Chapter Text
“...in accordance with the desires of our princes, and at their command.”
Ilya widened his eyes to keep himself awake. It would have been so easy to drift off where he sat, despite his father and brother sitting next to him. All he would have to do is slouch against his chair, tip his head to the side, and let his eyes droop. It would have been very easy to do so.
The air inside the main hall was warm, heavy with the heat of fires and the scent of candles. The patriarch held a censer’s chain as he droned on, his voice becoming no more than the buzzing of black flies and mosquitoes in high summer. Outside, November winds whipped the ice from the eaves and swayed the white birch on their roots.
“...Will not be seduced by the enemy through false miracles. Be not deceived by false miracles…”
He’d long since exhausted his usual methods for staying awake, staying present and attentive should a question be lobbed at him from his father. It didn’t matter that Ilya was his son. No one could leave a knyaz unanswered without consequence. Especially not Ilya. His father thought him spoiled and over-indulged anyway.
Probably why the priest was droning on about desires and falsehoods and the agency of the devil.
Ilya let out a slow breath, eyes following the twisting vines painted on the walls; counting the jewel red pomegranates tucked between their deep green leaves. He arched his foot in his boot, the leather giving easily with it.
“They hover about his tomb, and perform miracles in his name to deceive unhappy men who are much inclined to such errors through the influence of the devil…”
Ilya suppressed a snort, but only just. He bit the tip of his tongue until he tasted the faintest curl of copper. Influence of the devil. As if they, there, were so important or noteworthy that evil forces would seek them out. Torment them. Seduce them.
His mother would have pinched him for that. Not meanly, never meanly. Not for ignoring the priests or fidgeting or the insolence dawning on his features. She would have given the back of his arm a small pinch before pulling him into her lap. Nimble, elegant fingers could tuck curls behind his ears, then whisper that if he could not listen to the priest, then he should think about one thing – the fabric of his robe, the stones the flagged the floor, the delicate interlocking pieces of her crucifix’s chain. About where it came from, how it was made, all the hands that had held it before his own…
His mother had believed there were lessons in the smallest things. Ilya had always believed her, even if he could not see them himself. It meant he needed to look harder, think longer, stop his fidgeting.
“For the Lord gives grace to the unworthy, that it may benefit others…”
Ilya tipped forward in his chair, his elbows pressing hard into the tops of his legs. He dragged his fingertips under his eyes, pressing hard into the thin skin. Under the burnished red silk of his tunic, his mother’s golden crucifix swung against his chest, reminding why he didn’t believe anymore. Why words meant to be significant in his heart rang hollow in his ears. Why the priests so clearly reminded him of flies.
He was grateful for the commotion that rose up outside. Grateful it brought the patriarch’s voice to a sharp halt. A fresh gust of cold air invaded as the doors were thrown open, his father’s druzhina guards sweeping inside. Their voices were raised, gait lively, dragging people and bags with them. Gold and silver clanked against swords and shields. Beads, chains, and belts rattled as they fell. Bodies dropped heavily to their knees on the carpets covering the ground – two women and one man, dark hair astray as their faces were forced towards the floor.
Ilya bit and pulled his lower lip through his teeth. He didn’t need to see his brother to know how he leaned forward, eyes glittering like a predator. He’d seen this before; over and over, since childhood.
The commanding soldier – the man who’d first put Ilya on a horse and told him to hold the mane – stepped forward, magnanimous as usual. Loyal, perhaps, to a fault. “Moy knyaz, we’ve returned to you with spoils from our campaign.”
Ilya pulled himself upright once more. Calling the guards’ ride towards the remains of Pereyslavl a campaign was generous at best, self-aggrandizing at worst. If they hadn’t come back with prizes to show for the efforts, Ilya might not have been able to hold his tongue.
It was nearly a miracle he did then. As his father praised his guards for their bravery and skill. As he asked the priest to bless the treasure brought before them, then for Alexei to bestow a fair few pieces on the soldiers there.
“Would you like to look, moy knyaz? Take in what we have brought for you, choose the best?”
Ilya forced himself to look down at the floor, eyes fixed on the spot where the carpet’s edge gave way to stone. He bit the inside of his cheek bloody. He was well versed in suppressing rage, holding his tongue; saving momentous waves for sparring with the guards and hunts with the dvor. He had only needed to burst once – young, furious, snarling at his brother even as he was knocked down – to know to keep it well in the center of his chest.
The women would be taken away. Ilya knew where, but could do nothing. Did nothing. He knew it made him a coward, that his mother would be disappointed in him. Ilya wondered how many more times he could ask for forgiveness before she stopped listening to him, if she listened at all.
