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foundtherightwords · 4 days

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The Firebird - Chapter 16 (last chapter)

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15

Chapter 16 - Homecoming

Paul walked through the gardens in a daze. He noticed that the leaves, which had been young and green when he went away, were now starting to yellow at the edge. How long had he been gone? He saw no one and started to think this was another horrible trick, like Illarion's temptation. It was past time the court returned to the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. What if there was no one here? What if he was too late, and his mother had already presented the Bobrinsky boy to the council, and he had returned for nothing?

The spell was broken when he went through the back door of the castle and ran into a servant girl. Upon seeing Paul, the girl dropped the tray she was carrying as though she'd seen a ghost, which, all things considered, was not far from the truth.

"Where is Her Majesty?" Paul asked.

The girl stared at him, too shocked or frightened to speak. Paul waved her off and made his way up the staircase to his mother's private chamber. It occurred to him that he may catch her with one of her lovers, but he didn't care.

She was alone, sitting at her desk in her morning robes. Hearing Paul come in, she looked up. The quill fell out of her hand.

"Good morning, Mother," Paul said. He didn't know what else to say.

"Paul!" she exclaimed weakly. "It can't be!"

She turned white, as white as the sheets of paper in front of her, and for a moment, Paul was afraid his mother would faint. But she didn't faint. She went to him and tentatively touched him, brushing the long curls from his forehead, perhaps to assure herself that he was real. Paul fought the old reflex that urged him to shy away from her hand, knowing now that this was the closest she could bring herself to a caress.

"Is that—blood?" she asked, reaching for his cheek.

Belatedly, Paul remembered he still had Baba Yaga's blood smeared on his face. "It's not mine," he said, wiping it away.

"But where did you come from?" she asked, peering at him as though she could discern the truth from his face. "And where have you been all this time?"

Paul pondered her question. Eventually, because he could not possibly answer it without sounding like a madman, he only said, "Does it matter? I have come back." He hoped she didn't hear the bitterness in his voice.

***

They rushed him to Gatchina Palace. The Empress wanted to accompany him, but Paul insisted on meeting Orlov on his own. "Otherwise he would suspect you of forcing words into my mouth," he said. "I only have to say that I had typhus, don't I?"

"How did you know that I told them you had typhus?" she asked sharply.

Paul only shrugged. This mother hadn't pressed the question of where he'd been, though he would catch her watching him with something akin to fear. Perhaps she saw something in his distant eyes, some subtle changes in his demeanor, which prevented further questioning.

Paul received Orlov in Gatchina, apologizing for his long absence, chalking his worn-out appearance up to his recent illness, and assuring the minister that he would be at court as soon as his health permitted. Afterward, Orlov went away again, looking greatly put out.

The court returned to Saint Petersburg soon after. The Empress, terrified that he would disappear again, ordered Paul to be attended at all times by a servant, even when he slept. He couldn't walk down the corridors without a servant following close behind. All the attention he had not received as a child was now heaped upon him. He supposed he ought to feel gratified by it, but to his surprise, he found it annoying and longed to be alone.

He tried to focus on his old life, telling himself it was no use crying for what he'd left when he had left it so willingly. He thought about Zhara watching him in the scrying disc and tried to act as the man she thought him to be. But it was difficult. It wasn't simply because he missed Zhara, though he did miss her terribly and would sit for hours watching the garden outside, searching the grounds for the familiar flash of red that he knew wasn't there. It was because everything around him was drab and dull compared to all the colors and life of Lukomorye. After the openness of the Lukomorian landscape and the loftiness of the Arthanian castle, the walls of the Winter Palace closed in around him like those of a prison. Food and wine turned to ashes and vinegar in his mouth, now that he'd tasted the heavenly flavors of Lukomorye. He finally understood why the traveler in the tales was always warned not to eat the food of the enchanted kingdom. Once he did, he would be lost forever.

Even after the sharpness of the memories faded, the longing remained. Now Paul knew how a changeling must feel when it was pulled out of Fairyland and thrown into the human world. He felt himself under an enchantment, without knowing who cast it and who could break it. He couldn't even seek comfort in the old Fool's tales as he had in his childhood, for they were too painful a reminder of all he'd left behind.

A month after Paul's return, the Empress came into his chamber one morning to announce that she had invited the three princesses of Hesse-Darmstadt—Amalia, Wilhelmina, and Louisa—and their mother, for a visit.

"A visit? For what?" Paul asked, reluctantly tearing himself away from the book he was reading. He had taken it upon himself to search for mentions of Lukomorye and other similar lands in old writings of Kievan Rus' and even before that, holding on to those precious, magical memories by any means he could.

"For your betrothal, of course!"

Paul turned startled eyes toward her. When he first returned, thinking only of preventing the throne from falling into unworthy hands, he had not considered the matter of matrimony. It was true that the thought of love had never been far from his mind, but it was more to wonder if he could ever love anyone again.

"I do not think of marrying just yet, Mother," he said carefully.

"Perhaps not, but I have thought about it for you."

"As you please, but I don't care about the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses." He could not even remember which of them was which, and what they looked like.

"Heavens, not all three of them! I have chosen Princess Wilhelmina for you, but of course, it would not do to invite just her. You will care for her, after. You will get used to her, and you will learn to love her."

"I cannot make her happy."

"You need not trouble yourself about that. All you have to do is to respect the wishes of your mother."

Her voice had taken on the half-exasperated, half-mocking tone she often had with him, making Paul's blood boil with the old anger. He realized, with dismay, that despite her fear of the changes in him, the Empress meant to pretend his months-long disappearance had not occurred at all and go on with business as usual.

"I do not wish to marry, and I won't!" he shouted.

"You shall marry, or you can forget about inheriting the throne!"

"Then who will give you the heir you long for, Mother? Or have you already found a replacement?" He didn't mention the Bobrinsky boy, though from his mother's slight flinch, he knew it was who she was thinking of. He took some grim satisfaction from that.

His satisfaction was short-lived, for his mother always insisted on having the last words.

