Aleksandra
Chapter I: Aleksandra
No sailor would call the docks of Moroz anything special. Copperback and wide-scale frill fish sold for three thine a pound, the same as most Sapfirian ports worth their salt. Goblin ships operated on backwater deals with local navy officers whose deep pockets allowed them to move their often morally ambiguous cargo without fear of a “random” inspection, much like many others. Quarantine ships flew their yellow flags after passing through questionable waters and sat at anchor and moor. Vessels rumored of piracy docked under Sapfirian colors without question. Rumors of cheap fairy whores peppered the dubious tall tails of a retired captain; tales whispered to skittering port cockroaches, unable to hold most anyone’s attention.
“Orange wake all the way to the horizon,” an old sea dog spat over swigs of Brittanian ichor to any who would listen. He haunted an old watering hole with tales as real as his eye. “Water as glass as my eye, pecked free from its socket by sea ravens. I witnessed the Evening Sea of her Goddesses’ glory round the horn of Kurtan.”
Even his story was not a rare one. Every port boasted its share of aged sailors claiming some triumphant or humbled gaze into the unknowns of the wide oceans of Utarius. They loved the wonder that crept from the eyes of some who listened, but a false shepherd was easily found. Sailors had a knack for boiling the truth like galleys freeing the meat from chicken bone for their stews.
Two men found conversation in an alleyway between shops. One was a cook who rolled tobacco in his greased fingers that were reminiscent of the sausages he cooked. The other was a sailor with jaundiced eyes on leave from a trawler.
“I saw two of them,” spoke the sailor with a sly smile, like he had cheated the information out of someone with a toothy grin and a promise of coin. “They were walking the eastern boardwalk to the under docks.”
“Nobles? In the sticks?” Replied the portly cook. “Usually, they’d send a proxy to pick up whores or goods. What idiocy bred such an idea of an in-person visit to this underbelly?”
The sailor grew excited. “You know the rumors!”
“Bah! Rumors dribble about in every gob market and orc tavern that ever boasted a sailor’s vomit. Why pay this one any heed?” Dismissed the cook, waving his hands as if he could shoo away the words from the air.
“They wore long coats in some attempt at disguise, but a sailor knows a walk, and their heads were high,” the sailor grinned giddily. “Not navy men, no. I’ve seen no true ship under navy colors this side of the long freeze. They’ve come for one reason. They speak of wings in the west. Signs of riders under the crimson crown. Drakha comes, and-“
“And nothin’!” The cook hushed while looking up and down the alley with prey eyes. “Nothin’ good can come about speculation when the air is already terse. Risk not an inquiry from an officer worth their brass. A rumor of that nature would make a man dangerous.”
“You’ve a contract, aye? If conflict of that scale comes to our shores, you’d button that sapphire uniform to your fat little throat and be off within a fortnight,” the sailor teased.
The cook tossed his smoke and shook his head. “Can’t. Heart’s no good, and my hands frail. Wouldn’t be worth the wool to clothe.”
Then the sailor drew a more serious face. “But you can cast. And cast for Goddess and country you will. Cursed with that little lamplight at your fingertips, eh my friend?”
“I’ve never been one to resent a gift, and if I have to die for it, so be it. But they will find no passion in me. My heart will end me long before any shot of mine ends another.”
—
Far deeper within the rickety architecture of the port found two out-of-place individuals, lost. Like two trees with colors faded from the season within a forest of pine, they could not hide their prideful walk as much as a drunkard could not hide their stumble. Nobles kept their heads high; even their cloaks, used to hide themselves, were of much higher quality textile than most would ever feel.
“Their description could have detailed a few more markers than ‘on the north side of the dinghy docks marked with the insignia of a blue anchor’,” spoke one of the strangers with a sharp wit and a feminine sway. ”Where is this place? I’ve not the stomach to swallow the fumes of a rotting fish market.”
The other spoke with a masculine rumble and a quiet calm, like a gentle breeze on an early spring afternoon. “We’ve already been made, most likely. These places have a way of knowing a man’s business long before he does. I think they will meet us before long.”
True to the cloaked man’s words, a figure stepped out from the shadows of a dilapidated boat house and bowed. A silver mask of an expressionless face peered from under its hood.
“Is she close?” Asked the cloaked woman, her voice demanding.