The commander had called the man a soldier.
There was no doubt in Ilya’s mind he would be killed – a person into an example, a message made manifest. It was a simple conclusion the guards had come to in capturing him. One less archer to launch flaming arrows over city walls. One less man for the khans of the Zolotaya Orda to send swiftly at them in the dark of night.
On his knees, bent forward at the waist until his nose nearly brushed the floor, the man drew Ilya’s eyes. He’d been on campaign before but, like many in his father’s household, had never been so close to one of the khan’s men before. Ilya wanted to move closer, wanted to prod him until he spoke to him. He wanted to see his hands, the callouses that no doubt roughened his palms from hold reins, sword pommels, and the thumb ring for his bow draw.
“Ilya,” his father’s voice, deep and rasped with age, reached his ears.
He turned towards it. “Da, papa?”
“Vyberi chto-nibud. Chto ugodno.”
Ilya swallowed tightly. “Vy uvereny?”
His father nodded, rolling a hand towards what remained. The golden ornaments, jeweled belts, a Damascene shield, and the man – maybe soldier – curled forward over his knees.
Ilya buried the nausea rising in his throat. At the very least, he tried to.
He had been given pieces before, but never had he been asked to pick for himself. Invited to select his own bit of the spoiled. He had wished for it but now, rising to his feet, Ilya wanted nothing more than to be told to sit down. For his father and brother to laugh at his expense, rescind the offer.
They didn’t.
So Ilya stepped forward, then crouched before the man they called a soldier. He didn’t look very much like one, Ilya thought. There were no scars or marks from fighting, no callouses on his palms from sword training. His shoulders were strong, but not for brawling or wrestling. Curiosity took him further. He curled a hand under the man’s chin, lifting his head to see him better.
His body stilled.
Strands of dark hair fell over the smooth skin of his forehead. A lazy constellation of freckles dotted his cheeks from the line of his nose to nearly his temple. Dark brown eyes glared up at him, the heat of them weaker than it could have been for the man’s circumstances. Fear lived in his gaze more than ferocity.
Ilya didn’t think it suited him, that fear. A soldier wouldn’t have shown his whole hand so readily, but perhaps the man didn’t know he was so obvious. Ilya’s second hand drifted to hold the man’s jaw, thumb pressing into the swell of his lip. Pretty, sprang to mind.
The man jerked his head back, lip curling. “Let go. Fucker.”
Ilya’s mouth pulled into a grin. None of the guards reacted. Neither did his brother, his father, or the attendant priest. Only he had heard the man; only he had understood him. Ilya patted his cheek, then gripped gently under his chin.
“This one.” He glanced back at his brother. “I’ll take this one.”
Alexei arched a brow, amusement smearing over his features. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” Ilya stood, brushing his palms together. “I need a guard.”
“You have a guard.”
“I need a new one.”
Ilya smiled at the guards as he gave the order to take the would-be-soldier back to his rooms. Two of them lifted the man under the arms, his arms straining at the small of his back as he resisted feebly. Hair fell into his face and his cheeks pinked with effort. The soles of his boots caught the pile of the carpet once, twice, then went slack – resigning himself to being dragged, but refusing to walk. Ilya held his glare until the moment the doors of the hall shut behind him. Dark eyes filled with depthless anger. Face set hard with a murderous sort of determination.
Dangerous, Ilya thought, almost giddy with the idea.
“You have a death wish if you trust him, brother.”
“If he kills me in my sleep, Alexei,” Ilya drawled. “You should promote him.”
His brother rolled his eyes. “Why?”
“One less thing for you to do.” Ilya looked back at him. “He managed the thing you are too lazy to do.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t wait for the astonishment or the admonishment, or the weak denial in his brother’s face. Ilya gave his father a quick, respectful bow to thank him – such as it was – then turned on his heel and strode after the druzhina.
He wasn’t needed for anything more.
He wasn’t needed at all.
Ilya watched until the men vanished around a corner. His father’s guards were loyal to their swords, their knyaz, and their god, but not to Ilya. He didn’t resent them for it. Sometimes, he would even admit to respecting it. Still, Ilya preferred them to remain as far away from him, his chambers, his rides, as possible.
He shut the door to his chambers tightly and threw the iron latch. He had half a mind to put a chair in front of it, but he thought better of it. The druzhina wouldn’t waste time with him unless his father gave them orders otherwise. They didn’t linger when asked to go. They seemed to prefer it, knowing that acting as Ilya’s shadow was a waste of their precious little time.
