

He chuckled in surprise. His face crinkled with mirth. Even in cruelty, he was beautiful.

“You are most welcome, by the way. For coming to your rescue.”

Great thanks indeed. The man was more monster than gentleman in her view.

Manners won out eventually and she mustered a gracious nod. Her words were still heavy in her chest.

The dark eyes remained on her, studying her features even as she forced her gaze back to the window.

“Pardon me, sir. My wits fled me for a few moments and now I am unsure. Could you deliver me to Blyth Fell? I should like to have walked from the road so as not to be an inconvenience. Or if your coachman would be so kind as to stop here, I can find my own way.”

Alina shifted to pick up the saddle bags which contained all her belongings. Everything left to her in the world.

“You are an orphan, are you not?” He was smirking at her again.

“How did you…” the cruelty of his smile cut through her question.

“I told my staff I wished for an orphaned governess this time.” He said, simply. “Our last one was far too home sick. All her free time spent holed up in her room writing letters to her sister or someone similar. I did not heed the particulars closely, you see.”

He examined the shine of his gun as he buffed. “Only her misery. That which she spread about the hall like a plague. It was a relief when she resigned her post.”

The way he looked at her was as a predator to cornered prey. Alina gulped.

Did he just kick his lips? A trick of the mind, surely.

Her words bubbled up from the tangle of her insides, “Then you are Lord Kirigan.”

He blinked and then smiled again, “Indeed. And your name, miss?”

“You know I am an orphan in your employ and you have yet to learn my name? I am hired to be governess to your children, am I not?” The venom with which the words whipped out of her mouth astonished them both.

Apparently, the little pony was not as forgotten to her as it was to her companion just now.

Alina reddened in her cheeks and ears while Lord Kirigan stared dumbfounded for a moment.

“I apologize, sir. It has been a long journey on my own and I have quite forgotten myself.”

He adjusted his collar and seemed to right himself at her admission. “Quite right. As if I am allotted the time to learn every detail of someone whom may or may not withstand the trial period in my employ.”

Alina’s heart raced under the threat. Enduring the long journey back south as a disgraced ex-governess was not comforting in the least.

She collected herself, straightened her posture and introduced herself.

“Miss Starkova.” The Lord held her name in his mouth a moment longer than usual and she was struck again by his dark eyes, watchful as they collected the details of her across from him.

“Unusual name for this part of the world. Am I to assume your credentials are adequate?”

A retort rose to her mind and she bit it back, nodding and listing off the education and training she accomplished in Weymouth. Alina would need to tamp this urge to defy him if she intended to keep her employ beyond the carriage ride.

As if she had manifested the ending with the thought, the carriage came to a stop.

Her head tilted as she looked up at the manor through the window. Lord Kirigan made no move to leave, watching her first with open curiosity and then a scowl.

The coachman opened the carriage door and Kirigan exited.

The rain had morphed into a light drizzle. The Lord straightened his coat before turning back to the carriage and offered his hand to the new governess.

Hesitating for only a moment, Alina’s fingers slid over his warm palm.

Once more, her eyes met his. A heartbeat of energy or perhaps merely her pulse could be felt in the space where they touched. He narrowed his gaze at her and then wrenched his eyes away, dropping her hand after she descended the carriage.

“Ivan will see to your bags.” Lord Kirigan called over his shoulder as he entered the house. “Welcome to Blyth Fell, Miss Starkova.”

Alina watched him recede into the dark entry before her, unable to look away even as the drizzling rain collected at her brow and ran down her face.

[superbeaucoupdevisages]

A COMPLETE INTERVIEW OF MY MUSE   tagged by: @soanlut I ALMOST FORGOT rifp me tagging: everyone that would like to~

NAME?

Ivan Kazimir Braginskiy [Иван Казимир Брагинский]. Ivan is very popular among Slavic countries, and frankly, he likes the name. Ivan means ‘God is gracious’, which is a little ironic. Kazimir is another popular Slavic name which means ‘Destroyer of peace’, and it was a middle name Ivan had chosen for himself. Braginskiy is a last name Ivan chose for himself as well, due to it being popular among his people as well, but beyond that it was just to make himself fit in more with his people.

ARE YOU SINGLE?

"But of course I am, silly. No one would dare to date someone like me.”

ARE YOU HAPPY?

"What an interesting question. Ah, I suppose I am not to lie in this interview. I would say...My happiness is only surface level.”

ARE YOU ANGRY?

"Occasionally. Only when I remember the ways I have been slighted, really.”

NINE FACTS –

BIRTHPLACE?

"Ah...Where would the modern equivalent be...I would say...Near Новосибирск? About around there, it has been much too long for me to remember.”

HAIR COLOR

"Mmmm I believe it is what most what call ‘ash blond’? I suppose it makes sense. Not a pure blond, but...Ashy and very light.”

EYE COLOR?

"Haha! Can you not see? They are violet...I would say it is my only redeeming feature.”

BIRTHDAY?

"December 30th...It’s no fun that my birthday is so close to the end of the year but...Oh well.”

MOOD?

"Mmm...Could be better, I suppose.”

GENDER?

"...I believe it is obvious I am a man.”

SUMMER OR WINTER?

"Ah- I must pick winter...As much as I like it when it’s warm, summer gets much too hot for me to stand..! I always get sunburn...” 

MORNING OR AFTERNOON?

"Afternoon, I would say. I do not like waking up most days. But by noon, I am never that busy so...It is a nice time of day. I much prefer the night time though...”

EIGHT THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE? –

ARE YOU IN LOVE?

"Love..? Well, you see. I am not sure I can feel such a thing anymore.”

DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?

"It depends on the person, in my opinion! Some lucky few...Have the ability to find who they love at first sight...Me though, not so much...”

WHO ENDED YOUR LAST RELATIONSHIP?

"Relationship? Oh, surely you jest. I have never been that close with anyone. And no one has tried to be that close with me, either.”

HAVE YOU EVER BROKEN SOMEONE’S HEART?

"Not on purpose, I would say.”

ARE YOU AFRAID OF COMMITMENTS?

"Ah...Possibly..? I have reason to be afraid of those that would dare stay around me...”

HAVE YOU HUGGED SOMEONE WITHIN THE LAST WEEK?

"I have...It was so nice...Ah, it makes a little bit of water come to my normally dry eyes.”

HAVE YOU EVER HAD A SECRET ADMIRER?

"Oh, I doubt it. It seems all are too frightened of me.”

HAVE YOU EVER BROKEN YOUR OWN HEART?

"Yes...Never on purpose, though. It was just my silly head getting my hopes up...Only for those hopes to be crushed to fine dust and blown away in the wind.”

SIX CHOICES –

LOVE OR LUST?

"Ah...I...Have not had lust before. I have had love but...Not in the romantic sense...So love, I suppose.”

LEMONADE OR ICED TEA?

"...I generally dislike both. Lemonade is too sour. I like that one tea drink that Lin gave me. That was cold.”

CATS OR DOGS?

"I have never allowed myself to have neither...Dogs always bark at me as if I have done wrong...Cats, I guess?”

A FEW BEST FRIENDS OR MANY REGULAR FRIENDS?

"Mm...I only have one person I would consider a regular friend, really. So that one.”

A WILD NIGHT OUT OR ROMANTIC NIGHT IN?

"Ah...I don’t quite like either option...I suppose the night in, though. I am not much of a party person.”

DAY OR NIGHT?

"Night! Most certainly!”

