The Winter Prince part 1

                The room is too silent for my liking. With quiet mutterings running in my head and little else to occupy myself, I sigh, turning over in my bed and covering my head. A servant walks in. There's the click and creaking of the door and he places a glass and plate on the table next to my bed. It's the same man every time, though I don't know his name. I never bothered to learn it. He's small and mousey with wrinkles around his eyes, and often plays with his hands as if he had nothing better to do. I hear his footsteps as he leaves, and I reach over for the food. Cheese, bread, meat. Nothing new, but the meat looks promising. I'm starving. I sit up and stretch, and shake off dusty sleep while the servant returns and dresses me. I take a piece of salty meat and stuff it down with some bread, feeling the warmth of the fur over my shoulders and abdomen. He buttons it closed.

                There is a mirror across the room, a chair, and some branches in a vase from the courtyard. And still -- I close my eyes and take in a deep breath -- this wing of the palace is too silent. I prefer the bustling of a crowd or the roar of battle. Anything but quiet.

                A bird flies past, its wings beating air and snow, while the sun shines through the glass windowpane, onto the stone floor. I watch in the mirror as the mouse-man combs my hair, fixes my collar, and steps aside, bent at the waist. I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, and he shuffles out, like the old man he is. I don't doubt he'll be replaced soon.

                Winters in Myraichniya are harsh, with biting cold and silvery days, ice on your weapons and snow on the ground. The frost gets to your hands and ears if you are not careful, and the water in your eyes freezes over. The poor people on the streets die of cold, and the guards are ordered to dump them in the river, which runs far too quickly to freeze over. It's the time of year where death looms over our heads like the grey clouds, and disease runs rampant through the country.

                I love it.                               

                Some say the spirits grow restless this time of year. With more dead souls than any other season, I can understand, though I prefer to avoid them. The leshenka love it especially, so I've heard. Beautiful maidens playing tricks on the drunken peasants, pulling them into the woods. Gods know that they don't need spirits to make their stories interesting. Drunken bastards.

                I watch the snow fall lazily down from my window, taking bites from the bread that was given to me. In the distance, I can see mountains, shrouded in a cloak of snow and cloud, with a small lining of dark trees cutting into the white background. Those woods are said to hold a group of people called Buryanskii, or the storm bringers as the elders call them. They are a nomadic people, with distant ties to Myraichniya, and often suspicious motives. They would set up camp in the woods and stalls in the city, conning children and women out of their money. And sometimes, even gullible men. An old wives' tale says they are evil, practicing witchcraft in their circles with cloaks, while another says the Buryanskii people hold captive of the souls of dead children, whose cries can be heard at night. Even their name is considered bad luck. Superstitious old hags. They couldn't be worse than the rest of us. But nevertheless, I live in a strange world...

                There's a knock at the door and I turn from the window, my eyes stinging as they adjust to the interior light. In the doorway stands my brother, leaning against the frame, and gleaming with a sort of smug satisfaction. He wears the military uniform of the prince, as if the grey and gold of his jacket will grant him the title of heir apparent. Unfortunately for him, that's my title. Pyotr has a bad habit of trying to be my superior. He's only fourteen, after all. Though I can't imagine what he wants from me. Is he going to try and lead an army again? The last time he tried that, Father gave him fifty men to command, at which he told them to aid him in his conquest of the Western border. Needless to say, he was caught, and Father apologized to the Kaiserin for the stupidity of his son. Looking at my brother's smirk, I sigh. It's too early for any of his shit.

                "Good morning, Pyotr," I say, looking down to match his eyes and clasping my hands behind my back.

                "Father's looking for you. Apparently, you're to meet your fiancée."

                I sigh, walking towards him. "I'm not engaged yet. Is she here?"

                "Well, a portrait of her is. Father's expecting you to accept this offer, Kazimir. You know how he is." The urge to punch him is stronger than it should be. I brush him as I pass, and continue into the hall. "She is beautiful!" he calls from behind me. "Don't turn her down like you did the last one, you idiot fool..."