“Yes, ma’am. In this building, right-” the masked figure stopped short in their prepared information. They had pointed, only to move their finger higher up the building and draw the attention of the nobles to the sight they had almost missed. A young woman, about seventeen and lithe-bodied, had crawled out her window in the nearby building and sidled on the edge of the sill amidst the crumbling trim of the exterior facade. She wore only her linens and two flintlocks, hastily jammed into her waistline. As she crept, one of the flintlocks loosened and clattered to the alleyway floor, eliciting a loud crash. She turned towards the nobleman and masked figure, putting her index finger to her lips to ensure silence as the nobles shook their heads in unison, sighing.
The window clattered open with a start, and the young woman hid her face in her dark hair pressing her forehead to the face of the building in an awful attempt to hide herself. A man, slightly older than the young woman and with a drunken stagger and missing teeth, called from the open window.
“Vas!? Vasilisa! Come back now, I was only kidding! Jest, can’t you see? I only have eyes for you!” His words were sweet, but he fumbled in loading his own pistol searching for the young woman.
She heard the noise and her foot slipped along the crumbling trim. The sound drew the armed drunkard’s attention. She smiled sheepishly as he stuck his head out and made eye contact with her. The nobles panicked as they realized the drunkard’s intentions, but the disappearance of the masked figure soon drew calm.
“Sorry love, ‘twas fun, but those two are here to take me away and I've got another ship to catch,” the young woman said as she waved, leaping from the facade to a nearby roof like an alleycat yet making almost no sound as her feet made contact with the mossy roof. The young man took aim with his flintlock in his drunken stupor when he felt the cold steel of a barrel to his back.
“Don’t,” the masked figure commanded. The words were not needed. The brigand understood metal above all. He raised his pistol but did not drop it.
“I’d no intention to land my shot, lest I ruin the chance of another meeting,” the brigand said calmly for a man at gunpoint. “A lass like that needs the chase and the threat of death to keep her interested, savvy?” He began to turn and muster some attempt at escaping but found himself alone in the room as the masked figure had vanished.
Vasilisa ran quickly on the rooftops, finding sure footing in lucky strides that could only be the work of fate. The two nobles followed closely behind on the ground, attempting to keep her in sight while also endeavoring not to draw too much attention.
The girl, called Vasilisa by her would-be suitor, felt the presence of the masked shadow grow closer and closer. With a smile and a prayer, she leaped from the rooftop towards a covered stall in the marketplace below. She landed unharmed but destroyed the stall in the act, drawing the angry ire of the merchant. As the angered fruit merchant drew his pistol to exact revenge the trigger found no purchase as it was surrounded by a ball of water. When the masked pursuer ran past the bewildered merchant, the water spilled to the ground, freeing the firearm.
Vasilisa dipped and dodged between stall after stall of worthless curios, rotting fish, and illegally obtained firearms and goods. She slid under workmen carrying boxes, dodged around rearing horses, and even vaulted over a sleeping wyvern as it snored in its stall. The excitement of the chase drew a flush to her face. She had grown quite adept at running. She cackled as she turned in time to watch her pursuer nearly trip over the ale she had spilled from a passerby when an idea sparked in her mind.
Vasilisa darted into a nearby alley and called the song to her mind that she’d known since she could know. She remembered an old poem from long ago, and a passionate burst of love as well as the hatred that can spring from it brought a beautiful flame to her eyes and hands, like she held sunlight.
The masked man turned the corner to where Vasilisa had flown only to find a massive cloud of smoke, like the print of a great wildfire, permeating the alley. The man called a song of his own to his mind, one of calming acceptance that births from raging jealousy, and a gentle fog began escaping his mask. He raised his hand as the spell burst forward and the smoke cleared instantly, showing an empty alley.
Vasilisa hid behind baskets of Kurtanish vipers that hissed at the presence of a human. She suppressed her laugh as she realized her escape drew some success. She attempted to rub away some of the grime that had appeared on her feet and legs when rain droplets began to fall. She thought nothing of it until the water appeared to move on its own and collect around her. Panic quickly burst through the fog of calm as she rose to run. The water rushed past her and formed a great barrier ahead, closing off part of the street. Vasilisa turned to run in another direction when a heavy burst of wind knocked her off of her feet and directly into the water. The wall quickly receded, but the sudden movement caused her to gasp and inhale nothing but the conjured water; in its aftermath she lay hacking on the ground, soaked.