Ilya placed his hand flat against the wood and steadied his breathing. Someone was speaking.
“Let me go. Please, let me go. I’ll do anything.”
Ilya turned on his heel, then leaned back on them. His shoulders pressed to the wood of the door. His eyes settled on his prize. Ilya resisted the disgust that rose in his throat at the word, the implication; what it meant that he had indulged in taking what was stolen. He was a wealthy man’s son – second son, yes, but no less accustomed to pleasure and certainty than his older brother was.
That is what separated them, Ilya thought, him and his brother. Alexei took. Like their father. Ilya waited. Like their mother.
“Please. Let me go,” The man continued. “I don’t know anything, I’m not anyone, I–.” He broke off with a feeble huff. “Just let me go. I won’t come back. I won’t bring anyone here, I’m not–.”
Ilya took slow breaths, taking him in like a soldier inspecting a horse. It wasn’t a distasteful or difficult task – the man was good-looking. His features were easier to read now, his eyes clearer in the low light of Ilya’s bedchamber.
The man was still tied at the wrists, but those bindings were now tethered to fresh ropes at his ankles. Not an easy position to remain kneeling in, but the man was managing it decently well. His shoulders were square under the silk of tunic; his legs and leather boots speaking of someone who spent much time in the saddle. A horseman, but not a soldier.
Ilya wondered if his hands were rough, calloused to match reins and saddles. His mouth looked soft. Ilya wanted to shove tuck his thumb between them; feel it sucked, feel it bitten.
“Fuck,” the man whispered. “You don’t understand me.” He sighed in defeat, eyes slipping closed as his jaw muscle clenched just under the skin. “I’m talking to air–.”
“Can you not see me?” Ilya answered, in a language he had no real reason for knowing. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as the man’s head shot up. “Am I a ghost?”
The man's eyes widened in shock. “You understand me?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes. I do.”
The man seemed to reel, shock giving way to fear once more. “Fuck.”
“If you would like,” Ilya drawled, then inhaled. “I am not picky. I have had all kinds in my bed.” The hot flush that bloomed high in the man’s face nearly broke Ilya’s stoic expression. He held onto it by threads.. “Yes, I can understand you. Only me. No one else in this house will.”
“Why?”
Ilya pushed off the door and rolled his shoulders under his clothes. “Why what?”
“Why can you understand me?” The man pressed his lips together.
“I taught myself.” Ilya stepped forward into the room – his room, he reminded himself – but didn’t approach the other man. “No help. Why, maybe, I sound very simple to you. I am not.”
He strolled the perimeter of his room, feeling the man’s dark eyes on him with every step. He took his time – unhurried, unbothered, and silent. The only thing that sounded was the crackle of the brazier, the brush of Ilya’s fingers against the fabric wall coverings, and the soft push and pull of their breathing. Ilya paused at a small table near his bed. He let his fingers glance over the lid of a snuff box, around the rim of a basin, then lifted his gaze again.
The man eyed him carefully. “Are you sure you’re the only one?”
Ilya nodded, perching on the edge of the table. “I am sure. My father is old and growing senile. My brother is simple. A commander once told me it was useful for me to learn.”
“Useful?”
“Useful.” Ilya paused, weighing and choosing the words he knew. “Know your enemy. Overhear things they say. Listen when they think you cannot know.” He grinned sharply. “Useful.”
“Useful,” the man repeated softly. His eyes roved up and down, considering Ilya for a long time. He didn’t struggle against the bindings tying his wrists and ankles together; merely flexed and rolled his fingers to keep the blood in them. Eventually, he licked his lips. “What do you want with me?”
Ilya hummed and half-shrugged. “I do not want anything.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” Ilya pushed off of the table and strode over to where the man sat. He pointed to the door. “They were going to, probably, but now they will not.”
The man smirked, holding down a laugh. “What? Do you want me to be grateful?”
“Ah. No.” Ilya sank to the floor in front of the man, crossing his legs. “Thanks would be nice, but I do not expect it.”
“What do you expect?”
“I expect you to strangle me the moment you are untied. Which I will do.”
The man’s face crumpled in confusion. “Then why–?”
“You ask too many questions,” Ilya interrupted, rolling his eyes. “I am bored. I am always bored.” He slid closer to the man – close enough to touch, to feel his breath, to lean in and bite. “You are interesting. You make me curious.”
Ilya leaned closer, watching the other carefully. He pushed limits on purpose, trying to source the place where the other man would reach the ends of his own. The stranger didn’t pull away. If anything, his expression softened, darkened. He didn’t move closer, but his body seemed to bend towards Ilya. Like a sunflower, following the light overhead.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Ilya.” He practically purred. A low, slow rolling of vowels on a sweetened tongue that worked very well with the aristocratic women of Muscovy.