"Perhaps that's what I should have done a long time ago," she bit out, her voice now taking on an iciness that was far more threatening than her fury.

Fuming, Paul turned away from her contemptuous eyes. He looked at the books strewn across the table, at the obsessive notes he'd made on them, and thought to himself, What I am doing? Why was he pining for someone he could not have, a world where he could not stay? Better to marry and produce an heir to please his mother, so she would leave him be and let him do as he pleased. This princess or that princess, what was the difference?

"Fine," he said, swallowing the contraction—of rage or heartbreak, he did not know—in his throat. "I shall meet the Princesses."

***

Over the next few weeks, Paul often felt he had once again fallen back into Illarion's vision, as he was caught in a flurry of activities, most of which he had little involvement and no clear understanding either. Then the princesses and their mother arrived, and he was put in his full court dress, wigged, powdered, and rouged, and pushed into the reception hall.

As the princesses were presented to him, Paul was astonished to see that Princess Wilhelmina bore an uncanny resemblance to his unnamed betrothed in Illarion's vision—the same blue eyes, porcelain skin, and rose-bud mouth, the same doll-like features. Was this a sign? Or had Illarion been able to actually predict the future?

There was something else as well. His best friend, Andrei Razumovsky, who had commanded the frigate that brought the princesses and their mother over from Berlin, seemed a little reluctant to let go of Princess Wilhelmina's hand, and as he took a step back, Wilhelmina's eyes followed Razumovsky almost wistfully. Paul watched all this with a detached interest that was surprising even to him. He remembered Elena and Dobrynya, and wondered if anyone had bothered to ask Wilhelmina what she wanted.

Since Do you really wish to marry me? was not the most suitable question to ask one's intended, especially at their first meeting, with their mothers watching over them like a pair of hawks—they could certainly give Nightingale the Robber a run for his money—Paul kept the conversation between them polite and proper throughout the subsequent reception and dinner. It was during the ball later that evening that he felt confident to take their discussion in a more personal turn.

"Did my mother's invitation come as a surprise to you?" he asked Wilhelmina.

"A very pleasant surprise indeed," she replied. They spoke French. They could have conversed in German, but French was more fashionable. "But I've always wanted to visit Russia." A perfectly correct answer that told him nothing at all.

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?" he pressed on, hoping to learn something about Wilhelmina herself.

Her face lit up. "France," she said, and Paul tried not to feel disappointed at the rather expected answer. "I hear that it's lovely. Or Italy. Count Razumovsky had been telling me—that is, me and my sisters—about his European tour. He's very well-traveled, is he not?" She glanced at the tall, handsome figure of Razumovsky and blushed when he returned her gaze.

Seeing the looks between them, Paul realized that he could not go through with this nuptial. He could not be like Afron. He could not marry just any princess. It made all the difference.

He became quiet for the rest of the ball. To Wilhelmina's chattering, he only nodded, without actually hearing a word. At one point, he thought he saw a flash of red gold, and his heart thudded against his ribs so violently that it hurt. But when he looked again, he realized it was only the gown of a lady-in-waiting reflected in the gilding of the candlesticks.

Gazing despondently around the ballroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors—a boy, nothing more, a ridiculous-looking boy in his periwig and frock coat and frills, surrounded by gold and glitter. None of it seemed real. None of it was real.

He missed a step and stumbled over Wilhelmina's toes.

"Excuse me, Princess," he mumbled, before turning on his heel and walking out.

***

Paul returned to his chamber and did something he had done but rarely in the past: he thought. He thought about Lukomorye and what he'd left there. He thought about Zhara. But more than anything else, he thought about Illarion, who'd gone on a rampage for power, about Afron, who had committed a terrible act of betrayal for power, about Kostroma, who had locked up her own daughter for fear of losing her power, and about Baba Yaga, who kept herself away from it all.

And he realized what a fool he had been.

"Zhara?" he said quietly, afraid the servants standing outside the door may hear and think he had gone mad. "Are you using the scrying disc? If you're watching—if you can hear me—can you ask Baba Yaga to open a door for me? Please?"

Nothing. Perhaps she wasn't watching. Perhaps it was too painful for her, as it was for him. Perhaps if he wanted to come back, he needed to seek out a door for himself. Regardless, he would not find what he was looking for if he stayed here.

His mind made up, he took off his wig and cleaned the rouge off his face. He donned his old clothes and packed a satchel with some changes of linen and all the money he had in the world. Then he went to his desk and began writing a letter.

He heard the door open with a loud bang but didn't look up. He finished the letter, signed it, and sealed it up, just as his mother stalked into the room, all disapproval and fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Return to the ballroom at once!"

"No, Mother." Paul got to his feet. "I'm going now."

"Going? Where?"

"To see the world." And perhaps to find a door to another world.

"What, now?"

"Yes. Please give my regards—and regrets—to the Princesses and their mother."

The Empress's voice turned wheedling. "Look, if the Hesse-Darmstadt princesses are not to your liking, we can find others. And after you marry, you can have Gatchina Palace for yourself, and I shall see about letting you join the council. But I need you here."

She thinks I'm still a child, Paul thought. Dangle a new toy in front of me and I'll forget my tantrums. Like everything else, he felt no bitterness about this. He felt only a sense of calmness and a newfound excitement to leave all the golden shackles of this life behind. He remembered Elena with her mother. This was how she must have felt.

"No, thanks," he said simply. "I'm sure Princess Wilhelmina will make a lovely bride, but she's not for me." He picked up the little satchel.

"You are serious," his mother said.

"I am."

"I don't remember giving you permission for this."

"I don't need your permission."

"And what about funds? How shall you pay for this journey?"

"I have some money of my own. I can get work along the way."

The Empress gave a derisive laugh. "What, travelling incognito? You wouldn't survive a day!"

"That is none of your concern."

She looked at him—really looked at him then—and seemed to notice, for the first time, that he was no longer the angry, arrogant boy who was always chomping at the bit and lashing out at her.

"How long do you plan on going?" she asked, her voice softening.

"That's another thing. I'm not coming back." He handed her the sealed letter. "I'm renouncing my right to the throne."