FIVE HAVE YOU EVERS –

BEEN CAUGHT SNEAKING OUT?

"Haha! No. I have done it many times, but everyone knows not to stop me.”

FALLEN DOWN/UP THE STAIRS?

"Mmm...I feel down steps while fighting once or twice. Didn’t really hurt, though.”

WANTED SOMETHING/SOMEONE SO BADLY IT HURT?

"Oh yes...Sometimes, it drives me mad...”

WANTED TO DISAPPEAR?

"Every day of my existence. Or at least, let myself be a human. At least then I have a set time in this world.”

FOUR PREFERENCES –

SMILE OR EYES?

"Eyes, certainly. Smiles can lie, after all.”

SHORTER OR TALLER?

"Shorter. I do not like those taller than me. Not that I know anyone that is though!”

INTELLIGENCE OR ATTRACTION?

"Intelligence. Attraction means nothing to me if you are dumber than a brick.”

HOOK-UP OR RELATIONSHIP?

"Well...I have not had the pleasure of either but...Relationship, I suppose.”

FAMILY –

DO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY GET ALONG?

"Mmm...Not...Quite? I terrify my family as well and they do not visit me often.”

WOULD YOU SAY YOU HAVE A “MESSED UP LIFE”?

"Every moment has been in my opinion! Some more than others, of course.”

HAVE YOU EVER RAN AWAY FROM HOME?

"Ha! Ran away from home..? Where is there to run? Nowhere, really.”

HAVE YOU EVER GOTTEN KICKED OUT?

"Oh, certainly not. All of them would suffer if they dare try.”

FRIENDS –

DO YOU SECRETLY HATE ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS?

"I only have one, and I have yet to hate him. He’s a good one...So far. As for allies? I hate every single one of them.”

DO YOU CONSIDER ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS TO BE GOOD FRIENDS?

"...Considering I only have one, well...He is not a good friend yet, so no.”

WHO IS YOUR BEST FRIEND?

"No one. Pitiful, isn’t it?”

WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU?

"Mm...No one, truly. The one who would know the most though...I would say, that goes to my dearest, older sister Ukraine.”

[sassypantsjaxon]

My gift for @niutellat for the week of hetalia gift exchange! Fruk! With a hint of FACE family and a side of (kind of) rusame! Happy holidays!

The rise of King Henry the ninth has seen with it the rise of the second British empire. Which had then in turn declared war on the Republic of France. France was told to surrender or face the consequences. Francis Bonnefoy chose the consequences.

... “Ah, you look wonderful.” The French president told his country. Francis preened in front of a mirror, straightening his tie and fluffing his curls. “One must always look their best when meeting their opponent.” “Even when the circumstances aren’t in their favor?” Francis glared at him. “Especially then.” “I’m glad you’re in such high spirits. It will convince that treacherous king that we aren’t defeated.” “Free France will never fall again. Not as long as I’m around.”

... “On this day, the Republic of France offers their unconditional surrender to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” Francis Bonnefoy silently stood by as his president condemned him to a life as England’s prisoner. Francis Bonnefoy chose the consequences, but his president chose to surrender.

---

“You lied to me!” Francis hissed when he and his president were alone again. “You said we weren't defeated! You agreed that we wouldn't fall! And you sold us out.” Francis glared at him coldly. “I don't know how you were ever put in power, but you never will be again.”

“France.” Francis turned to find Arthur standing in the doorway. “It's time to go.”

“Go where? This is still my home.” Francis declared proudly.

“But it's my land. You belong to me, and as such, you belong in London.”

“As a trophy in your case?”

“As British property.”

“No.”

“France-”

“Don't lie to me. I remember your colonies, you only brought them to London when you wanted to show off. I'm just another prize to you, don't humiliate me by saying otherwise.”

Arthur sighed. “Nevertheless, you will be coming with me.”

“It isn't a choice,” the president reminded him.

Francis glared at him again. “Traitor,” he spat.

---

“As out first addition, you could almost be counted as an ally,” Henry said. “So we'd like to extend an offer. Before the surrender becomes public information.”

“A marriage of sorts between our two countries,” Arthur continued. “The Anglo-French Union.” He paced in front of Francis. “That's what we'll call it. What do you think?”

“Va au diable.”

Henry slapped Francis. “You are a guest here,” he hissed a reminder.  “I could have locked you in the prisons. But, out of my gracious benevolence, you have been allowed to live in luxury. And because I have granted you this, you will treat me with respect. You will speak English from now on. Am I understood?”

Francis gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he growled.

Henry sniffed derisively before turning away. He stopped next to Arthur. “I expect he'll be fully under your control by the time of the ceremony.” He left without another word.

Arthur hurried over, reaching for Francis. “Are you all right?”

Francis pushed him away. “You can still go to hell.” He spat at Arthur's feet. “I don't want to see you.” He went to the door, intending to return to his room.

“Francis.” Arthur's voice stopped him. “You know you don't have a choice in this; you should stop fighting. It will hurt less.”

“I don't care how much it hurts, I swore I would never be anyone's prisoner again. No matter how luxurious, this is still my jail cell.”

---

Francis looked around the dinner hall where the other nation representatives were gathered to celebrate. If you could call it that. Everyone was rather subdued, wondering who would be conquered next. For that reason, some neighbors had declined the invitation.

France and England were officially united, making Arthur his husband. Yet he was nowhere to be found. Francis hadn't seen him since the end of the ceremony. “How are you doing?” A soft voice at his side asked.

Francis glanced at Matthew. “Furious. He couldn't even be bothered to attend his own wedding reception.”

“You look like you could use a drink.” Matthew gently took his elbow. “Come on.”

“This isn't how I ever imagined my wedding. It was supposed to be a real celebration. Between two people who loved each other, surrounded by everyone else they love. But look at me now.”

“Then again, maybe you've had enough to drink.” Matthew sighed. “I'm sorry you're not happy.”

“I wish Antonio were here, he could make me smile.”

“Gilbert's here.”

Francis shook his head. “No, Germany’s declared war on England, and therefore France.”

“Yes, but you're Gilbert and Francis.”

“I'd rather have the drink.”

Matthew sighed before leaving to get him a glass of champagne. He brought Alfred back with it. “Look who I found,” he proudly declared.

“Alfred.” Francis stood to greet him. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I'm great. Things are great at home, relations are great with Russia, England's leaving me alone-” he stopped when Matthew kicked him under the table. “Relations are great with Russia.”

Francis chose to ignore the accidental comment. “With Ivan too? Or just Russia?”

Alfred suddenly became very interested in his champagne glass. “Oh, you know…” he trailed off before abruptly changing the topic, “I haven't seen Arthur here.”

“Join the club,” Francis griped. “Went off with King Henry.” He made an undignified sound in the back of his throat.

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm afraid your marriage is off to a bad start if your husband is already running away with another man.”

Francis rolled his eyes. “I wish that was the only thing that was wrong.”

“Weeeeell,” Alfred looked around for an excuse to leave. “Oh look, there's Ivan, I'm going to go… talk to him.” He quickly stood up and left.

Francis sighed, pushing his hair away from his face.

Matthew reached over and took his hand sympathetically. “How are you? Really?”

“Honestly? I'm tired.”

“I know it's hard,” Matthew comforted him, gently patting his hand. “I know you don't even like him-”

Francis shook his head. “No, it's worse than that.”

“Worse-”

“I love him.”

Matthew slowly exhaled. “Oh. Does he-”

“No.”