Onlookers gathered but were quickly hastened away as more masked figures appeared ushering them to go about their own business. Their presence was recognized and respected; the denizens of the backwater docks knew how to turn away from a sight. When the bystanders were gone, the masked men faded into fog, save for the one who came to the nobles' side.
“How was living amongst ruffians and sellswords, Vas? Did you find yourself? Your freedom?” Prodded the woman, her voice disappointed and her words jabbing. Another fit of deep coughing burst from the would-be escapee before she replied, ignoring the noblewoman.
“Did you have to hit me so hard, Frederick?” The young woman accused the nobleman. ”It was like I was struck with a cannon shot.”
The noblewoman approached and removed her cloak, covering the young woman as she rose to her knees. The noble was a northborn woman with long thick hair that curled like golden fleece, despite her best attempts. Her eyes were icy blue like glacial waters, her skin pearl and slightly pink like coral. She wore the expression of a disappointed mother looking down on her troublesome child.
The now-covered young woman was a contrast in every way to the noblewoman. Hair dark and thick, the color of a moonless night. Her eyes were a deep, viscous amber that swallowed light in the darkened hours but glowed gold in the light. Even in suffering, she had the playful smile of one who always had it in their head they had won.
“What, no embrace Natasha? Mother? Mother dearest-” she jested before she hacked out more water. The young woman stood and steam emitted from her until she dried from the power of her magic.
“Sir, we must be swift. We have collected the asset. She is expected at the capital-” the masked man was silenced by the nobleman, who removed his hood as well, showing a well-groomed middle-aged man. His tawny hair, like the underbelly of a hawk, had thinned over the years and now stood like a wheat field atop his skull. His expression was soft but with the smallest tinge of sorrow, like a mourner at a funeral for someone who had lived a full life.
He smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with his pleasure. “It is good to see you, Vasilisa. You look well. Traveled.”
“Frederick! I saw whales around Galay!” The young woman shouted in excitement. “We saw their spouts across the water as we drew closer on our ship. Thankfully our holds were full, so we just watched them play.”
Frederick, the nobleman, approached and embraced her, holding her close. She buried her head in his overcoat, playful mirth replaced with a twinge of acceptance.
“It’s time to go home, Vas,” Frederick said, holding her tightly.
The hawkish Natasha lightened her gaze and started preening Vasilisa’s hair. “Elias awaits us at the village. Bogdan asks for you every chance he gets. He’s gotten tall,” Natasha spoke, her voice softening as well.
The young woman was hastened down the street to an awaiting carriage by her noble keepers. Eyes peered from the grime-covered windows, regarding her with honest curiosity. The spectacle of the captured girl walking through the streets of Moroz with her guardians at her wings would populate the taverns now. Many thought it comedy, but she thought it pitiful. The attention she craved was always that of her own making, not of her status. The horses grew restless as they approached, but calmed at the behest of the driver. She stepped up into the carriage, handing over her remaining flintlock to the attendant who held it at arm's length with his fingertips, like it would soil his pristine white gloves.
Vasilisa turned her eyes to the docks of Moroz. She watched the seagulls circle in the sky, crying their song and reminding any who heard it of the sea. She watched the white wings of the sails leave the bay to the world, slowly cutting forth and gone. She remembered the day she had first stepped off the vessel that had brought her there for six thine and her company. She thought of all the people she had met and sailed with. The callouses on her hands that she’d earned and how small the world made her feel. She was condensed like a diamond; bright in a wide, wide sky. She inhaled deeply, thinking of the sea and its general rot and ruin, and her nose wrinkled. She closed the carriage door and gazed outside as the scenery fell behind.
“I’ll miss this place, but I won’t return. The sea will always call me to other places of freedom,” Vasilisa said with a sigh.
“We all belong to someone. All of us. Even you,” Natasha spoke assuredly. “Those who live on whims make for fanciful stories, read in dining rooms over tea.” She watched out the window along with the young woman. “You have to embrace your fate at some point.”
Vasilisa wasn’t listening. She thought instead of a poem she’d heard long ago from a dead man she admired.
I once dreamt of a castle seated high on a cliffside.