She didn't even glance at the letter.

"You can't leave," she hissed. "I'll have you locked up if I have to!"

Her imperious tone brought back some of the old anger. "Really, Mother?" Paul snapped. "First you imprisoned your husband, and now your son?"

He'd only meant it as a jab, but she reared back, as though he'd just hit her. Suddenly she looked her age—a tired, lonely middle-aged woman.

"But what can I say to the council?" she asked.

"You can say that I've gone mad, or that I'm dead. Make up an illness, like you did last time. Like you did with my father."

"They would never believe me twice," she said in a small voice.

This was probably the closest his mother ever came to admitting she'd had a hand in his father's death. For so long, he'd wanted her to confess her guilt, to give the memories of his father the respect he deserved. Now it no longer mattered. His bitterness, his anger, it was all gone.

"I'm making this easier for you," he said, trying to sound gentle and sincere. "With me out of the way, you can find yourself another heir, one to mold and form as you see fit."

"But you are my heir—"

"Not anymore." He strapped the satchel on his shoulder. "Goodbye, Mother."

He left the palace by the back door. Nobody stopped him.

***

He traveled far outside of Saint Petersburg, into the countryside. At every inn at every village, he would ask for stories about local witches and wizards, about dvorovoi and rusalka and strange creatures that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, hoping that one of them would contain a clue, that one of them may lead him to a doorway back to Lukomorye. So far, none of the stories yielded anything useful, but he still held out hope. In return, he would tell stories of his own, stories about poor Alyosha Popovich who was turned into a wolf, about the tragic love between Dobrynya Nikitich and Princess Elena the Fair, about Ilya Muromets and Nightingale the Robber. But there was one story he never told, about a princess named Zhara who was turned into a bird and a prince named Paul who fell in love with her. That story he kept for himself.

He learned more during those few months, just by talking to people, than he ever did in the previous nineteen years of his life. He helped them when he could, using his limited store of book-learning to read and write letters for the dedushkas and babushkas whose children and grandchildren, like him, had left home to seek their fortunes out there in the world, or settle arguments between merchants. Most people didn't pay him, but he could always count on some food, a stay in their izba, or at least a hot, sweet cup of tea from them. In this way, he managed to stretch out the little money he had, to keep on traveling.

At first, he was afraid that his mother may send men after him, but then, when he had been journeying for a few months, he heard an announcement of the betrothal of Tsarevich Paul and Princess Wilhelmina of Hesse-Darmstadt. He smiled to himself. His mother must have decided on Alexei Bobrinsky after all. He hoped his half-brother knew what he was getting himself into. Bobrinsky may be tsarevich now, but it might not be such a laugh, living under a false identity. Paul could only wish him the best. And Wilhelmina—she must have stayed so she could be close to Razumovsky. Well, Paul wished them the best as well.

After that, he traveled with more ease, though another problem soon arose. As winter descended over the landscape, turning everything black and white, Paul discovered that his meager fund, despite his frugality, had dwindled to almost nothingness, and he would need to earn some money if he wanted to continue on his way. But every time he went into a village or a farm asking for work, he only received some suspicious looks at his white hands and his still-fine clothes, and people turned away from him. He never really went hungry—there were always good things to be found in the forest and the stream, and he never forgot to thank the vodyanoy and the leshy for their bounty, though they never showed themselves—but he was afraid of getting arrested as a vagrant.

It was his clothes that caused the problem, he decided. People were bound to be suspicious of a young man dressed so richly wandering alone. So one day, upon coming across a muzhik lounging on the edge of the forest by a wagon full of snow-covered timber, Paul asked to trade his coat for the muzhik's old kaftan. The muzhik stared at him with curiosity, but eventually shrugged and agreed.

Paul took his coat off and wrapped himself in the kaftan, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of tobacco, horses, and sawdust. As he handed the coat to the muzhik, something fluttered out of an inner pocket.

It was a feather, gleaming red and gold under the falling snow.

Puzzled, the muzhik reached for it, but Paul snatched it up before the other man could touch it.

"Thank you," he said to the muzhik. He quickly stuffed the feather into the pocket of the kaftan and rushed off into the forest before the muzhik could ask him more questions.

Once he made certain he was well hidden by the trees, Paul sought shelter under an ancient oak tree, its trunk split almost in half, forming a large hollow. With trembling hands, he pulled the feather out of his pocket. It was the feather he had pulled from Zhara the day they met, the day he came to Lukomorye. He didn't even remember having it in his pocket.

Now, at the sight of it, something inside him broke.

"Please," he whispered, the feather pressed to his lips. "Please, Zhar-ptitsa. Let me come back. I was wrong. Please, anyone? Ilya? Elena? Baba Yaga? Can anybody hear me? I made a mistake. Please, take me back..."

There was no reply, only the cold, indifferent silence of the forest that swallowed up his voice.

He sank to his knees in the snow and stayed like that for a long time, not caring who may find him, not even bothering to wipe away the snow that had collected on his bare head and his shoulders.

"Well, well, well," said a voice behind him. "I never thought I'd see the day Pavel Petrovich Romanov admits that he was wrong." A clear, high voice, gently teasing.

Paul sat up and whirled around. Zhara was stepping out of the hole in the tree, her red braid glowing like a beacon amidst the snow-white scene, her breath clouding in the freezing air. Her lips curved up in her usual crooked smile, but they were also trembling slightly, and her amber eyes were shining with happy tears.

Paul slowly stood up and approached her, not quite believing his eyes. "Is it really you?" he asked, tentatively reaching for her. "Or is this some trick?" Already the snow was melting a little around her feet.

"It's not a trick," she said, taking his outstretched hand and pressing it to her cheek. If Paul still had any lingering doubt, it vanished at the feel of that smooth, warm skin under his palm. "It was the feather—it brought your call to me."

"You didn't use the scrying disc?"

"I was using it." A blush crept up her face, under her freckles. "But I stopped, after she—that princess—arrived."

She was jealous. Blessed be the Saints, he had made her jealous. Paul wanted to laugh and hug and squeeze her and never let her go.