                Ah, the last one... She... displeased me. I did meet her, in fact. She was a woman who was far too demanding. Expecting me to listen to her pathetic drivels of how she no longer fit into the dresses she had been given, or how her hair did not... cooperate was the word she used? I don't understand how hair can "cooperate". It's hair. To be honest, I never much liked people to begin with. Or perhaps just all sentient beings in general. And of the spirits I've met, they aren't much better.

                I stop at a portrait of my grandfather. My father seems to have inherited the same stern, brown eyes of a tyrant. Tiredness, I find, only makes him look more commanding – this harsh, war-beaten man – though the beard and mustache seem to drag down his face. It's as if I'm looking at the bust of a king taken over by an untrimmed bush. He was painted in the Tsar's formal clothes; a dull grey jacket, gold adorning the edges and ornaments from various battles. In the background, the curtains fall blood red, and the shadows loom around him in black and browns. I always thought that in the corner, the shadows made a hand, grasping at something in the portrait. He did die not long after it was completed. Perhaps Death had his way of foreshadowing things.

                But I should really be going.

                In the Grand Hall, my father sits on the throne, the Tsaritsa standing beside him. The two always contrasted each other: his unshaven face, hair dirty with age, while his wife is tall for a woman, lithe, elegant. There have been enough people who have made the mistake to think she is fragile or delicate. That lasted as long as she was able to keep her mouth shut. Which is never long. The Tsaritsa is not my mother, she is his second wife. Though, from what I can remember, I like her far more than my biological mother.

                In front of my father, two men stand, one holding a rather large portrait of a woman dressed in white. The colour doesn't suit her, as it only makes her look paler in comparison. Her hair falls in blonde curls over her shoulders, though at the angle it was painted, it's hard to tell how long it is exactly.  Her eyes remind me of the cold, winter sky. The man next to the portrait grins at me; a grin greatly distorted by the hair on his lip.

                "The Naslednik has arrived!" he exclaims, raising his arms in delight. "Your father has been awaiting your engagement..."

                "Kazimir, you're late." My father is displeased. A frown is visible through the years of wear and stress which covers his face. He stares through me with cruel eyes while I look past him, onto the golden buttresses and masonry which adorns the entire palace. In a fresco, a soldier holds back a six-legged bukavac, its horns tangled with weeds and armour.

                I make a short bow, before taking my seat beside the Tsar. "I apologize for my tardiness." The two men stand at attention, ever patient to see their deal carried through.

                "Carry on." My father gives me a quick, lazy glare, then returns his gaze to the men proposing me a suitor.

                "My daughter, Ekaterina--," (the man who speaks is large, plump, and red in the face. He looks ridiculous, fiddling with his hat in his hands, and yet he grins uncontrollably, thrusting out his chest and, along with it, his belly) "--is a well educated girl. She has been taught by the best tutors in the kingdom, and is well-versed in the politics between Myraichniya, Zetriya, and Sipay.  She is a fan of literature, and a lover of languages..." I tune out the man in front of me as he rambles of the distant nonsense that I'm supposed to care about. These little facts are merely to sell the girl to my father, because the gods know I have no input on the matter. After the last girl, my father eagerly wants me married. I can't help the fact that he's an old man. He's going to die soon, that's why he's so eager for me to marry. I can sense it in him. His dislike for me comes from his desire to see his grandchildren one day and apparently, I haven't fulfilled that yet.

                "I see that the Naslednik is bored," says the old man. "Does she not please him?"

                "No, she is perfect." My father speaks for me, though I don't mind. Just get the damn thing over and done with, and I may go for a ride. They will ask, of course, and I will refuse, and my father can leave me alone for another month or so. This girl seems terribly boring. "The perfect Tsesarevna." I wait for my turn to speak, slouching more into the hard wood of the throne. My neck aches, but that will be sorted out eventually.

                The man swells with pride, and turns to me, with the look of an excited boy who is about to receive his first sword. "Well, Tsesarevich? Will you take my daughter Ekaterina as your wife?"

