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Russian Empire was inconvenienced. Greatly. First, he had been called out–in horrific weather–to meet with some German delegates. Apparently, neither the Kaiserreich or the Scourage of Western Europe had time to meet with him, so he was given a meeting with human delegates. If it had been thirty years earlier, perhaps he would have laughed and talked with the delegates, too blinded by his admiration to notice the disrespect. He might have accepted it as it was. He might not have stormed out with a scowl pressing lines between his eyebrows
But it was not thirty years ago. Time is linear, friend, it only goes one way. So, even if you regret doing, or not doing something, you have to live with the consequences. For far, far too long he had let that young Kraut disrespect him. He had none of the decorum of his fathers, or even his meek little Austrian ally. It was truly a wonder that amalgamation of a empire hadn’t caught smallpox and died.
Russian Empire snorted, and flicked the rain off of his fingertips. Bringing us back, Russian Empire was inconvenienced, and it was not just because of that young, disrespectful, snot-nosed–anyways, suffice to say he was not in a bright and cheery mood.
And so when his carriage had to be abandoned due to a fallen tree blocking the road, Russian Empire almost put his ceremonial sword to use gutting anyone who told him anything but glowing news.
But instead, he did that thing where he turned his back for five seconds, took a breath in, and let it out slowly. Then, he was composed enough to request a horse. The horse was unclipped from the carriage and led over to Russian Empire. It wa a pretty thing, with long, strong legs and a noble head. It had white socks and a dapple of white spots up it’s dark grey neck. Russian Empire softly pet its wither, and he felt himself calming sightly. He was still inconvenienced and mad, but he would make calculated moves. He would not charge into war like a spooked mule, but would pick his battles like a eagle does its prey.
He climbed into the saddle and picked up the reins, giving them a gentle tug and touching his heels to the horse’s sides. It picked up its feet in a graceful trot, and Russian Empire was on his way.
And yet, the world found more ways to inconvenience him. The rain picked up as he left the city bounds, lashing his face and coat. Russian Empire was glad of his foresight to pick a coat with such a thick lining. With it, his inner layers would stay dry until he reached St Petersburg and his Winter Palace there. Even as the rain turned to sleet and then to snow and ice.
He pushed on through the miserable weather, taking less trod paths to shorten his journey. He knew his lands as one would know their skin, not a conscious knowing, but a if-you-turn-right-you-can-cut-through-some-grasslands-and-be-there sort of way. His horse, though a little hesitant, trusted his directions. Even when it took them through little villages where there were no paved paths. Where there were no electric lights or train tracks. Even when the mud dyed the horse’s white socks brown. Russian Empire scowled at the settlements, their lack of development and self respect, their lack of drive.
He would be lying if he claimed it did not disgust him. He didn’t know how anyone could live like this, but peasants were different to the upper classes. They had thicker skin, thicker bones, duller eyes and dumber brains. They came from workers and would die workers, and that was the way it had always been.
Russian Empire’s instincts pulled him down another muddy path, and he grimaced as mud flicked up to land on his boots. He flicked it off of the shiny black leather, and then yanked on the reins of his horse as he saw a small figure standing just off to the side of the path.
The horse pulled to a stop, huffing and stamping slightly. Russian Empire leaned forwards, tilting his head to the side. It was a child. A peasant child. Wearing muddied rags that might have once been a while shirt and tan pants. Choppy, dirty hair hung over their face, and they stood in place, swaying side to side as if one good gust of wind would knock them from their feet.
Russian Empire dismounted, and walked forwards, hand on his sword. “Child, why did you not run? Are you not afraid of me? Do you not have wool to weave?”
The child didn’t answer, and as Russian Empire walked forwards, he noticed they looked unusually pale. Like a dead sort of pale. He stopped in his tracks, upper lip curling. “Are you sick, child?”
Still the child did not move. Russian Empire stepped closer again. He should have continued riding, not sparing the sick peasant a glance.
And yet, he did not. A pull in his gut, a whisper in the back of his head told him that he should take this path. That he should dismount and take a second look. That he should continue approaching this dirty, sickly peasant.
He stopped in front of the child, and noticed that they were bare footed. Russian Empire reached out with a hand, and swept the child’s fringe away from their face.
Pale, pale skin. No red blush of cheeks, and the child’s lime-gold eye looked like those of a market fish. Dead. One side of the child’s face, the one his hand brushed, was ice cold, and he noticed that there was a spread of grey-red blotches. Frostbite, like the child had lain on the ground with one side of their face pressed into the snow. The eye on the side of their face with the frostbite seemed to be sealed shut with ice, which at one point had perhaps been hopeless tears.
Russian Empire felt both a twinge in his heart and a pull in his gut, and just as he did, he realised that this child was not human. Yes, some of the paleness must have come from the cold, but the rest of it was their skin. An unflagged nation.