"I couldn't watch you fall in love with another," Zhara continued.

"How could I," Paul asked, drawing her to him, "when I'm already in love with you?"

She kissed him then, her lips spreading warmth throughout his body until all his doubts and fears melted away completely. He ran his hands all over her as he kissed her back, wanting to feel every inch of her under his palms, wanting to assure himself that she was real, like he had that day he'd first seen her as an otherworldly bird, fluttering in his forest.

It was some time before they pulled apart to draw a breath.

"So what was this mistake you were talking about?" Zhara murmured.

"I thought what I desired the most was to see the dawn with you," he said. "But that wasn't true."

"It wasn't?" she asked, brushing her lips over his in that usual way that never failed to send blood pounding through him.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't just wish to see the dawn with you. I wish to see many, many dawns with you."

That earned him a smile, a radiant smile that lit up his whole world. He kissed her again, and then he took her hand, and together, they stepped through the tree.

Where did they go? What did they do? Did they live happily ever after? That I cannot tell you, for I do not know. If this was a tale like any other, then perhaps they did. But nothing had happened as it does in the tales, had it? All I know is that they left behind the white forest, where the snow soon covered up their footprints, making everything pristine again.

THE END

A/N: And that's it! By the way, the line about not knowing what Paul and Zhara did after this isn't just a funny quip to end the story in a fairytale-like way, I actually, honestly don't know. I have a tentative idea for a sequel but it's in its embryonic stage at the moment, so I don't know when or if I'll ever get to it. In the meantime, I'm going to have another Hellcheer fic up soon, and more fics for other JQ characters are coming (and perhaps some of those are for his new roles as well), so stay tuned. Thank you so much for reading!

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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foundtherightwords · 5 days

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Joe for man about town spring / summer 2024 by Matt Healy.

THE SHOE!!! The shoe!!! This man is in my head 24/7.

#joseph quinn #photoshoot #man about town #the most meme-able man on the planet #do you bite your thumb at us sir?!

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foundtherightwords · 6 days

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Part II of ‘Die Prinzessin und der Schweinehirt’/ ‘The Swineherd’, a fairytale by Hans-Christian Andersen, illustrated by Heinrich Lefler. Published 1897 by Gesellschaft für verfielfältigende Kunst, Vienna.

See Part I here.

(Source)

#am i crazy or is that first picture kind of hellcheer coded #at least we can all agree the swineherd looks like eddie right #hellcheer #inspiration #visual

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foundtherightwords · 7 days

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Did I just write 82k words for a character that has 2 minutes of screentime? Yes, yes I did.

It's this guy, btw:

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #grunauer #grunauer overlord #it seems my fics just keep getting longer #i still have to edit it so it won't be ready for a while though

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foundtherightwords · 9 days

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JOSEPH QUINN Man About Town Magazine (2024) Photos by Matt Healy

#hghhhhh #his shoulder and arm and back in that green sweater 😬#joseph quinn #photoshoot #man about town

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foundtherightwords · 11 days

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This is a much better angle because we can see Joe more clearly:

He doesn't even have to look at the strap, he just feels it slip, pulls it up automatically, and keeps his hand there to make sure it doesn't fall again

He looks at her after pulling it up to make sure she's OK

Then he glances at the cameras to make sure they didn't catch anything compromising

I've said it before and I say it again: what a gentleman. (And Lupita clearly agrees.)

Joseph Quinn and Lupita Nyong'o at cinemacon

And when I think it's over, another video comes from another angle of "that moment". 😵

#joseph quinn #public appearance #cinemacon

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foundtherightwords · 11 days

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#omg #joseph quinn #article #photoshoot

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foundtherightwords · 11 days

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The Firebird - Chapter 15

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Chapter warnings: some smut (non-explicit), Paul being an idiot

Chapter word count: 5.5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14

Chapter 15 - The Tsarina and the Fool

One of the horses—in the haze of pain and exhaustion, Paul didn't remember which—picked them up from the charred throne room and brought them back to Baba Yaga's hut. A happy surprise was waiting for them there—Ilya had survived, and with his injuries being tended to by Elena, he should make a swift recovery.

Elena tended to Zhara's wound as well, though her recovery was not as swift. Her wound was more grievous, and made by a magical weapon no less, so it was several days before it even stopped bleeding and the healing could begin. When Paul gave the others an account of what had transpired in the throne room, Baba Yaga shook her long, hooked nose and said, "The girl was lucky. Messing about with magic could have very serious consequences."

"Like what happened with Illarion?" Paul asked.

The witch nodded grimly. "My guess is that Koschei's magic was already killing him, but he didn't know it. And when he took on his sister's magic as well, it became too much. Some people aren't meant to take on such power. They can't handle it."

Paul wondered if the last sentence was a warning. He decided not to ask.

He spent most days in Zhara's room, holding her hand while she slept. Though he still wasn't quite used to the sight of her human form in full daylight yet, he couldn't get enough of watching her, marveling at how the sun brought out the gold in her hair, how it played on her freckles and sparkled in her eyes during the brief moments of wakefulness. His only worry was that although she was healing physically, her spirits remained low. Often, he would find her looking out at the sea and the dark shape of Buyan Island beyond, her lips trembling. She no longer smiled, and on the rare occasion she did, it was brief and tired, with none of her usual cheekiness. Paul could still hear Illarion's pitiful cries for help as the magic that he couldn't control coursed through him, taking away his life. He was thankful that Zhara hadn't heard those cries.

In those days, Paul learned something else that the stories never mentioned. They never told what came after the "happily ever after." They never talked about how the peasant boy failed to rule a kingdom, how the princess became bored with her husband, or how the knight longed for more adventures now that the dragon was slain. Or, in this case, how the evil wizard was still mourned after he died, because for all his evil, he was also terribly, terribly misguided, and had had to pay dearly for his mistakes.

Paul knew a part of Zhara would never stop mourning, not for what Illarion had become, but for Lariosha, for the little brother that had grown up with her and played with her and laughed with her. He also knew that nothing he could say or do would ever lift that pain from her heart. When he caught her in one of those moments, he could only offer her a kiss or an embrace, which seemed to soothe her, insufficient though they may be.