“Alright, Ilya,” The man addressed him just as softly, just as sweetly. Ilya knew he was being taunted, goaded, but he didn’t mind. “You are bored, you said. What happens when you get bored of me?” He tipped his head, expression still soft. Black hair fell softly against his cheeks and forehead. “Will you kill me then?”
Ilya raised his eyebrows. “I tell you my name, but you do not tell me yours?”
“Does it matter? I’m nobody.” Before Ilya could press him further, the man answered. “Shane.”
“Shane,” Ilya repeated in that self-same drawl; relishing rolling the letters over his tongue as fresh pink rose into the man’s cheeks.
Winter still ruled the boundaries of Muscovy, but spring flowers seemed to bloom in this Shane’s face. Barely there, easily explained away by the heat of the brazier in the stone room, but Ilya knew better. He saw the certain shine in those eyes. He barest curl of pink in the corner of his mouth, tongue poking out to lick. The short dark lashes that framed his gaze fluttered almost imperceptibly.
They could have so much fun–.
No.
Ilya stopped the thought cold, his stomach twisting. No, he thought. None of that would be right. He should let the man go the very next morning, send him home with a fresh horse and hope he made it there. That is what he should have done. That is what his mother would have hoped he would do.
“Shane,” he repeated firmly. “If I get bored of you, I will give you a horse in the night and send you home.”
It was the truth.
Shane exhaled. “I don’t believe you.”
“Fine. We have just met.” Ilya pulled away. Put more distance between himself and those needlepoint freckles. “You do not have to believe me.” He leaned back on his palms, inspecting Shane a bit more. “But you do have to listen to me.”
“Is that when you kill me?” Shane pursed his lips.
Ilya shook his head. “No. But someone else might.” He took a breath. “You do not speak my language, but I speak yours. You do not know how to live here, but I do. You have to listen to me, or you will know nothing.”
“I already know nothing–.”
“Yes, but it does not matter in front of me,” Ilya said, sharp around the edges. “Do you want to live, or would you rather die for stupid mistake?”
Ilya hauled himself back off the floor, making his way to his bed. He felt Shane’s eyes follow him, body twisting as far as he could force it to. Lifting the corner of the coverings, Ilya pulled out the leather-sheathed knife he kept there. A small, sturdy blade, more the proper size for a child than a grown man, but it was as easily hidden as it was easily grabbed. Ilya hadn’t had to use it yet, but he felt those days were numbered.
He held it in his hand as he knelt back behind Shane. He showed him the blade before turning it on the ropes around his limbs. Easily sliced through, easily freed. As Shane shook out his joints and massaged his wrists, Ilya situated himself back where he had been – crosslegged on the Persian carpet with twisting, vivid designs. He dropped the knife between them, unafraid. Shane stared at it, then up at him.
“My father is not well. He will die soon, I am sure,” Ilya began. “My brother will take his place. He is oldest. To him, I am a threat.” He gestured to the knife on the floor. “It is good protection, but it is not the best.”
“You want…” Shane reached for the knife, then paused. His hand hovered in mid-air over the handle. His eyes flickered up to Ilya, then he pulled back. “They think I’m a soldier. The guards.”
“You’re not.” It wasn’t a question. “What are you?”
Shane pulled himself up, sitting crosslegged. The fingers of his right hand tapped back and forth on his knee, his left hand laying slack over the other. The hair had been brushed from his face. The blush had leaked out of it, which Ilya found himself missing.
“No one,” came the answer.
“Then you are my body guard.”
“I’m not a body guard.”
“Well, no. Not for real.” Ilya rolled down onto his back. He pushed the knife more certainly towards Shane, motioning for him to take it before folding his hands under his head. “I told them you would be my body guard so they would not think something else. No, you will be my, erm, companion.”
Shane arched a brow, turning the knife over in his hand. “Friend?”
“Sure.” Ilya flashed him a grin. “Unless you slit my throat before morning.”
Shane hummed a single note. He weighed the knife in his palm, bent forward at the waist with his legs still crossed. Eventually, he reached for the leather sheath and tucked the blade back inside. He held it out for Ilya. “I’d rather sleep than get a prince’s blood on my hands.”
Ilya smirked. “I am not a prince.”
Shane half shrugged. “Whatever you are, Ilya...” He inhaled, his face falling. Exhaustion was pressed into every feature. “I still would rather sleep.”