                My refusal is overpowered by my father's answer. The old man clasps his hands together, and I realize now that I should know him, but I don't. He's a... baron. Yes, a baron. But that is not my current concern. "Father, please –"

                "He will take her hand in marriage. The deal is set." The Tsar turns to me with the gaze of a determined beast. And yet, he is calm, those hard eyes able to condone more than any words could possibly describe.

                "Excellent!" the baron exclaims, clasping his hands together, the sound echoing around the chamber. I close my eyes and sigh. "We will make arrangements for the wedding tomorrow." My father leans forward eagerly, and he exudes ambition. But of what? I can't guarantee him an heir, and I don't want to be tied down with petty political struggles when I could settle it on the battlefield. What good is a Tsar who sits in the palace all day? I rise to my feet, take one last, tired glance at my future fiancée, and exit the throne room. A proper ruler should risk his life along with his people, and fight for our territory, not talk it out. I think, perhaps, I should get some air and forget about the whole ordeal. I can only hope that the one I'm stuck with for the rest of my life is better than the one I turned down.

                Outside, the wind bites at my face and the rush of air is mixed with the sounds of chattering fairies as they undeniably pass by. Talkative things they are. They're invisible unless they want to be seen, and travel in groups. Their bodies are as cold as ice (one once brushed past me as a child), and they manage to blend in during the especially cold winter months. They grow braver this time of year, I find.

                It's no later than noon, I assume, and the sun shines down a crisp clarity over freshly fallen snow. I regret now, not taking a hat with me, as I feel my ears burn with cold. From here, I can see the city outstretched before me. The houses are small, but built in blocks, and there's a legend that some of the oldest buildings such as our palace, are made of bricks of ice. Although, a quick touch of the building yourself, and you'll soon know otherwise.

                I follow the frost-covered red bricks of the path along the ground to the stables, beside the courtyard. Upon seeing me, one of the stable hands prepares my horse, leading him out and keeping him still. His name is Ilyich, a large, black stallion with a white tail, and has been good to me for the years I've had him. The stable hand is covered almost head to toe with the exception of his hand, his eyes and nose. He wears a scarf and hat made of the fur of the wolves that live in the forest. In fact, that is what all our winter clothing is made of. Of course, only if you live in the palace. Many are unable to afford it, the wolves being hard animals to hunt and kill. Luckily for us, the Suvorin dynasty has rarely had the need to pile on clothing during the winter. They say ice runs through our veins.

                I ride past the gates, made of iron and brass, designed into elaborate filigree, past the equally warm-clad guards, and down the path which leads from the palace on the mountain to the city. Below, the day has been in full swing since dawn; there are people walking the streets, and some in black carriages drawn by equally black horses. I ride past the gates at the base of the mountain, where men and woman beg for money as I pass. There are always beggars, dressed in rags, and filthy, kneeling on the icy ground, hoping that a royal will pass and be charitable. That rarely happens. I continue along, though they plead for mercy, and I can only think of how there is a new group of beggars every week during the winter. Perhaps the season knows how to keep our population under control. Not many peasants live through the winter.

                The people stop around me as I pass, and their stares are uncomfortable, forcing me into a slouch, an attempt almost to make myself smaller to them. Make myself less noticeable. I wonder how I'll manage once I'm Tsar. Poorly, by the looks of it. Much of the ice on the street has melted, leaving behind slush on the road. The only thing keeping it from refreezing is the constant trotting of horses, the footsteps of men and women trudging through the snow, and the wheels of carriages being drawn past. I can hear the whispers among the crowd, and I catch a few words regarding me. A few even bow along the way, though I attempt not to acknowledge their existence. Unfortunately for me, I'm wandering. Only wandering aimlessly through the city, in hopes I can push the engagement out of my mind. It's not working as well as I would like.