“You could at least let me finish.” Matthew tried to joke.

“The answer would still be no. No, he doesn't know. No, he doesn't love me. This truly feels like a fate worse than death.”

“I think you're being at least a little over dramatic. But I'm sorry about all this.” Matthew rose and kissed Francis’ cheek, “I’m afraid I have to go now, tend to my own diplomatic affairs. I'll see you later, I'm sure.”

Francis squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Matthew.”

---

It wasn't until Francis had visited with all the countries who didn't hate him, all the ones who did hate Arthur, and anyone who didn't hate France and/or England (and some who did) as well as drink a considerable amount of wine, that Arthur finally found him.

“Oh, Arthur! There you are! I'm very mad at you,” Francis giggled. “But I can't remember why. Arthur, why am I mad at you?”

“I haven't the faintest idea. How much have you had?” Arthur took Francis’ half-full glass and set it on a table. “More than enough, at any rate. Come along.”

“Where are we going?” Francis tripped after him.

“You're going to bed.”

“Ohhh, this is my favorite part of getting married.”

Arthur smiled. “I'm sure it is.” He quietly led Francis out of one of the room’s side doors and into an elevator.

“What about everyone else?”

“They're not joining us.”

“I know that.” Francis laughed, “This isn't the middle ages. But what are they going to do?”

“I imagine they'll keep partying until they're more drunk than you are.” He glanced over at Francis. “Or at least as much. Come on.” He pulled Francis into his room.

“This is the same room I've been in,” Francis slurred, sliding his arms around Arthur's neck. “Shouldn't we have some sort of honeymoon suite?”

“No.” Arthur detached Francis’ arms from his neck, then removed Francis’ coat. “Sit down.” He waited for Francis to comply and then took off his shoes. “Get some sleep.” He turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Francis reached for him.

“Back to my own room. Oh, and Francis?”

“Yes?” Francis sat up hopefully.

“You've been speaking French. I hope it's only because you're drunk. You'll need to be speaking the King’s by morning.” Arthur turned off the light as he left, leaving Francis alone with the darkness and his thoughts.

Francis didn't mind, it just meant he didn't have to hide his tears.

---

Arthur didn't return to his own room yet, deciding instead he should return to his office and finish some paperwork. He hoped to be left alone for the rest of the night. Those plans were ruined by his discovery of Alfred kissing Ivan in front of his door.

Arthur sighed loudly, trying to get their attention, and then clearing his throat when that didn't work.

Alfred quickly pushed Ivan away, “No, I don't want to become one with you!” he exclaimed, “Go away.”

Ivan chuckled and leaned over to whisper something in Alfred's ear before walking back towards the party.

“No one really cares what you and Ivan do,” Arthur brushed past Alfred to unlock his door. “Well, maybe your bosses would. But no one here.”

“Right.” Alfred made to follow Ivan, “Oh! Francis was looking for you earlier!”

“Yes, I took him upstairs.”

“Then shouldn't you be with him? Or did you need a condom?”

Arthur glared at him.

Alfred shrugged, “Just saying.”

“Don't you have a boyfriend to snog?”

“No.” Alfred was silent long enough Arthur almost thought he was alone. “What's he like?”

“Francis? Same as ever, except now I'm stuck with him. You know what he's like.”

“Henry.” Alfred corrected him.

“He's…” Arthur sighed, “He's my boss. He's running me ragged, if it's not war and strategy and conquering, it's the paperwork he doesn't want to do himself.”

“How does he feel about Francis?”

“The Republic of France is the crowning jewel in the Great and Glorious Second British Empire,” Arthur recited. “But he hates Francis.”

“How do you feel about Francis?”

“Alfred, I'm too sober for this conversation.”

“So where were you during the party? Everybody was wondering.”

“Just watching. Away from it all.”

Asked shook his head, “Nuh-uh, that's only an option when you're not directly related to it. Your King’s not stopping at France, you need to be there for these kinds of ceremonies.”

“I know. I will be next time. But… Francis. This one's just too personal.”

“Then how do you think he felt? All alone up there, everybody watching him. Half of them are just waiting for him to fall now that he's part of you. The other half are wondering how you got him to roll over so easily. He didn't choose this this.”

“Neither did I!” Arthur snapped. He sighed, “I'm sorry.”

“S’okay. But you need to take care of him now.”

“Alfred, please go back to the party. Dance with Ivan. Get drunk on my behalf. Just have some fun.”

Alfred nodded, “Good luck with Francis.”

Arthur sighed, leaning against his door, knowing Alfred was right. Wishing he didn't feel so guilty.

---

Francis had been invited to dine with the king numerous times since being brought to England. Although the king still made him uncomfortable, Arthur had always been there with him. So Francis wasn't concerned when, for the first time since the union, he received a summons to join the king for lunch.

“Will Arthur be joining us soon?” Francis asked as he sat down to lunch. This was the first time he arrived before the other man.

Henry looked over at him. “England will not be here today.”

Francis’s stomach dropped. He had never been alone with the king, nor had he been able to shake the feeling that this king Henry was just as crazy as his predecessors. “Was he terribly busy? As a part of this union, I'm sure I could help him.”

“I don't believe that's a good idea.”

Francis nodded, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Because there is always the chance you would betray me,” Henry continued. “Besides, you know you're just here to show what the British empire is capable of. Bringing down the Republic of France in a humiliating defeat. Did you even try?”

Francis chose to drink his tea instead of answering.

“Of course, that was just the beginning. Tell me, how was your wedding night?”

The abrupt change of topic almost made Francis suspect the two questions really were connected.

“Fine.”

“Just fine? Pretend I'm one of your friends, what would you tell me then?”

“There's nothing to tell,” Francis bristled. “He put me to bed and then left.”

There was a long silence while Francis finished his tea before realizing the king was angrily staring at him.

“You mean to tell me the marriage was not consummated?”

“I don't believe that's your business,” Francis snapped.

---

Arthur glanced at the clock, wondering if it would be a good time to visit Francis.  He hasn't been able to see the other man since the night of their union, and felt bad about ignoring him in that way. He wanted to see him, talk about...things.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door to his office being thrown open by the king, who was dragging Francis by the hair. Arthur stood up as Henry threw Francis to the floor. Knowing the king the way he did, it would be a miracle if that was all Francis had been subjected to.

Henry stepped over Francis, who was gasping for air and looked like he was trying not to cry.

“Arthur. A word?” He came around to Arthur's side of the desk. “Now, my understanding is that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was united with the Republic of France, making Arthur Kirkland married to Francis Bonnefoy, correct?”

Arthur looked over at Francis, who hadn't moved, and back to Henry, wondering exactly what had happened. “Yes.”

“And, as the sovereign kingdom, you should be in charge. Your husband should be completely obedient to you, correct?”

This time Arthur could tell it wasn't really meant to be a question.

“Correct?” Henry repeated.

Arthur decided to try and placate him by giving him the answer he wanted. “Yes.”

“Then why was he able to refuse to consummate your union?”

Arthur shook his head. “He didn't refuse, that was my choice. He was drunk, he wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't going to have him accusing me of violating him.”

“He belongs to you,” Henry hissed, stepping closer. “He deserves anything that happens to him, as far as I'm concerned.”

Arthur looked past him to where Francis was still huddled on the floor. “Not this.” He walked around to Francis, reaching down to pull him up. Francis tried to push him away, but Arthur ignored him and picked him up anyway.