***

Once Zhara had recovered, they moved into the castle. Ilya went with them, as Zhara intended to make him the head of the Royal Guards. Elena stayed with Baba Yaga, who agreed to remain close in case they needed help, but she withdrew the hut deep into the forest to avoid being discovered. News of Illarion's defeat and Zhara's return had spread quickly, and the people of Arthania, those who had had their curses lifted or had not fled too far, were slowly making their way back home.

In the days and weeks that followed, Zhara had much to do. There was her kingdom in ruins, with most of its people killed or still scattered to all corners of the world. There was Smorodina in the south, which after Afron's death had divided into so many factions and descended into such a bloody civil war that it threatened the stability of the whole Lukomorye. There was Kostroma, who still blamed Zhara for taking Elena away and refused to lend a helping hand. There were all the boyars who had fled Arthania after Illarion's coup and were now returning, swearing up and down that they had every intention of standing behind Zhara, and she didn't quite know who to trust. Every day she worked late into the night, meeting with a few reliable boyars, or riding out to survey the damage and figuring out how to rebuild the kingdom.

Zhara was so busy that they had no chance to fulfill Paul's desire. When she came to Paul's bed-chamber at night, she was often exhausted and fell asleep in his arms right away, after mumbling, "Remember to wake me up so we can watch the dawn together, won't you?" But in the morning, either she had already left, called away by duties, or was still sleeping so soundly that he didn't have the heart to wake her.

He tried to help her when and where he could, though he became more aware than ever how woefully inadequate he was, how his mother and tutors had failed him when it came to ruling a country. To be fair, Zhara had tried to include him. The moment she presented him to her council, however, the boyars immediately raised a protest.

"Who is he?" they asked. "What does he know about our country? How can we trust his counsel?"

"I trust him," Zhara said. "That should be enough."

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," one of the boyars said. "He may have helped you defeat your brother, but when it comes to running the country, it's best to leave it to us."

Throughout it all, Paul could only sit like a schoolboy being called up for an examination and failing. So this was how it was for Potemkin and his mother's other lovers. He was now being sneered at, just as he had once sneered at them. But at least Potemkin could prove his worth on the battlefield, and Vasilchikov had his charms and wits. Paul had nothing. It made his blood boil, though the anger was directed at those pompous boyars or himself, he wasn't sure. The only thing keeping him from storming out of the council room was the fear that it would make him look like a petulant child and earn him even more contempt.

"I'm sorry," Zhara said that night while they were in bed together. "I shouldn't have subjected you to such humiliation. We shall find a way to convince them—"

"It doesn't matter," Paul said, hugging her close.

In the end, Zhara gave him the job of translating and cataloging the notes of Illarion's magical experiments, trunkfuls of which had been discovered all over the castle, to find out if there was anything they missed, any hidden trap or danger they might have overlooked. When some of the boyars protested that someone who did not know magic should not be given such an important task, Zhara calmly told them that they could trust Paul not to make mischief precisely because he didn't know magic. That had silenced them at last. Further, the notes were all written in Latin, a language that Zhara told Paul had not been used in Lukomorye for hundreds of years. No doubt Illarion had been counting on that to keep his experiments a secret. For all his precautions, the boy hadn't anticipated that they would be read by a mere mortal from Rus', who had learned Latin growing up.

Paul took to the task with delight. He discovered he had a knack for interpreting and organizing documents, and grew to enjoy those long hours poring over the parchments, making notes of all the different spells and enchantments, becoming in turn fascinated or horrified. Having seen what magic could do, he never once felt curious, never wondering if he could try them for himself. Zhara had been right to trust him on that count. Occasionally, he would bring some of the notes into the forest to ask for Baba Yaga's help to interpret them, though the old witch didn't see much use in writing things down.

One day, Paul opened a trunk that had been discovered just the day before, and beneath the jumble of parchments, he found something else—a round, polished silver tray, and a crystal ball that fitted into the palm of his hand. Ever cautious, he took them to the house on chicken legs and asked Baba Yaga what they were.

"Scrying tools," she said, after a brief glance at them. "You roll the crystal around the tray and it will show you the person you wish to see."

Paul's eyebrows shot up. This must be how Illarion had been able to track them and send Alyosha and Afron after them. "Can anyone use it?" he asked. "Or does one have to be magic?"

"Why don't you try it and find out?" the old witch said and returned to the cauldron she was stirring over the fire.

Feeling a little foolish, Paul picked up the crystal and rolled it around the tray. Only when the crystal had almost finished its rotation that he realized he hadn't decided what he wanted to see yet. A thought flashed through his mind involuntarily.

The polished surface of the tray rippled, then stilled. It became clear like a mirror, except it didn't show Paul his own reflection. Instead, he saw a woman, and realized why Illarion hadn't used the tray more—it wasn't very useful for spying. It only showed the person being watched, with very little of the surroundings to discern where the person may be. Here, the woman was looking at someone outside the mirror, her face drawn and haggard. It took Paul a second to recognize her. His mother. He had never seen her so subdued.

"Do you expect us to believe this, Your Majesty?" a voice, a man's, said. Paul couldn't see his face, but he recognized the voice. It was Orlov. Not his mother's former lover, Grigory, who had fallen from favor, but his brother, Alexei, who had often tried to curry favor with Paul by apologizing for helping to overthrow Paul's father and promising to support Paul once he ascended the throne.

"The tsarevich was ill with typhoid," his mother said impassively. "I do not expect you to believe anything, only the truth."

"No one has seen him in months!" Orlov shouted.

The Empress didn't blink. "He was highly contagious. Now that the danger has passed, he needs quiet and rest, so I sent him to Gatchina."

An angry murmur went around, like the buzzing of a provoked beehive. Finally, Orlov spoke up. "The council demands that we are allowed to see Tsarevich Paul, alive and well. If he is indeed in Gatchina as you said, I shall go there myself, in three days' time, to speak with him. Or you shall have to answer to us."