How curious.
Russian Empire cradled the side of the child’s face with his hand, and softly asked. “Do you have parents, Child?”
The child paused for a moment, an then shook their head.
Russian Empire sighed, and picked them up. They must have been seven or so, but they were so light it was easy to pick them up and sit them on his hip. He carried the child back to his horse; the faithful beast had stood still and patiently in the rain, and offered no more than a chuff as he placed the child on the saddle.
As Russian Empire re-mounted the horse, he wrapped his thick coat around the child, pressing them to the warmth of his chest and shielding them from the icy winds. “You have a name?” The child shook their head again, and shivered violently as Russian Empire tapped the horses sides, pushing it back into a canter. “I suppose I will have to name you, then. Are you a boy or a girl, child?”
“Girl” Came the small, shaky whisper, and Russian Empire smiled. He had always wanted a daughter. They were less trouble, and they were often more useful, twisting the puppet strings behind the stage that was Europe, tugging at the hearts and minds of the people. Boys were trouble. They wanted to do their own things, to be in charge and to take centre stage. Little boys especially, they complained constantly, always wanting attention. Always saying ‘Father, won’t you see my drawings?’ or ‘ Father, please can you read me a bedtime story?’ . Could they not be happy with the riches they were given as a birthright?
Off topic, again. Russian Empire clucked his tongue and pushed the horse into a gallop. “Whites. That is your official name now. But if you would like, you can also be called Anastasia. There is a girl with that name that I think you may get along with.”
The child nodded, and snuggled back into his chest, appreciating the warmth he provided.
Russian Empire smiled. There was good that could yet be squeezed out of this day.
*
When they arrived at the winter palace, Russian Empire was greeted by a dozen or so staff members and maids. His horse was led away to the stables, and his coat was taken to be cleaned.
He thought he paid them enough not to stare. But, apparently not. The sight of a ‘human’ child, no less a peasant human child being carried by the Empire himself was so shocking one of the maids froze in place. Russian Empire turned to her with a glare and barked, “Find me a physician, this child has frostbite.”
The maid jumped and scurried away, and Russian Empire readjusted the child’s position in his arms. She had fallen asleep like a baby in his arms. It affected a part of his heart. A part that he had not felt beat since long before the turn of the century (or convinced himself that that was so).
Russian Empire strode to a lounging room, and three maids trailed behind him, carrying a new coat, a basin of water and a plate of fruits respectively. He gently set down Whites on a fainting couch, and pulled a blanket over her. Then, he waited. Picking at his nails with a dangerously large dagger.
The physician arrived quickly, and looked over the right side of White’s face with a grim expression. “This child has lost her eye. There is too much damage to the cornea for her to ever have clear vision through it again.”
Russian Empire stayed silent for a moment. “Is there anything else of worry?”
The physician glanced over Whites, poking her ribs and grimacing. “She is malnourished. It would do her good to have a hearty diet for the next month or so. Porridges, fruits, meats. Nothing too hard, however.”
Russian Empire nodded, and then dismissed the physician with a wave of his hand. “Your service is appreciated.” Then, he glanced up at the maids around him, and sighed. “Bring food and maids for the child.” The maids nodded and bowed, walking out of the room backwards as not to turn their backs on him.
Russian Empire gazed down at Whites, and softly stroked her cheek. She was less cold, and her face did not look as much like a corpse’s.
Where his fingers trailed, colour blossomed out on White’s skin. Red, blue, and a starker white in a tricolour across her face, like the flag he saw merchant ships often use. Hm . It seemed she was not just unclaimed territory. Whites was either a representation of the merchant ships–which did not seem likely. Or she was a personification of something to come.
*
Reds stood by the crack in the door, glaring at his father. The man who always said he was his father. The man that never ever acted like a father to him. Jealousy boiled up in his chest, hot and angry and acidic. He wanted to fling the door open and pick up that lamp from the table beside the couch and throw it at the Empire.
He wanted to scream and shout and hit. He wanted to howl ‘why can’t you look at me that way?!’ . He wanted his father to look at him and smile, to pat his cheek and offer him a coat when he was cold. He wanted a smile or even just a mere glance his way. He wanted to be treated like a prince! He wanted to be treated as a son!
And instead of barging through that door, Reds squeezed his fists so hard his fingernails drew blood from his palms. He let the howls and shouts and screams and jealousy and anger fall inwards, smashing against each other like fine china.
Instead of walking up to his father and curling into his chest, he turned away from the door. Instead of smiling and laughing like the child he was, Reds felt something twist in his chest. The broken pieces of envy forged into something disgusting and sharp.
He stalked down the darkening halls of the Winter Palace, and Reds named himself something new. He had been replaced, by a dirty little peasant girl .
His father wanted something else, no? So Soviet would be something else. If he couldn't be loved by his father, he would kill him.