“Come on,” he whispered, gently leading him away. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

---

The two walked in silence, Arthur never letting go of Francis’ arm, Francis never looking up from his shoes. Rather than returning Francis to his apartment, Arthur brought him to his own.

Arthur gently sat Francis on the edge of his bathtub and pushed the tangle of his long hair away from his face. The other man’s eyes were red and his lip was bleeding. Arthur soaked a washcloth in warm water before using it to wipe Francis’ face.

“Shh, it’s all right,” he soothed. “You're safe now.”

Francis sobbed. “He’s-”

“You don't need to tell me, I know what he's like. I'm sorry.”

“You should have warned me!”

“I know.” Arthur distracted himself with rewetting the washcloth so he wouldn't have to look at Francis. “I thought I could protect you.”

“Protect me?” Francis scoffed. “You leave me for days on end!”

“I...had hoped he would leave you alone.”

“...Sometimes I really hate you.”

“Sometimes I really hate myself too.” He carefully pulled Francis back to his feet, and led him back to the bedroom. “Here, I want you to lie down. I have some business I need to finish, but I'll return in a few hours.”

“Does any of that business have to do with Henry?”

“It always has to do with him.” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “I need to go. You'll be safe here, I promise.”

“Arthur? Even if your king is-” Francis hesitated. “Just… Don't lose yourself.”

Arthur smiled. “And if I did, would you come find me?”

“Yes.” Francis promised.

“Get some rest,” Arthur sighed. “I'll be back later.”

---

Francis was woken by the sound of something crashing, followed shortly by Arthur swearing. He looked up at Francis. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”

Francis managed to laugh a little.

“I brought some dinner.” Arthur held up the tray.

“Anything good?”

He looked down at the plates. “There's some cake. That I may have spilled tea on.”

Francis laughed again before patting the empty space next to him. “Come sit with me.”

“Are you feeling better?” He handed Francis the tray so it had a smaller chance of being jostled as he climbed into the bed.

“Yes, nurse Arthur.” Francis skipped the sandwiches Arthur brought and went right to the least soggy piece of cake.

The two ate in silence. When he was done, Francis yawned and leaned on Arthur's shoulder.

“Are you still tired?” Arthur patted his hair.

“A little.”

“You can sleep here, I'll sleep on the couch.”

“You don't need to do that-”

“Really, it's fine-”

“We can share the bed.”

Arthur froze. “That's not necessary.”

“I would like for you to stay with me.” Francis insisted.

“All right.” Arthur gave in, “Anything else you want?”

“One thing, but is not something you can get for me. It's something you can do for me.”

“Name it. I'll do my best.”

“Arthur,” he took a deep breath, “I want you to-”

“No.” Arthur cut him off, realizing where the request was going.

“Why not?”

“Why? It won't help anything, not really.”

“I don't care. Arthur,” Francis slid one hand to the back of Arthur's neck, his other pulling his face closer. Arthur could feel his breath on his jaw. “Arthur, make love to me.”

“Francis, think about this. You were assaulted because we haven't had sex. Now you want it?”

Francis pushed Arthur away so he could look him in the eye. “I've wanted it this whole time.”

Arthur tried to formulate a protest, tried to tell Francis he was wrong.

“I missed you on our wedding night,” Francis continued.

“Please don't call it that.” Arthur groaned, rubbing both hands across his face.

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn't! There was nothing consensual about it. I- you were forced into something you don't want.” He looked up at Francis. “You've said it yourself: you're not a guest here, you're a prisoner. Why would you-”

“I want to be married to you,” Francis softly interrupted.

“I never wanted you as my prisoner,” Arthur reassured him, cupping his face in his hand. “I wanted you as my partner.”

Francis looked up as Arthur closed the distance between them, gently kissing him.

“I love you,” Arthur whispered. “Please believe me.”

Francis nodded, holding on to his husband. “J’taime.”

---

Arthur held Francis’ hand, gently kissing his fingers as Francis tried not to fall asleep. “I know we're not in an ideal situation,” he whispered. “But I'm sure we can learn to live with it. Try to make the best of it.”

Francis nodded sleepily. “As long as you're with me.”

Arthur leaned over to kiss him. “I'm never leaving you again.”

[therealvagabird]

The Island of Buyan

A fairy tale in the Slavic style, by C. Christiansen. A faithful recreation of ancient folk stories, featuring the villain Koschei the Deathless. Initially written for my college course.

Once in a rural village, neither then nor now, neither here nor there, there lived a family of peasants. The mother and the father were farmers, and had three sons. The eldest was quite strong, and became a ferrier for the army. The middle child was clever, and kept stocks and records in the town hall. The youngest, Ivan, was neither strong nor good with books and numbers. He sat on the stove all day, grooming himself and idling away.

Eventually, his mother reprimanded him. “When are you going to leave the home, Ivan? You need a wife, you need money, and yet you sit here preening all day!”

Ivan considered this, and was in the middle of thinking when a small bird perched on the windowsill.

“Go, go, young Ivan! To far Buyan, on the silver sea! Princess Carola seeks a groom!”

“A princess?” Ivan gawked, “But why should a princess want to marry me?” but then he thought, “Well, my brothers may be stronger and better learned than me, but I am neither weak nor slow. I’ve a fair temper, and fairer looks. Perhaps I have a chance!”

And so, thinking it his best hope, Ivan set out the next day with a pack on his back and what money he could spare. He journeyed to the shores of the silver sea, past the borders of the Thrice-Ninth Kingdom in the Thrice-Tenth Lands. He walked for many days, and was very tired when he reached the coast. Still, his wit and charms were enough to buy a small boat for cheap, and he set out rowing into the open ocean.

He rowed for as long as he had walked, and grew even more tired. Raising his arms in despair, he called to the winds.

“Oh, cruel fate! How much longer must I row to reach Buyan? My arms are tired, my legs are tired, and I’ve naught but half a loaf of dry bread left!”

And the spirits on the wind heard his cries. They swooped down and pushed in a heavy gale, sending Ivan’s boat onwards until it reached the island of Buyan. It was a mystical place, with a town that sparkled with moonlight, with a great mansion above. The forests were dark and green, and the fields wide and covered in blue grass.

Grateful for his luck, Ivan left his boat and went up to the shining village. He asked about where he might find the beautiful Princess Carola.

“Why, if only you’d gotten here a day sooner!” one villager remarked, “She’s been engaged already.”

“To who?” Ivan demanded, frown on his face.

“Tsar Koschei! He came in on a black horse, right over the waves, and swept up our good Princess to wed! She had no say in the matter.”

“And where is this Koschei?” Ivan inquired.

“Staying up in the royal villa, on top of the hill.” The peasant pointed to the majestic house.

“Well.” Thought Ivan aloud, “I will have to go up and duel this Koschei. Kidnapping Princesses won’t do! And I wanted to marry sweet Carola!”

“Oh, but you can’t duel him.” Warned the villager, “Koschei is deathless. He can’t be killed, not without his death.”

And so Ivan asked where he might find this death, but nobody knew. So he left, heading out to the forest for some peace and quiet so he could plan.

“Where oh where to find this death? Where do you find a death? Is it in the air? Hanging from a tree? Oh, I wish I knew!”

And one tree heard him, an old apple tree. It rustled and shook an apple right at Ivan’s head.

“Hey, what are you doing, tree?” Ivan rubbed at the bruise.

“You seek something? Perhaps I could help, if only you ask.” The tree spoke.

“I do ask, if you please.” Ivan informed it, “I seek the death of Tsar Koschei.”