"Are you giving me an ultimatum, gentlemen?" Some of the old authority was back in his mother's voice. "Are you threatening me?"

"It is no threat, Your Majesty," Orlov said icily. "But I think the people will have something to say when they learn that a former Emperor and a future Emperor, father and son, have both disappeared under your watch."

His mother's face went white. The tray wobbled, and the crystal ball fell onto the table with a clatter. The image of his mother faded away as the tray became silver once more.

***

Paul didn't remember how he returned to the castle. He walked like a somnambulist, gripping the tray so hard that its edge left a mark on his palm. Rain was falling, but he hardly noticed the drops falling hard and thick on his shoulders, splattering his curls to his head. Once back in his study, he rolled the crystal ball around the tray again and saw his mother, now alone, gazing aimlessly into the distance, the expression on her face strangely similar to his own, looking as lost as he had never seen her, as lost as he felt.

So that was what his mother had been doing since he disappeared into Lukomorye. Claimed that he was ill and tried to fend off the council's suspicion until... until what? What did she hope would happen? That he would miraculously turn up? That she could convince the council that he had died and that she had nothing to do with it?

With a jolt, Paul realized this was what he'd always fantasized about. He was the only one who could help his mother. He may not have to fight for her in a coup or a peasant revolt, but she needed him now.

He could return. Baba Yaga had said she could open a door for him. Since Illarion's defeat, Paul had given the matter no thought, so caught up as he was in Zhara's recovery and then in helping her put her kingdom back together. Now, when he did think about it, he couldn't imagine leaving her, not after everything they had been through.

But he couldn't leave his mother to the wolves either. The time apart had made him tender toward her. He couldn't quite forgive her neglect, but after all, it wasn't her fault that she hadn't been allowed to raise him. And, having seen how Zhara had to fight the boyars on every decision she wanted to make for Arthania, after she had given her own life to save them, he no longer begrudged his mother her tenacious hold on power. He knew now how difficult it was for a woman to rule, regardless of which world she lived in.

And he had his duty to his empire as well. If he didn't return and his mother was deposed, what then? Would Russia descend into civil war and chaos due to the lack of an heir, like Smorodina? Or would some tyrant rise up and lead the empire into ruins, as Illarion had done to Arthania? Could Paul live with that on his conscience?

He didn't know how long he sat like that, his mind churning like the sea outside the window, forever lapping at the shore without going anywhere. He was only roused from the tangled reverie he'd sunk into when the door opened and Zhara walked in, asking, "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Paul glanced at the window. He hadn't even noticed the sun going down. "Oh, I was thinking, that's all." For some reason, he covered up the silver tray and the crystal ball with a few sheets of parchment. He didn't want to tell Zhara about them yet.

Zhara touched her finger to a candle on the table, and it flared to life. "Thinking about what?" she asked, sitting down on the arm of his chair and playing with his curls, which were getting long.

"Lots of things. What about you?" He turned to her, wishing to change the subject. "You finished your meeting early today."

She snorted. "I ended the meeting early. Those boyars, what a clump of pompous fat crows! There is so much to do, and yet they decided the best way to occupy their time is to meddle in my personal affairs!"

"What happened?"

She looked at him, blushed, and turned away. "They want me to marry," she said quietly.

Paul felt as though he was doused in a bucket of ice water. This was something the tales never mentioned either.

"They say that, as tsarina, my most important duty is to produce an heir for Arthania," Zhara continued, sounding disgusted. "They present me with a list of suitors and tell me to choose. Now I understand perfectly well why you were so angry with your mother. Some even suggest I marry Ilya! Not once did they ask what I want!"

It was then that Paul realized his path was clear. This was where his story ended. The dragon was slain, and the knight would marry the princess. There was no place for him in this fairytale world.

"Then what do you want?" he asked dully.

"I want to marry you," Zhara said.

Paul stared at her, dumbfounded. "What?"

"Marry me," she repeated, lifting his hand to her lips for a kiss.

"The boyars will never stand for it." He wondered what would happen if his mother was to marry one of her lovers. There would be uproar in court, surely.

Zhara tossed her red braid. "Hang the boyars!"

"Zhara, you can't think like that," Paul said patiently. "Without the boyars, you won't have much of a kingdom to rule."

"I don't care. Marry me."

She leaned down to kiss him. He turned away, unable to look into her blazing eyes any longer, and her kiss glanced off his cheek instead. "I—I can't."

Her countenance changed. "Why not?"

"I don't belong here."

"Nonsense! You have held your own better than most of the native Lukomorians I know. You can convince the boyars to accept you, I'm sure of it." She squeezed both of his hands. "Think about it, Paul! We can rule together!"

"I don't want—"

Her smile disappeared, and the light in her eyes went out, like the sun that vanished behind storm clouds. "You don't want to share power with a woman, is that so?"

"No!" But even as he said it, a nagging voice, sounding horribly like his mother's, whispered in the back of his mind, It is true though. You don't want to share your power. And you shan't have to, if you return to your world.

"Then what is it?"

Paul took a deep breath. Then he cleared the parchments away from the silver tray and the crystal ball. "I found these among the papers today."

"A scrying disc?" Zhara said warily. "Did you use it?"

He nodded.

"What did you see?"

In reply, Paul rolled the crystal around the tray. As before, the silver rippled and cleared. It showed his mother again, leaning on someone—Paul could glimpse a square shoulder and an eye patch. Potemkin. She must have summoned him back. Before, the sight would have filled Paul with disgust, but now he knew it would be hypocritical of him to judge them, when he and Zhara were sitting in almost the exact same position.

"Is that—?" Zhara asked.

"My mother, yes."

"Who's the man?"

"Her—lover."

Zhara raised an eyebrow at that, but made no further comment. They fell silent and watched the scene unfold.

"Oh Grisha, what am I to do?" his mother was saying. "I should have raised the alarm when Paul first disappeared. But I didn't want to cause a panic, and I thought he would be found in time—"

"But some people knew, surely?" Potemkin said. "They could give witness that you had nothing to do with his disappearance."