                My primary concerns for the matter are just that I... We... Oh, for the sake of the gods. I sigh, turn Ilyich round a bend, and head for the city outskirts. Personally, I don't know. I've been taught about the past Tsars, and how they fought for our country – they fought alongside the soldiers, in battle, swords crossed with the enemy. Now, it's all talk. Political nonsense, back and forth between countries. I picture myself confronting my father with that knowledge. "We've been negotiating the border with Sipay for months now, Father. Just take it back by force." Gods know that wouldn't end well. I grimace, and grip the reins tighter. How pathetic our system has become. I straighten myself, collect my thoughts. We aren't in negotiation with Zeitriya, despite having lost most of our land to the Kaiser, Erich von Treitschke, in the last war. His daughter's in charge now, and I've heard she's ruthless.

                Personally, I want that land back, and am prepared to do so by force. There's a small military outpost just outside of the city, and I don't need permission to gather them myself.  Picking up the pace, I do my best to ignore the people and continue on. The city walls are in sight, the grey bricks and iron fence loom over the pale houses. I take a glance over my shoulder, and see the palace in all its glory, fade behind the smoke that rises from the houses. Inside, I'm sure that... I'll just forget about it. Dwelling on it will only make things worse.

                The gates are opened upon my arrival, and outside, the landscape is barren.  There are knee-high grasses covered in snow, looking more purple and silver than red and green. Far off in the distance, a river runs, the sound blending with the rhythmic beating of Ilyich's hooves against the frozen ground. A well-trodden path leads southbound, towards the Magadan River, over a bridge, and towards the woodland where lies a small village. The people there are close, superstitious, and unwelcoming of outsiders. But I press on. It takes me an hour to reach it, and I rub my hands together to avoid them freezing any more. I should've worn gloves.

                I would much prefer to go around, through the woods and avoid the attention I'm about to get by riding through, but it's safer through the village. Even if the people might stop and ask for their prince to stay behind and rest. I need to get through to the outpost, and not get distracted by spirits in the forest.

                The trees grow sparse, and I catch a glimpse of something running past the corner of my eye. Around me, the village stretches its limbs and wanders out, as the people walk past to see who I am. Several of them bow, women in rags carrying babies venture forward, and in front of me, a well-dressed little girl stands. I halt Ilyich, and she waves to me. She looks to be of nobility. Which is odd in this village...

                "Naslednik!" exclaims someone from behind me. "Does something trouble you?" I turn to see who it is – the man wore a long face with age beaten into it, and a genuinely concerned look. I shake my head, and turn to face the little girl, who seems to have disappeared.

                "Not at all," I reply, looking around at the lost faces of the villagers. "I merely stopped for a little girl..." A little girl that I can't find anywhere. How the spirits like to play tricks with my head. To the villagers, I have but stopped at nothing. A lost prince in a forest.

                "There is no little girl, Tsesarevich," he continues. "But perhaps we could help you find her?"

                I shake my head, shrug him off, and carry on, hoping to leave them all. Behind me, a woman cries to have me stay and my grip tightens on the reins. All I want to do is to leave. Get away from these people. "Your father leaves us in poverty, Tsesarevich! Why do you forget us? Your people!"

                "I cannot change the ways of our kingdom, babushka." Ilyich slows down, almost sensing my hesitation. The air sits tense, as the distance between me and the villagers increases. "Peasants are poor, and must trust us to govern them." We turn to face the villagers, and the woman looks angered. She clutches a child in her arms, covered in heavy coats and rags. The others stand quiet. Around us, the forest rustles with untold comments and unspoken words. These people await change, but change requires the riches they lack.

                "How can we trust you to govern us fairly when you know nothing of how we live?" She stands furious and shivering; silver hair blowing into her face. The rags covering the child match the browns, reds, and black of these people. It drowns them like a sickness.

                I.... How to continue..., "Then we will see that someone does," I say, turning Ilyich around, and leaving behind the people and the forest. I have little plans to help. It isn't in my place to change society. That isn't how the world maintains order. They mutter to themselves angrily, but none follow. I'm glad they've left me alone.

