"Why couldn't he have just been ugly? A gnarled, wiry little troll?" Ruslan scoffed as he dragged his fingers along the walls of evergreen that towered over him and Darya. It was cool out, but not so much that they couldn't enjoy a walk through the maze-like garden. "You should've seen the way they looked at him, Darya, drooling over this sculpted stranger like he were their newly appointed god! Hail, the new Tsar of Gornayagavan!" Ruslan rolled his eyes.

Darya was quiet...

For a moment, he feared he may have been talking to himself, if she had parted from him down a different path without him noticing, but when he whirled around to look, she was right there, staring wide-eyed at him, caught in the act of tearing a sprig of greenery from the evergreens with her teeth...

Ruslan let out a sigh of relief while she gnawed on her prize. "...You would have spared me the indignity," Ruslan said, pushing his golden bangs out of his face while Darya wagged her little tale. "Mother couldn't bring herself to introduce me as her son...I had to sit there looking like a prince, with this distant cousin wondering what was wrong with me, because clearly there must be something wrong with me... Why else would he have been invited?"

Darya hopped sideways then trotted ahead of him, hopping a few times when the wind came whipping through the narrow path like a wind tunnel. She was such a precious, dear thing...

"Yes...you would've spared me, because at least you have a kind spirit, Darya..." Ruslan squatted down, bringing his chin near his knees.

The little black goat bounded over to him with a few leaves still caught in the corner of her mouth. He scooped her up into his arms, and she let out a sweet little bleat, wiggling her tail again as she let her legs go limp like a yarn doll.

Darya had always liked being carried. It was what had endeared Ruslan to her when she was a kid. She was playful and full of life, just like the other miniature goats, but she also loved to cuddle and be held. She soaked up his affection like a cloth does water, and Ruslan adored every bit of it. Days like this one were the most tender Ruslan ever truly got to be, and he cherished them for that.

"Still not worried about cousin Alexander?" Nikolai's sing-song tone wondered from somewhere behind Ruslan. Beside him was his hound, Kulic, a giant grey and white beast with a curved silhouette that was all legs and nose. Nikolai's prized pooch had been nothing but trouble since he'd acquired him, chasing anything he liked all around the castle grounds... And now his big black eyes seemed trained on Ruslan's hooved friend.

Ruslan gave a warning glance to the hound, but then his gaze traveled up from one hunter to the other. "No," he replied, clutching Darya closer to his chest. "Even if they like him, my mother is insufferable and he doesn't belong here. He'll be longing for his home soon enough..." Ruslan turned to fully face the pair now. "Have you already made fast friends? You're good at that..."

"Except when it comes to you," Nikolai observed before motioning to his hound. "Kulic, stay." The lanky creature folded down onto the ground to watch as his master approached Ruslan. "I admire your spirit, but what's the use in making enemies of the whole world?"

Despite the urge to back up, Ruslan stood his ground. "I don't know what you mean. The two of us are friends, aren't we?" Darya bleated in his arms, and began to squirm the closer Nikolai got. Ruslan wagered she could sense his nervousness, but he didn't want to put her down. Not with that stupid dog here.

Kulic's big black eyes were still trained on the struggling goat, like a drawn bow string, ready to fire. All he was waiting for was a signal, a sign that the chase was on.

"...Just friends?" Nikolai wondered as he reached out to take one of Ruslan's hands.

Fear flashed in Ruslan's frost-green eyes. Clearly, his hands were occupied, and yet Nikolai wasn't deterred in the slightest. "W-well, and family, of course." Ruslan forced out a quick, soft laugh. "Not like Alexander, you-" Ruslan looked past his cousin at the palace, motioning towards it with his chin. "You fit in here. You belong."

"Of course..." Nikolai said, taking his hand back and placing it in his pocket, but wearing the rejection well enough. "Then, I hope you're right and our dear cousin finds his way back to the hollows, quickly..."

Why it would matter to Nikolai, Ruslan wasn't sure, but as he shushed his goat in an attempt to calm her, a thought occurred to him... Why not just bring her inside?