“Ah, but you seek his soul! Koschei’s soul is as frail as a candle’s flame, but death cannot come to him so long as it stays hidden. And so he buried it in an iron chest, here on this very island. Go to where the amber stream leaves the green forest, and runs across the blue grass to the silver sea. There his chest is buried.”

Ivan thanked the tree graciously, and set off with nothing more than a hand-spade for digging. He found where the amber-colored stream left the green shadows of the forest, and ran across the blue meadows down to the silver sea, and began to dig. It was a tough job, but he couldn’t let Carola be married before he found Koschei’s death. Before the next morning’s sun rose, his spade clanked against the hard top of an iron chest. He pulled it out of the black soil, and turned the latch that sealed it shut.

Before Ivan had a chance to look inside, a hare jumped from the chest, running off across the fields and out of sight. When Ivan looked in the chest, there was nothing.

Just then, lightning flashed and Ivan looked in fear to the skies. A black horse rode down, with a man astride it. The man was thin as a rail, so thin you could see his bones. He had a great beard, a crown of bronze, and a cloak of white fur.

“What are you doing, child? Digging up my chest? You should leave such things well alone!” Tsar Koschei the Deathless snapped at Ivan.

“So you are Koschei? You seek to marry Princess Carola, but I was supposed to marry Carola! You listen, old man: such a beautiful girl can’t marry one like you! I’ll save her!”

“You certainly will not.” Koschei grumbled, “You will leave Buyan and you will not come back. I am to marry the Princess in three days, and I can’t have you interrupting. As such, I will give you three days to pick up and leave this island. If you fail to do so, I will strike you dead!” and Koschei drew forth a great black sword, and lightning flashed again. Ivan fled while Koschei laughed.

Later in the day, Ivan sat on a stump and looked up to the white mansion high on the far away hill above the town.

“Oh Carola! You could have married me, but now you’re set to marry that old corpse. How am I to catch that hare? Koschei’s death must be hidden with it, and yet I am not fast enough, nor do I know how fix a snare!”

Just then, a small bird perched on a branch above, and spoke in a familiar voice.

“Young Ivan, young Ivan! You’ve come to wed the Princess!” the bird exclaimed.

“I did, but now I can’t. I cannot catch the death of Tsar Koschei!” Ivan told the bird.

“Go, go, young Ivan. Back to where the chest is buried. A hare lives inside, yes? When it tries to flee, I will turn into a great raven and catch it!”

Ivan was astounded and thanked the bird, heading back to where the amber stream left the green woods, and snaked across the blue meadows into the silver sea. He took his spade, and knowing where the chest was this time he dug and dug. Koschei had buried it deeper than before, but still he managed to find it by the next morning. He turned the latch on the chest, and the hare leapt out, dashing across the meadows. With a rawking caw, a great black raven swooped down and grabbed the hare, tearing it open with its beak. But just then, with a sudden puff of fur and feathers, the rabbit vanished, and a duck took to the skies from where it had lain. The duck flew off into the skies, and lightning flashed again.

“Foolish child!” Koschei rode down on his black horse, “You invite death! I would kill you early, if I did not have my honor! Leave Buyan! Leave my chest alone! And do so before my wedding, or I my sword will drink your blood!” Ivan was terrified at his wrath, and fled again, running off into the forest.

The next day, Ivan was thinking hard. He could not leave until he had the Princess, though he was not keen on dying.

“How to catch that duck? I have no bow, I have no net! What to do?”

And it was then he heard a whisper on the breeze, and saw the faces of several spirits swirling about him. They were fair, not ghostly, and sang like the ocean winds.

“Spirits! Will you help me again? My gratitude would be unending! I must have the death of Koschei, for the sake of the good Princess!”

The spirits nodded in silence, and fluttered back to the skies.

That night, Ivan returned to where the chest had been buried again, following the amber stream until it left the green forest to meander down the blue fields into the silver sea. He spotted where the chest was buried, and saw there was a big stone resting on top of it. It was a great burden, but with all the might he could muster, Ivan shifted the stone aside and set about digging down, down, down to find the iron chest.

When he pulled it up, he undid the latch, and the hare came darting out. Before it could run away, the raven swooped down for its meal. When the black bird tucked into the rabbit, the duck sprang forth and took to the skies. But then a great gale swept in, and sent the duck spiraling towards the ground. Ivan grabbed the bird, and as it squawked it laid a single, glowing egg. Ivan let go of the duck and grabbed the egg, cracking it open to find a fine sewing needle. In the eye of the needle flickered a little blue flame.

Lightning parted the skies, and Koschei rode down on his horse in a fury, black sword drawn.

“Fool! What are you doing?!” he demanded, but then saw the needle in Ivan’s fingers.

“You are finished, Koschei, and Carola is free!” and with that he blew out the flame in the needle.

“NO!” but Koschei’s bones flew away like smoke, and he was gone.

Ivan marched up to the royal villa, and found Carola there. He proclaimed Koschei had met his death, and that he wished to marry her. The gracious princess agreed, and the two were married but the next day. They sailed back across the sea on a beautiful ship, to the Thrice-Ninth Kingdom in the Thrice-Tenth Lands, where stood the palace of the Princess’ father, the good Tsar. They lived there for many long years in prosperity and health, with treasures all about them. I saw it! I was there! I drank beer—but it all flowed down my moustache, and none went in my mouth!

[ivaninverted]

      Ivan was fast on his reflexes. It’s thanks to his many experiences that he was able to as there was a strong attack going right through his portal. Geez, why is it that he always end up in such odd situations. Waiting for a moment, Ivan slowly looked through the portal, staring at the other and waving nervously.

      “Ah--H-hello!! I do apologize greatly for this. I will be more careful next time! So sorry to have disturbed you--but goodness gracious that was close!”

[easterelf]

In exchange for the gracious gift him and Ivane had received, Sterling made something that perfect to use and perfect size for the elf. A tiny bow with arrows. And it wasn't just any ordinary bow. It was craved from a rather large kalimaya stone. He figured-- he needed something as colorful as him.

  He fingers the bow idly, a finger trailing along the stone’scarefully carved surface enjoying the smoothness of it. Doodlewasn’t really familiar with a bow, not his type of weapon honestlyhe was more of a sword or dagger kind of elf. However just the sight of the beautiful gift had Doodle excited to try out his new gift. “I gotsta gets mee some lessons now....who knows how tashoot a bow and can teach? Ah...”