“You are called to the capital,” Natasha continued, but the words of the poem drowned out the hawkish woman in Vasilisa’s mind.
The waves had whittled away at its walls and its castellans left long ago.
“You have the honor and the duty of country. Your own country,” Natasha pressed.
I watched it crumble slowly into the wake below.
“Are you listening? Do you hear the call now?”
Like me, it fell. Down and down.
“Your people…They call for the true heir of Drakha.”
Into the embrace
“Princess-”
Of the deep.
“Aleksandra.”
—
The carriage traveled south along the main roads. Other vehicles carrying other gentile passengers also followed these roads to and from the capital. Their carriage was southeasterly bound, away from the coast and towards the great violet reaches of the Korona mountains, a range that grew from the tundras of the far north to the center of the continent. The young woman watched the countryside pass by through the glass windows. The late summer sun had dried the grasses to a golden hue. She had much on her mind, but only mustered a sigh.
“If I hear you sigh one more time I might enlist myself on a ship to escape you,” grumbled Natasha as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “We are nearly there.”
“Elias will sport quite the smile when he sees me. Perhaps even an embrace?” Vasilisa jested.
Frederick chuckled. “He’s just as serious a man as before, I’m afraid.”
Vasilisa followed the excited run of four children alongside the carriage. The groomed roads soon became untamed as the carriage departed from the main path to their destination. Two girls and two boys diverted from the road to a creek below, tossing stones into the water, endeavoring to catch any insect that strayed too close. In the distance, their mothers nursed their younger siblings and spoke of the affairs of nearby villages. Vasilisa watched them, smiling and playing as the sun began to set and they were called home. Perhaps tomorrow they will come again, or run in the woods chasing what remains of the wild fae in a land so overcome by human expansion. Now, the creatures were just little lights dancing in the clearings and leading children astray but only for a moment.
The carriage rounded a bend where the Sapfirian pines lined the road. The wheels of the carriage broke the cones and the needles where they lay waiting for the early autumn burn. The smell of the livestock and spring wheat snuck through the cracks of the carriage and brought the destination to the forefront of her memories. The farmsteads all looked the same as she had left them. Fences, broken and mended from cattle making their escapes marked the end of the settlers' claims. She had watched many a Sunday after the church opened its doors as the farmers returned to their homes and fixed their fences, both on their property and in their lives in attempts to follow through on their gospel. They waved and returned to their work.
The return of Aleksandra, or Vasilisa as they had all known her, was an inevitability in the unchanging land. However, it did excite a few of the younger denizens, as soon the carriage was beset with children of the village. One little boy in particular boarded the carriage and rapped his knuckles on the window. His eyes met Vasilisa’s and grew wide with the excitement afforded only to children. She opened the doors and embraced the little boy tightly.
“Goddess! You’ve grown so much I can barely hold you!” Vasilisa cried. The boy sat on her lap and she held him close like he would turn to smoke and slip away if she eased her grip. His light brown hair was like a sparrow’s nest and his bright brown eyes were spilling with mirth. He didn’t know what to say as children often don’t when their emotions overwhelm them, but his presence was enough for her.
The carriage finally brought them to a homestead, hidden in the woods near the village and cradled deep within the hillside. The doors to the carriage opened and its passengers stretched their legs after the journey. The door to the front of the house opened and down its stairs walked a man with heavy steps. He adjusted his linen shirt and made sure it was buttoned tight. Vasilisa, who held the little boy‘s hand, froze when she saw him. The backs of her legs began to ache.
“Elias! You’re looking well!” Shouted Frederick in an attempt to break the silence.
“As do you, old friend. I trust the trip wasn’t too much trouble?’ Replied Elias, his voice carrying an impatience restrained by a belief in decorum. His appearance was very much the same. Body fit and trim with discipline. Blue eyes and raven hair sharp and unwavering. His walk and his words were calculated. His ears came to a faint point, betraying his elven ancestry.
“It's time to go home, Boggy,” Vasilisa turned to the boy. “Tell your mother I would love to come by for her syrnikis.”
The boy beckoned her to come close to tell her a secret, but instead kissed her on the cheek and laughed while running away towards home.
“Bye Vas!” Shouted the little boy. His voice had aged, but not by much. She rose after watching the boy go, and turned to Elias. The man stood studying her for a moment before he uttered, “Welcome home”.