"Only Panin and my most trusted servants. The council will think they are in league with me, their words mean nothing."

Potemkin was silent for a while. Then he said slowly, "Have you considered the Bobrinsky boy?"

Paul looked on, shocked, while his mother turned toward her lover. "A replacement?" she said. "Would the council be fooled?"

"He is your son as well, is he not?" Potemkin said with a shrug. "He was brought up and educated just as Paul was. You yourself have often remarked upon their resemblance. The council would have to believe it, if they know what's good for them."

To Paul's horror, his mother appeared to be actually considering it. "It's risky, to be sure, but I suppose I could—"

He'd seen enough. He lifted the crystal ball from the tray, ending the scene. Zhara looked at him, eyes full of questions and concern.

"I don't understand," she said.

"My mother has been keeping my disappearance a secret," Paul explained. "But the ministers are getting suspicious, so it seems she's—she's planning to replace me with a double."

"With this Bobrinsky? Who is he?"

"Alexei Grigorievitch Bobrinsky," said Paul. "I've only heard rumors, but I believe he's my half-brother. My mother's illegitimate son." And the rumors turned out to be true.

Zhara continued to look at him, the concern in her eyes slowly replaced by a heartbroken expression as she came to understand what he was going to do.

"You're going to return to your world, aren't you?" she said in a small voice, as though begging him to deny it.

That quiet voice and the beseeching look in her eyes pierced Paul's heart. He could only nod.

"But how?"

"Baba Yaga told me she could open a door."

Her lips trembled. He realized she had been hoping that it was impossible to find a door back into his world, that he would have no choice but to stay with her, and his reveal had shattered that hope. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips in a fervent kiss.

"I have to, Zhara."

"But why?" she whispered, tugging on his hands until they drew close together, their foreheads touching.

How could he explain? How could he tell her that he would not be able to live with himself otherwise, and that to be deserving of her, he would have to leave her?

"You know why," he said. "I have my duties, as do you."

Zhara sat up and pushed him away. "Duties? What duties would these be? To find a wife, to produce an heir?"

Her mocking words were like little red-hot irons scorching his insides. He dropped her hands.

"How are those any different than yours?" he snapped.

Zhara's eyes flashed, and Paul realized he had gone too far. He tried reaching for her hands again, but she kept her distance. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," he said. "But the council—they threaten to overthrow my mother—they only gave her three days—"

"Your mother never cares about you."

"She is my mother. I can't let her suffer—"

"She's replacing you!"

"I won't let her!" he shouted. "The throne is mine!"

In the ringing silence following those words, Paul caught a reflection of himself in the candle-lit window—nostrils flared, lips twisted in a grimace—and was horrified at its resemblance to Illarion's face. The boy had had that same look when he was taking Zhara's power from her. He couldn't be as bad as Illarion... could he?

Paul sought Zhara's eyes, hoping to apologize, to explain himself, but the look on her face made his apology evaporate in his throat. There was heartbreak there, and contempt as well, which he hadn't seen in so long.

"So that's it, isn't it?" she said, and the disappointment in her voice was so much worse than her anger. "That's what you really desire. All that talk about seeing the sunrise with me was just drivel. You want power. Like all men." Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let them fall. "I should have known."

"Zhara, please—" Paul began, but he knew there was nothing he could say that would change this. He had to return, even if it broke her heart. Even if it broke his heart.

"I don't want to hear any more of your lies," Zhara said, and swept out of the room.

***

Paul walked through the rain to the hut on chicken legs and informed Baba Yaga of his intention. As impassive as ever, she simply told him to come back the next morning, as she needed to find a suitable portal. He nodded gratefully—if all went well, it meant he would return with one day to spare. He then took his leave of Elena and Ilya. He was touched by Ilya's shock and the knight's earnest attempt to convince Paul to change his mind, while Elena was saddened but understanding. "One day, I shall have to return to my mother and my duties in Bryansk as well," she said to Paul. "Zharissa may not understand that now, but she would come around."

Paul thanked her, though he wasn't sure if he wanted Zhara to come around. A part of him agonized over leaving things so unpleasant between them, but another part of him would rather have her hate him. It would make their parting less painful.

He returned to the castle and tidied up the study. There were still a lot of Illarion's notes left, but Paul had left extensive notes of his own, so perhaps someone diligent enough could pick it up and complete the task. This done, he went back to his bed-chamber, but he couldn't sleep. There was no packing—he had acquired nothing and would leave with the same clothes he'd worn when he first came here, minus his hat and wig. There was nothing else to do but to lie awake and wait for daybreak and try not to think of Zhara.

He had no chance of succeeding in this undertaking, for at the very moment he resolved not to think of her, the door creaked open and she walked in. Paul sat up, tried to put on an indifferent face, and failed miserably. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Ilya told me that you are leaving tomorrow," she said.

"So?"

Zhara hung on to the door handle behind her, twisting it in her palm. In the dimness of the room, he could see sparkling streaks down her face, the tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed earlier that evening now flowing freely. The sight of those tears wrung Paul's heart.

"So I've come to—apologize for what I've said." Her voice cracked. "And to say goodb—"

"No." Paul jumped off the bed, took her into his arms, and covered her mouth with his, cutting her off. "No," he repeated, once he was forced to release her to draw a breath. "No saying goodbye. Let us not make this harder than it already is."

"All right," she whispered. "Consider this your reward for your service to the crown then."

She dropped her sarafan and chemise. Underneath, she was all gold and fire. The freckles scattered across her skin were like gold flakes, flames danced in her amber eyes, and when she shook her head, her braid came loose, tumbling over her shoulders, covering her body in a fiery cape. As she pulled him toward the bed, her hair gleamed and waved like sunset on the water, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her legs, her hips, the coral tips of her breasts. There was fire on her lips as she kissed him.

"Are you trying to seduce me into staying?" he murmured.

"Is it working?" she asked, her lips grazing his mouth in the way he'd never been able to resist.