[readbookywooks]

Vodka

Balthamos felt the death of Baruch the moment it happened. He cried aloud and soared into the night air over the tundra, flailing his wings and sobbing his anguish into the clouds; and it was some time before he could compose himself and go back to Will, who was wide awake, knife in hand, peering up into the damp and chilly murk. They were back in Lyra's world. "What is it?" said Will as the angel appeared trembling beside him. "Is it danger? Get behind me - " "Baruch is dead," cried Balthamos, "my dear Baruch is dead - " "When? Where?" But Balthamos couldn't tell; he only knew that half his heart had been extinguished. He couldn't keep still: he flew up again, scouring the sky as if to seek out Baruch in this cloud or that, calling, crying, calling; and then he'd be overcome with guilt, and fly down to urge Will to hide and keep quiet, and promise to watch over him tirelessly; and then the pressure of his grief would crush him to the ground, and he'd remember every instance of kindness and courage that Baruch had ever shown, and there were thousands, and he'd forgotten none of them; and he'd cry that a nature so gracious could never be snuffed out, and he'd soar into the skies again, casting about in every direction, reckless and wild and stricken, cursing the very air, the clouds, the stars. Finally Will said, "Balthamos, come here." The angel came at his command, helpless. Shivering inside his cloak, in the bitter cold gloom of the tundra, the boy said to him, "You must try to keep quiet now. You know there are things out there that'll attack if they hear a noise. I can protect you with the knife if you're nearby, but if they attack you up there, I won't be able to help. And if you die, too, that'll be the end for me. Balthamos, I need you to help guide me to Lyra. Please don't forget that. Baruch was strong - be strong, too. Be like him for me." At first Balthamos didn't speak, but then he said, "Yes. Yes, of course I must. Sleep now, Will, and I shall stand guard, I shan't fail you." Will trusted him; he had to. And presently he fell asleep again. When he woke up, soaked with dew and cold to his bones, the angel was standing nearby. The sun was just rising, and the reeds and the marsh plants were all tipped with gold. Before Will could move, Balthamos said, "I've decided what I must do. I shall stay with you day and night, and do it cheerfully and willingly, for the sake of Baruch. I shall guide you to Lyra, if I can, and then I shall guide you both to Lord Asriel. I have lived thousands of years, and unless I am killed, I shall live many thousands of years more; but I never met a nature that made me so ardent to do good, or to be kind, as Baruch's did. I failed so many times, but each time his goodness was there to redeem me. Now it's not, I shall have to try without it. Perhaps I shall fail from time to time, but I shall try all the same." "Then Baruch would be proud of you," said Will, shivering. "Shall I fly ahead now and see where we are?" "Yes," said Will, "fly high, and tell me what the land's like farther on. Walking on this marshland is going to take forever." Balthamos took to the air. He hadn't told Will everything he was anxious about, because he was trying to do his best and not worry him; but he knew that the angel Metatron, the Regent, from whom they'd escaped so narrowly, would have Will's face firmly imprinted on his mind. And not only his face, but everything about him that angels were able to see, including parts of which Will himself was not aware, such as that aspect of his nature Lyra would have called his daemon. Will was in great danger from Metatron now, and at some time Balthamos would have to tell him; but not quite yet. It was too difficult. Will, reckoning that it would be quicker to get warm by walking than by gathering fuel and waiting for a fire to catch, simply slung the rucksack over his shoulders, wrapped the cloak around everything, and set off toward the south. There was a path, muddy and rutted and potholed, so people did sometimes come this way; but the flat horizon was so far away on every side that he had little sense of making progress. Sometime later, when the light was brighter, Balthamos's voice spoke beside him. "About half a day's walk ahead, there is a wide river and a town, where there's a wharf for boats to tie up. I flew high enough to see that the river goes a long way directly south and north. If you could get a passage, then you could move much more quickly." "Good," said Will fervently. "And does this path go to the town?" "It goes through a village, with a church and farms and orchards, and then on to the town." "I wonder what language they speak. I hope they don't lock me up if I can't speak theirs." "As your daemon," said Balthamos, "I shall translate for you. I have learned many human languages; I can certainly understand the one they speak in this country." Will walked on. The toil was dull and mechanical, but at least he was moving, and at least every step took him closer to Lyra. The village was a shabby place: a huddle of wooden buildings, with paddocks containing reindeer, and dogs that barked as he approached. Smoke crept out of the tin chimneys and hung low over the shingled roofs. The ground was heavy and dragged at his feet, and there had obviously been a recent flood: walls were marked with mud to halfway up the doors, and broken beams of wood and loose-hanging sheets of corrugated iron showed where sheds and verandas and outbuildings had been swept away. But that was not the most curious feature of the place. At first he thought he was losing his balance - it even made him stumble once or twice - for the buildings were two or three degrees out of the vertical, all leaning the same way. The dome of the little church had cracked badly. Had there been an earthquake? Dogs were barking with hysterical fury, but not daring to come close. Balthamos, being a daemon, had taken the form of a large snow white dog with black eyes, thick fur, and tight-curled tail, and he snarled so fiercely that the real dogs kept their distance. They were thin and mangy, and the few reindeer Will could see were scabby-coated and listless. Will paused in the center of the little village and looked around, wondering where to go, and as he stood there, two or three men appeared ahead and stood staring at him. They were the first people he had ever seen in Lyra's world. They wore heavy felt coats, muddy boots, and fur hats, and they didn't look friendly. The white dog changed into a sparrow and flew to Will's shoulder. No one blinked an eye at this: each of the men had a daemon, Will saw, dogs, most of them, and that was how things happened in this world. On his shoulder, Balthamos whispered: "Keep moving. Don't look them in the eye. Keep your head down. That is the respectful thing to do." Will kept walking. He could make himself inconspicuous; it was his greatest talent. By the time he got to them, the men had already lost interest in him. But then a door opened in the biggest house in the road, and a voice called something loudly. Balthamos said softly, "The priest. You will have to be polite to him. Turn and bow." Will did so. The priest was an immense, gray-bearded man, wearing a black cassock, with a crow daemon on his shoulder. His restless eyes moved over Will's face and body, taking everything in. He beckoned. Will went to the doorway and bowed again. The priest said something, and Balthamos murmured, "He's asking where you come from. Say whatever you like." "I speak English," Will said slowly and clearly. "I don't know any other languages." "Ah, English!" cried the priest gleefully in English. "My dear young man! Welcome to our village, our little no-longer-perpendicular Kholodnoye! What is your name, and where are you going?" "My name is Will, and I'm going south. I have lost my family, and I'm trying to find them again." "Then you must come inside and have some refreshment," said the priest, and put a heavy arm around Will's shoulders, pulling him in through the doorway. The man's crow daemon was showing a vivid interest in Balthamos. But the angel was equal to that: he became a mouse and crept into Will's shirt as if he were shy. The priest led him into a parlor heavy with tobacco smoke, where a cast-iron samovar steamed quietly on a side table. "What was your name?" said the priest. "Tell me again." "Will Parry. But I don't know what to call you." "Otyets Semyon," said the priest, stroking Will's arm as he guided him to a chair. "Otyets means Father. I am a priest of the Holy Church. My given name is Semyon, and the name of my father was Boris, so I am Semyon Borisovitch. What is your father's name?" "John Parry." "John is Ivan. So you are Will Ivanovitch, and I am Father Semyon Borisovitch. Where have you come from, Will Ivanovitch, and where are you going?" "I'm lost," Will said. "I was traveling with my family to the south. My father is a soldier, but he was exploring in the Arctic, and then something happened and we got lost. So I'm traveling south because I know that's where we were going next." The priest spread his hands and said, "A soldier? An explorer from England? No one so interesting as that has trodden the dirty roads of Kholodnoye for centuries, but in this time of upheaval, how can we know that he will not appear tomorrow? You yourself are a welcome visitor, Will Ivanovitch. You must stay the night in my house and we will talk and eat