"Well, I think I'll be heading back in now," Ruslan commented, giving the hound a wide berth as he passed it. He'd had a bit of inspiration strike...

"Any idea why the young lord wants these brought to his room?" one of the kitchen boys asked Bernard as he handed over a basket of carrots and celery stalks.

"I didn't ask," Bernard replied dismissively.

"Surely not to eat them, they're raw! Oh! And speaking of odd things-" He paused to check who was within earshot of them. "Care to know what the search of our new guest and his belongings yielded upon his arrival?" the boy asked in a giddy, conspiratorial tone. "Trust me, you do."

"I don't, and neither should you, there's plenty of work to be done."

The boy scoffed. "What? You can't work and talk? Seriously! I think he's up to something suspicious... Real strange," he assured, walking alongside Bernard. "Let me ask you this; would you travel with a severed crow's foot and feathers? Or coins that aren't money?" The kitchen boy gave Bernard an intense and expectant stare.

"I-I don't know..." for a moment a puzzled look crossed Bernard's face before he shook it off, clearly irritated by being so easily sidetracked. "Who cares? All this gossiping will get you in a lot of trouble someday," Bernard said as he departed down a different hall and then on his way back to Ruslan.

If Bernard were being honest, he did find it strange but he hated gossip. He'd seen what a few ill intended rumors could do to a person. Lies were powerful things, if enough people believed them then they were as good as fact. It made it hard to believe that there was a reason to be honest and good, but Barnard believed nevertheless. He had to, because the alternative was too dark and depressing for him to stomach.

Knock—Knock—Knock!

"Your highness?" he called out of courtesy before opening the door.

"Bernard, come in! Hurry up, come in!" It had been months since Ruslan had felt this light on his feet. "Did you bring the vegetables I asked for?"

Ruslan was wearing his painting apron, and the room was bathed in sunlight, though it was the roaring fireplace that was to thank for keeping the exposed windows from making it terribly cold. There was an extra stool set out near the easel, and Ruslan's painting that he'd spent the last few weeks on was no longer there. Instead, it had been replaced by a new, snowy white canvas. He snatched a carrot from the basket in Bernard's hands, and turned away. "Darya! Darya, here!" he bade, grinning when the little goat came clacking loudly across the floor, and immediately started mouthing the carrot. "I'll have you hold her, Bernard, while I paint. You can sit down, even."

Bernard's dour expression softened as he watched Ruslan with Darya. The servant wished his prince was like this more lately, the way he was normally, when the empress wasn't around.

"Me? Oh no, perhaps one of the maids should..." Bernard replied, knowing that most of the servants would have given anything to have such a mundane and easy task, but for Bernard sitting still was torture. All he'd do was go over everything that should be done instead of sitting there doing no more good than a frog on a log. But when he saw Ruslan's expression, he instantly gave in. "Come along Darya," he sighed, scooping up the goat. "Over here? Like this?"

"Yes! Yes, that's perfect!" Ruslan gave Bernard some direction on how he wanted Darya angled, so that the light and shadows would land just how he wanted them to, and after making sure her lovely ribbon and lace collar was perfectly positioned, he sat down and began to work on a light sketch with a long, thin piece of charcoal that wisped against the surface of the canvas. "...You look very...concerned."

Barnard looked caught off his guard "I do?" he'd never put much thought into what expression he was making if it didn't affect his work.

Ruslan chuckled. "You do..." He stared at Bernard, half of his face hidden by his canvas. "Try to relax."

"I don't see why it matters..." Bernard grumbled under his breath, however his cheeks had already taken on a faint pink hue as he cleared his throat. "Sorry, I'll try."

That response made Ruslan's insides flutter. He was certain that this wasn't on Barnard's expected list of obligations for the day, but Bernard was always willing to put in whatever effort it took to make him happy. Ruslan could appreciate that...and even indulge a little in the harmless delusion that Bernard would choose to do so, even if he wasn't bound by duty.