He didn't want to lie and say no, or break her heart by telling her that his mind was made up, no matter what she did. So, instead of answering, he put a hand on the slender nape of her neck, under that hair that looked like fire and felt like silk, pulled her close, and kissed her back, hard enough to leave them both breathless. Then he hooked her legs around his waist, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. She kept her legs wrapped around him even as she helped him out of his clothes, their roles now reversed—now she was the one afraid he would take wing and fly away if she let go.

He wiped away the tears glistening down her cheeks. "Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm still here."

"Prove it," she commanded, eyes fixed on him.

Her tone sent a thrill through him. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

He leaned down and kissed her again. He was as unhurried now as he'd been frantic on their first night together, taking his time with each kiss, savoring every bit of her. He kissed every single freckle on her skin, the ones he'd memorized around the corner of her mouth, across the bridge of her nose, along her shoulder, down her arms and back and chest. He kissed her fingertips and her toes. He kissed her so thoroughly that there could be no doubt in her mind of his presence. Then he settled himself between her legs once more, and slowly, slowly, they melted into each other, each measured, dreamy thrust from him was matched by a push from her, bringing them closer and closer until they were one.

"Is this proof enough for you?" he gasped, as she cried out in his arms.

She took a breath, then grinned. "Almost."

He grinned back, and they did it all over again, and again and again, until he'd memorized her taste and her scent and every inch of her, and she his.

When the sky outside turned the color of mother-of-pearl, Paul got up from the tangle of sheets and quilts, and brought Zhara to the window. He was half hoping, half afraid it was still raining and there would be no dawn to see, but the rain had stopped. "Look, Zhar-ptitsa," he said softly.

"No." She turned her face into his neck.

He wrapped his arms around her, rocking her against him, skimming his mouth over her hair, as he watched the sun rise above the mountains, throwing brilliant shards of gold across the sky, sprinkling gold dust over the snow-capped peaks, the green meadow at their feet, the blue stream, and the dark, dark forest. All the while, Zhara kept turning away like a petulant child, clinging to him, pressing her face into her chest, resolutely refusing to look.

The sun finally cleared the mountains. The light was now reaching the furthest corners of the room, and there was no point in pretending anymore. Paul gently lifted Zhara's face to his. "I have achieved what I desire the most," he said. "I have seen the dawn with you. Now you must let me go."

"No, this doesn't count," she replied, stubbornly. "I haven't seen it."

"Let me go, Zhara. Please."

"I command you to stay!"

"You're not my tsarina."

She pressed her hands to his temples and gazed at him for a long, long time, her eyes fierce. Then she pulled him down for a kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

"That's so you'll remember me," she said. She gathered up her clothes and went out, leaving a sting on his mouth and in his heart, as though he had been branded by her fire.

***

Paul went with Baba Yaga into the forest. The old witch plowed through the dense undergrowth, still wet with morning dew, carrying nothing but a little knife. Some part of Paul wondered whether it was wise to follow a witch to an unknown place, whether Baba Yaga was luring him somewhere to perform dark magic on him, but he knew that mistrust was baseless. What would she gain by tricking him? That sort of thing only happened to heroes in fairy tales, and he was no hero. He was not the main character, not the Chosen One. He didn't even get his happily ever after. He was just a boy, lost in a magical land, and it was now time for him to go home.

Baba Yaga stopped at a rock outcrop where the forest met the mountains, and came to stand by two rock pillars leaning against each other, forming a doorway of sorts. She pricked her fingers with the knife and smeared the blood on the rocks. She added a daub of it to Paul's cheek as well, making him recoil.

"You're waiting for an invitation, Russian boy?" she said irritably, when Paul remained where he stood.

"Is that it?" he asked, confused.

"Yes, that's it. Magic is not all thunder and lightning, Russian boy. Sometimes it's just as simple as this."

Paul took a few tentative steps forward. The trees and grass beyond the two rocks looked the same. "Will this work?" he asked.

"Why don't you try it and find out?"

Paul looked back. The white castle rose over the top of the pines behind him, but if someone was watching at one of the windows, she was too far away for him to see. So he took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

There was no strange sensation, no altering in the quality of the light or the air, only the briefest cessation of noise. The moment he went through, the birdsongs and the rustling of the leaves started up again. But the trees were different—in place of the dark pines and the thick, thorny bushes, he saw orderly rows of oaks and regimented privet hedges crisscrossing a green lawn. Behind him, the two rocks had vanished; instead, he appeared to have stepped out of a man-made grotto overlooking a pool. A pavilion stood across from it, and in the distance were familiar walls painted in cerulean and gold. Baba Yaga had put him on the grounds of the Summer Palace in Tsarskoye Selo. He was home.

Chapter 16

A/N: I kind of went the "Man with the Iron Mask" route here with Paul and Bobrinsky. In real life, Aleksey Grigorievich Bobrinsky was indeed Catherine II's illegitimate son with Grigory Orlov, but he was about 8 years younger than Paul. Catherine II openly acknowledged Bobrinsky as her son, and when he became tsar, Paul I made Bobrinsky a count.

The final chapter is coming next week! Stay tuned!

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #prince paul smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn smut

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foundtherightwords · 13 days

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JOSEPH QUINN

photographed by Matt Healy for Man About Town

#joseph quinn #photoshoot #man about town #the nose scrunch #the smile #the hoodie #i can't

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foundtherightwords · 15 days

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The photo:

And the BTS:

What a goof 😂

#joseph quinn #public appearance #cinemacon #this is the last cinemacon post i promise #(maybe)

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foundtherightwords · 16 days

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Just Joe being a gentleman as usual.

#sorry about the annoying music #joseph quinn #public appearance #cinemacon

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foundtherightwords · 17 days

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Welp, there goes my productivity. It's Friday morning over here and I haven't done a single thing since I got to work.

Anyway, here are some pretty people:

Look at him 👋 He's like a little kid who doesn't know what to do with his hands 🥹

#joseph quinn #public appearance #cinemacon

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foundtherightwords · 17 days

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Team A Quiet Place: Day One at Cinema Con 2024

Bonus interview with Joe and Lupita:

#joseph quinn #public appearance #cinemacon

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foundtherightwords · 18 days

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The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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