together. Lydia Alexandrovna!" he called. An elderly woman came in silently. He spoke to her in Russian, and she nodded and took a glass and filled it with hot tea from the samovar. She brought the glass of tea to Will, together with a little saucer of jam with a silver spoon. "Thank you," said Will. "The conserve is to sweeten the tea," said the priest. "Lydia Alexandrovna made it from bilberries." The result was that the tea was sickly as well as bitter, but Will sipped it, nonetheless. The priest kept leaning forward to look closely at him, and felt his hands to see whether he was cold, and stroked his knee. In order to distract him, Will asked why the buildings in the village sloped. "There has been a convulsion in the earth," the priest said. "It is all foretold in the Apocalypse of St. John. Rivers flow backward... The great river only a short way from here used to flow north into the Arctic Ocean. All the way from the mountains of central Asia it flowed north for thousands and thousands of years, ever since the Authority of God the Almighty Father created the earth. But when the earth shook and the fog and the floods came, everything changed, and then the great river flowed south for a week or more before it turned again and went north. The world is turned upside down. Where were you when the great convulsion came?" "A long way from here," Will said. "I didn't know what was happening. When the fog cleared, I had lost my family and I don't know where I am now. You've told me the name of this place, but where is it? Where are we?" "Bring me that large book on the bottom shelf," said Semyon Borisovitch. "I will show you." The priest drew his chair up to the table and licked his fingers before turning the pages of the great atlas. "Here," he said, pointing with a dirty fingernail at a spot in central Siberia, a long way east of the Urals. The river nearby flowed, as the priest had said, from the northern part of the mountains in Tibet all the way to the Arctic. He looked closely at the Himalaya, but he could see nothing like the map Baruch had sketched. Semyon Borisovitch talked and talked, pressing Will for details of his life, his family, his home, and Will, a practiced dissembler, answered him fully enough. Presently the housekeeper brought in some beetroot soup and dark bread, and after the priest had said a long grace, they ate. "Well, how shall we pass our day, Will Ivanovitch?" said Semyon Borisovitch. "Shall we play at cards, or would you prefer to talk?" He drew another glass of tea from the samovar, and Will took it doubtfully. "I can't play cards," he said, "and I'm anxious to get on and keep traveling. If I went to the river, for example, do you think I could find a passage on a steamer going south?" The priest's huge face darkened, and he crossed himself with a delicate flick of the wrist. "There is trouble in the town," he said. "Lydia Alexandrovna has a sister who came here and told her there is a boat carrying bears up the river. Armored bears. They come from the Arctic. You did not see armored bears when you were in the north?" The priest was suspicious, and Balthamos whispered so quietly that only Will could hear: "Be careful." And Will knew at once why he'd said it: his heart had begun to pound when Semyon Borisovitch mentioned the bears, because of what Lyra had told him about them. He must try to contain his feelings. He said, "We were a long way from Svalbard, and the bears were occupied with their own affairs." "Yes, that is what I heard," said the priest, to Will's relief, "But now they are leaving their homeland and coming south. They have a boat, and the people of the town will not let them refuel. They are afraid of the bears. And so they should be - they are children of the devil. All things from the north are devilish. Like the witches - daughters of evil! The Church should have put them all to death many years ago. Witches - have nothing to do with them, Will Ivanovitch, you hear me? You know what they will do when you come to the right age? They will try to seduce you. They will use all the soft, cunning, deceitful ways they have, their flesh, their soft skin, their sweet voices, and they will take your seed - you know what I mean by that - they will drain you and leave you hollow! They will take your future, your children that are to come, and leave you nothing. They should be put to death, every one." The priest reached across to the shelf beside his chair and took down a bottle and two small glasses. "Now I am going to offer you a little drink, Will Ivanovitch," he said. "You are young, so not very many glasses. But you are growing, and so you need to know some things, like the taste of vodka. Lydia Alexandrovna collected the berries last year, and I distilled the liquor, and here in the bottle is the result, the only place where Otyets Semyon Borisovitch and Lydia Alexandrovna lie together!" He laughed and uncorked the bottle, filling each glass to the rim. This kind of talk made Will hideously uneasy. What should he do? How could he refuse to drink without discourtesy? "Otyets Semyon," he said, standing, "you have been very kind, and I wish I could stay longer to taste your drink and to hear you talk, because what you tell me has been very interesting. But you understand I am unhappy about my family, and very anxious to find them again, so I think I must move on, much as I would like to stay." The priest pushed out his lips, in the thicket of his beard, and frowned; but then he shrugged and said, "Well, you shall go if you must. But before you leave, you must drink your vodka. Stand with me now! Take it, and down all in one, like this!" He threw back the glass, swallowing it all at once, and then hauled his massive body up and stood very close to Will. In his fat, dirty fingers the glass he held out seemed tiny; but it was brimming with the clear spirit, and Will could smell the heady tang of the drink and the stale sweat and the food stains on the man's cassock, and he felt sick before he began. "Drink, Will Ivanovitch!" the priest cried, with a threatening heartiness. Will lifted the glass and unhesitatingly swallowed the fiery, oily liquid in one gulp. Now he would have to fight hard to avoid being sick. There was one more ordeal to come. Semyon Borisovitch leaned forward from his great height, and took Will by both shoulders. "My boy," he said, and then closed his eyes and began to intone a prayer or a psalm. Vapors of tobacco and alcohol and sweat came powerfully from him, and he was close enough for his thick beard, wagging up and down, to brush Will's face. Will held his breath. The priest's hands moved behind Will's shoulders, and then Semyon Borisovitch was hugging him tightly and kissing his cheeks, right, left, right again. Will felt Balthamos dig tiny claws into his shoulder, and kept still. His head was swimming, his stomach lurching, but he didn't move. Finally it was over, and the priest stepped back and pushed him away. "Go, then," he said, "go south, Will Ivanovitch. Go." Will gathered his cloak and the rucksack, and tried to walk straight as he left the priest's house and took the road out of the village. He walked for two hours, feeling the nausea gradually subside and a slow, pounding headache take its place. Balthamos made him stop at one point, and laid his cool hands on Will's neck and forehead, and the ache eased a little; but Will made himself a promise that he would never drink vodka again. And in the late afternoon the path widened and came out of the reeds, and Will saw the town ahead of him, and beyond it an expanse of water so broad it might have been a sea. Even from some way off, Will could see that there was trouble. Puffs of smoke were erupting from beyond the roofs, followed a few seconds later by the boom of a gun. "Balthamos," he said, "you'll have to be a daemon again. Just keep near me and watch out for danger." He walked into the outskirts of the scruffy little town, where the buildings leaned even more perilously than the village, and where the flooding had left its mud stains on the walls high above Will's head. The edge of the town was deserted, but as he made his way toward the river, the noise of shouting, of screams, and of the crackle of rifle fire got louder. And here at last there were people: some watching from upper-floor windows, some craning anxiously around the corners of buildings to look ahead at the waterfront, where the metal fingers of cranes and derricks and the masts of big vessels rose above the rooftops. An explosion shook the walls, and glass fell out of a nearby window. People drew back and then peered around again, and more cries rose into the smoky air. Will reached the corner of the street and looked along the waterfront. When the smoke and dust cleared a little, he saw one rusting vessel standing offshore, keeping its place against the flow of the river, and on the wharf a mob of people armed with rifles or pistols surrounding a great gun, which, as he watched, boomed again. A flash of fire, a lurching recoil, and near the vessel, a mighty splash. Will shaded his eyes. There were figures in the boat, but - he rubbed his eyes, even though he knew what to expect - they weren't human. They were huge beings of metal, or creatures in heavy armor, and on the foredeck of the vessel, a bright flower of flame suddenly bloomed, and the people cried out in alarm. The flame sped into the air, rising higher and coming closer and shedding sparks and