Birds sang outside and pecked about the cold ground. The wind occasionally came sweeping up the side of the palace walls, rattling the glass panes, and Darya crunched away on a green celery stalk Bernard had picked up once the carrot was gone.

It was so quiet and lovely...Ruslan could've lived in that moment for a lifetime, but fate...fate didn't see fit to allow it.

His door was opened so suddenly that even the hinges expressed their alarm over the intrusion.

"Ruslan, dear, come quickly," Aunt Oksana said, motioning with her hand.

"Why?" Ruslan's brows knitted as he stood.

"Oh, it's your father. He's asking for you..."

Aunt Oksana kept shaking her head as they walked through the chilly halls, saying, "I'm dreadfully sorry, Ruslan, dear, I'm so sorry..." To which, Ruslan had no reply.

Was he to feel sorry for himself? What control did a man have over losing his father? No—the untimely death of the royal family's males, was not a phenomenon unique to Bogdan Markovich Makarov...

When the two of them reached the tall double doors of his father's private room, they were opened for him and his aunt, but Ruslan hadn't been prepared for what he saw.

What must have been dozens of strands of yarn hung from the top of the frame just inside, weighted down by glass beads and wooden medallions carved with many of the same protective and warding symbols embroidered into their clothing... Ruslan had only ever seen a death curtain in person once before—when his brother had passed, and his body had not yet been buried...

"Aht—Ruslan," Aunt Oksana hissed when he nearly stepped over the garland of wormwood laid across the floor, spanning the threshold, without her.

With a sigh, he quickly spit once over his left shoulder, then held out his elbow for her to take.

Together they stepped across and entered the room. His mother and Aunt Raya were already waiting, like silent statues near the fireplace—backlit, and casting unnervingly long shadows, along with a host of robed clergymen and the family's physician...

It was suffocatingly dark. Heavy curtains blotted out much of the sun, since the tsar's eyes had become sensitive the further his condition progressed.

Everything was kept clean, of course.

Very, very clean.

Not a speck of dust drifted through the room, not even a fleck of ash from the fireplace... But the smell... The smell was what bothered Ruslan the most.

An acridly sweet odor saturated the space—heavy in the air. It coated his throat. No matter how many bundles of lemon balm, or thyme were brought in, they were always quickly overpowered by what Ruslan had come to believe was the stench of illness...

The scent of death. And it was worse, now, than it'd ever been.

"Ruslan?" the Tsar wheezed, startling Ruslan despite him knowing his father's voice well.

"I'm here, Papa..." Ruslan moved closer, wincing at the sound of his own boot falls crossing the floor. They were so loud. So disruptive. He finally reached the bed, and took the ailing man's hand. "...I'm here."

"My sweet, precious child." The Tsar took Ruslan's face in his hands.

Ruslan didn't know what to say. Words caught in his throat. His father looked so different from the man in the painting that hung in the grand hall, and in the throne room... So foreign and old beyond his actual years. "I wish you'd get better," Ruslan finally managed, voice wavering.

His father smiled with his eyes and pulled his hands away to rest them on his chest, then, while worrying his rings, he removed the one with his seal and placed it on Ruslan's finger.

It was too large. Ruslan could feel the gap between his skin and the cool metal that his father's body could no longer warm.

"Papa?"

"You keep that, Ruslan," Father said firmly, despite the frail thinness of his voice. "You'll need that...you...you keep it..."

For a fleeting second, Ruslan thought his heart may burst.

His parents had changed their minds! They'd come to their senses!

"To give your husband...when you marry..."

Ruslan's eyes welled with tears. "Oh... Right, of course...my husband."

"Keep it safe..."

Ruslan nodded, wiping his stinging eyes on his sleeves.

Within the hour, the curtain was cut down, and the wormwood burned...

The Tsar of Gornayagavan' was dead.

What do you think of Ruslan's friend? Was she what you expected? And what about the passing of the tsar? Any predictions for what will happen next?

Thank you so much for reading! <3