                Ahead, a fortress stands off in the distance. The stone walls tower above the trees, the fortress built into a snowy hill, shining white in the sunlight. It sits next to a lake, the water frozen over into a deep blue. I hesitantly lead Ilyich to the thick ice, avoiding the path taken by the soldiers. Surely, it's been refrozen, but I don't want to risk it. The horseshoes are known to melt the thick ice – however, just barely. They are made of a type of rock, mined in the mountains up north. They emanate heat, known as zharkamen, and is used to avoid slipping on ice-covered stone.

                Below me, the frozen water has cracks – stark white scars on an oblong, horseshoe lake. The outpost is used only during the winter, though they do last, on average, eight months. It's enough, as this isn't the only outpost; however, it is the closest to the village to Timofeyev. I plan to reclaim it for Myraichniya, as their people are our own.

                A loud crack, and its subsequent groan, echoes off the hill; the ice is not known to break enough to harm anyone. It's thick. Very thick.

                On the other side, a man rides to meet me. He looks relatively young, and he wears his uniform proudly, medals adorning the dark, silver-blue jacket. The gold velvet cord attached to the breast of his coat from his shoulder gives me his rank. A scarf is wrapped around his lower face and ears, making his speech muffled: "Tsesarevich Kazimir, what brings you to Voyennyser?"

                "Timofeyev," I start, "how long would it take to mobilize a small platoon of infantrymen there?"

                "Two days, Naslednik," he replies as I join him on the other side. The snow crunches beneath the hooves of the horses. "What, exactly, do you have planned, my prince?"

                "A reclamation, Lieutenant." My breath clouds in front of me as I speak. "I wish to occupy the town until we have enough men gathered to take on its neighbour."

                The man nods. "Is this under orders of Tsar Lev?" he asks.

                "No, this is merely to... surprise him."  I straighten myself, and pick up my pace. "I'm leading this on my own. Consider it an early solstice gift."

                "There are many months before the winter solstice, Naslednik." ...I did say early, did I not? His comment rests in the air, and I sense he regrets his words. We head through the iron gates without dispute.

                The camp is full of activity. The soldiers are in the field, keeping warm through various exercises, while the stable is maintained by a small group of men, dressed in black. The lower-ranking soldiers wear black, while the higher ranking men and women wear blue.

                I leave Ilyich with a stable hand, who bows as I leave. "There are some extra uniforms for you, Naslednik," says the lieutenant. I nod, following along beside him. I know I'll need them. I left on impulse, and... I'm not prepared for a trip lasting more than a day.  I thank the man, and he continues: "Voyennyser is headed by Lieutenant-colonel Bergonova. Her office is in the far building—," he points to the cabin sitting at the base of the hill, the snow piled high against the walls, "—I doubt the Tsesarevich will encounter any issues with her, but by all means, we don't want to anger her." He laughs nervously, his clouded breath almost obscuring his face. Thanking him again, I follow the cobblestone path to the grey-painted cabin – a colour chosen to allow it to blend into the hill during the winter.

                The guard standing at the entrance opens the door for me, and I feel the heat rush past me like a wall as I enter. A woman sits at a desk, dark brown hair cut short as to just cover her ears. She looks up as I enter, hardened grey eyes from what looks like a lack of sleep, and experience written over her face. She seems young, however. Too young to have fought in the last war. But perhaps the last uprising. She wears gloves, black leather with fur at the cuffs, and impatiently twirls a pen around her fingers. Behind her, a map covers the entire wall, and to my right, the fireplace burns away. Lieutenant-colonel Bergonova raises an eyebrow. "Tsesarevich.... How surprising." She speaks in hushed tones, hoarse almost, yet clipped. "What brings you here?"

                I take a seat at the chair in front of her desk, and adjust my coat from behind me. "A reclamation, Lieutenant-colonel." The voices of the soldiers outside are muffled, like a distant memory, and the fire beside us roars. These are the only sounds in the camp. I keep my voice level with hers. "And I wish to do so as quickly as I can."