smoke, and then fell with a great splash of fire near the gun. Men cried and scattered, and some ran in flames to the water's edge and plunged in, to be swept along and out of sight in the current. Will found a man close by who looked like a teacher, and said: "Do you speak English?" "Yes, yes, indeed - " "What is happening?" "The bears, they are attacking, and we try to fight them, but it is difficult, we have only one gun, and - " The fire thrower on the boat hurled another gout of blazing pitch, and this time it landed even closer to the gun. Three big explosions almost immediately afterward showed that it had found the ammunition, and the gunners leapt away, letting the barrel swing down low. "Ah," the man lamented, "it's no good, they can't fire - " The commander of the boat brought the vessel's head around and moved in toward the shore. Many people cried out in alarm and despair, especially when another great bulb of flame burst into being on the foredeck, and some of those with rifles fired a shot or two and turned to flee; but this time the bears didn't launch the fire, and soon the vessel moved broadside on toward the wharf, engine beating hard to hold it against the current. Two sailors (human, not bears) leapt down to throw ropes around the bollards, and a great hiss and cry of anger rose from the townsfolk at these human traitors. The sailors took no notice, but ran to lower a gangplank. Then as they turned to go back on board, a shot was fired from somewhere near Will, and one of the sailors fell. His daemon - a seagull - vanished as if she'd been pinched out of existence like a candle flame. The reaction from the bears was pure fury. At once the fire thrower was relit and hauled around to face the shore, and the mass of flame shot upward and then cascaded in a hundred spilling gouts over the rooftops. And at the top of the gangway appeared a bear larger than any of the others, an apparition of ironclad might, and the bullets that rained on him whined and clanged and thudded uselessly, unable to make the slightest dent in his massive armor. Will said to the man beside him, "Why are they attacking the town?" "They want fuel. But we have no dealings with bears. Now they are leaving their kingdom and sailing up the river, who knows what they will do? So we must fight them. Pirates - robbers - " The great bear had come down the gangway, and massed behind him were several others, so heavy that the ship listed; and Will saw that the men on the wharf had gone back to the gun and were loading a shell into the breech. An idea came, and he ran out onto the quayside, right into the empty space between the gunners and the bear. "Stop!" he shouted. "Stop fighting. Let me speak to the bear!" There was a sudden lull, and everyone stood still, astonished at this crazy behavior. The bear himself, who had been gathering his strength to charge the gunners, stayed where he was, but every line of his body trembled with ferocity. His great claws dug into the ground, and his black eyes glowed with rage under the iron helmet. "What are you? What do you want?" he roared in English, since Will had spoken in that language. The people watching looked at one another in bewilderment, and those who could understand translated for the others. "I'll fight you, in single combat," cried Will, "and if you give way, then the fighting has to stop." The bear didn't move. As for the people, as soon as they understood what Will was saying, they shouted and jeered and hooted with mocking laughter. But not for long, because Will turned to face the crowd, and stood cold-eyed, contained, and perfectly still, until the laughter stopped. He could feel the blackbird-Balthamos trembling on his shoulder. When the people were silent, he called out, "If I make the bear give way, you must agree to sell them fuel. Then they'll go on along the river and leave you alone. You must agree. If you don't, they'll destroy all of you." He knew that the huge bear was only a few yards behind him, but he didn't turn; he watched the townspeople talking, gesticulating, arguing, and after a minute, a voice called, "Boy! Make the bear agree!" Will turned back. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath and called: "Bear! You must agree. If you give way to me, the fighting has to stop, and you can buy fuel and go peacefully up the river." "Impossible," roared the bear. "It would be shameful to fight you. You are as weak as an oyster out of its shell. I cannot fight you." "I agree," said Will, and every scrap of his attention was now focused on this great ferocious being in front of him. "It's not a fair contest at all. You have all that armor, and I have none. You could take off my head with one sweep of your paw. Make it fairer, then. Give me one piece of your armor, any one you like. Your helmet, for example. Then we'll be better matched, and it'll be no shame to fight me." With a snarl that expressed hatred, rage, and scorn, the bear reached up with a great claw and unhooked the chain that held his helmet in place. And now there was a deep hush over the whole waterfront. No one spoke - no one moved. They could tell that something was happening such as they'd never seen before, and they couldn't tell what it was. The only sound now was the splashing of the river against the wooden pilings, the beat of the ship's engine, and the restless crying of seagulls overhead; and then the great clang as the bear hurled his helmet down at Will's feet. Will put his rucksack down and hoisted the helmet up on its end. He could barely lift it. It consisted of a single sheet of iron, dark and dented, with eyeholes on top and a massive chain underneath. It was as long as Will's forearm, and as thick as his thumb. "So this is your armor," he said. "Well, it doesn't look very strong to me. I don't know if I can trust it. Let me see." And he took the knife from the rucksack and rested the edge against the front of the helmet, and sliced off a corner as if he were cutting butter. "That's what I thought," he said, and cut another and another, reducing the massive thing to a pile of fragments in less than a minute. He stood up and held out a handful. "That was your armor," he said, and dropped the pieces with a clatter onto the rest at his feet, "and this is my knife. And since your helmet was no good to me, I'll have to fight without it. Are you ready, bear? I think we're well matched. I could take off your head with one sweep of my knife, after all." Utter stillness. The bear's black eyes glowed like pitch, and Will felt a drop of sweat trickle down his spine. Then the bear's head moved. He shook it and took a step backward. "Too strong a weapon," he said. "I can't fight that. Boy, you win." Will knew that a second later the people would cheer and hoot and whistle, so even before the bear had finished saying the word win, Will had begun to turn and call out, to keep them quiet: "Now you must keep the bargain. Look after the wounded people and start repairing the buildings. Then let the boat tie up and refuel." He knew that it would take a minute to translate that and let the message spread out among the watching townsfolk, and he knew, too, that the delay would prevent their relief and anger from bursting out, as a net of sandbanks baffles and breaks up the flow of a river. The bear watched and saw what he was doing and why, and understood more fully than Will himself did what the boy had achieved. Will put the knife back in the rucksack, and he and the bear exchanged another glance, but a different kind this time. They approached, and behind them as the bears began to dismantle their fire thrower, the other two ships maneuvered their way to the quayside. Onshore some of the people set about clearing up, but several more came crowding to see Will, curious about this boy and the power he had to command the bear. It was time for Will to become inconspicuous again, so he performed the magic that had deflected all kinds of curiosity away from his mother and kept them safe for years. Of course it wasn't magic, but simply a way of behaving. He made himself quiet and dull-eyed and slow, and in under a minute he became less interesting, less attractive to human attention. The people simply became bored with this dull child, and forgot him and turned away. But the bear's attention was not human, and he could see what was happening, and he knew it was yet another extraordinary power at Will's command. He came close and spoke quietly, in a voice that seemed to throb as deeply as the ship's engines. "What is your name?" he said. "Will Parry. Can you make another helmet?" "Yes. What do you seek?" "You're going up the river. I want to come with you. I'm going to the mountains and this is the quickest way. Will you take me?" "Yes. I want to see that knife." "I will only show it to a bear I can trust. There is one bear I've heard of who's trustworthy. He is the king of the bears, a good friend of the girl I'm going to the mountains to find. Her name is Lyra Silvertongue. The bear is called Iorek Byrnison." "I am Iorek Byrnison," said the bear. "I know you are," said Will. The boat was taking fuel on board; the railcars were hauled alongside and tilted sideways to let coal thunder down the chutes into the hold, and the black dust rose high above them. Unnoticed by the townspeople, who were busy sweeping up glass and haggling over the price of the fuel, Will followed the bear-king up the gangway and aboard the ship.