Chapter Text
1690 - London
Crossing the high seas is a fraught thing, but not for any fantastic or fabulous reason. Krakens and sirens and storms and the edge of the world are the least of one's problems. As always, it is other human beings who pose the greatest, and often the really terrifying threat to the ships and their crew and passengers attempting to cross the vast distances of inhospitable water which separate the continents and islands of the world. Even magically inclined folk must submit to such voyages.
"Taking ship to the Caribbean is going to be the last thing you ever do, Ivan. Do you want to end up like your father? Was not travelling to England enough of a trip? Is it not good enough?"
The creaking of rotting floorboards accompanies a pair of adults as they argue, dancing around each other with the jagged movements generated by anger and grief. There is not enough money, supposedly, the same old tired excuse for why a father must leave his family to seek his fortune on foreign shores.
"I want to go home! I want to go home…" cries a woman in a voice and language not molded by the damp environment of Britain. Shouldn't be here. There can be no true happiness where they are aliens. Unknown and unknowing. Even oppression in her country is preferable to this perpetual unbelonging, because at least it is hers.
A little boy of six years old, upset by the noise, steps out into the busy, loud, stinking street full of sailors, merchantmen, and whores. Mud, hay, and excrement from both animal and man litters the pathways to and from the docks, where small as well as tall ships float, their masts stabbing at the grim sky, grimy men swarming up and down their gang planks, carrying precious cargo on their shoulders or between them. Ever since crossing the ocean to this foggy place the boy has been fascinated by these vehicles, by their construction, their rigging, their crews and, when applicable, their cannon. Beyond the merchant vessels at dock, float bigger ships, warships. Tripping (and almost falling into a open sewer in the middle of the street) down to the waterside, he finds a place to crouch beside some ominously clucking crates, and watch. Just gaze out at the fabulous machines, so powerful, so fast, so prone to destruction by weather and war. He tells himself that one day soon he will be a commander of such a vessel. First lieutenant then commander then captain…then admiral. A dream fit for a boy of genius like Viktor Krum.
It's while he's gazing out upon the green waters and the striking, brightly painted ships, that a sharp white point of pain blooms across the back of his head, seeming to overtake his entire scalp in an instant. "Ow!" Slapping a hand to his head, he spins around, which is when he would get a stone to the face too, if the thrower had more malicious intent.
A boy about ten years old meets his angry gaze with a brief, wolfish grin before his face sinks into a dead serenity worn like a mask. Only his eyes, notably lighter in colour and warmer than Viktor's own but still brown, are the only feature that retains some life. Like Viktor he possesses black hair, but his is curly rather than straight, and much thicker, and he's pale, but olive pale rather than pinkish. He's also dressed significantly better, wearing furs over his clothes despite the relative warmth of the British Isles. He even wears a small cocked hat, an item beginning to be all the rage. However the topic of comparative wealth doesn't come up between the pair just then.
"What did you do that for?" asks his victim petulantly, in a language that is not English, while he searches for a stone of his own to answer the aggressive greeting with, deciding on the very one which struck him, which lies near his foot.
"You looked stupid sitting there," replies the older boy, also not in English. However the half brutal, half melodious language is close to Viktor's own, and he's smart enough to fill in the blanks. He flings the stone back, but the boy nimbly dodges. "It annoyed me." he adds in a placid tone, as if further clarification is required.
"So you threw a stone?!" Viktor searches for something else to throw, but only a bunch of chicken feathers meet his searching gaze. That will not do, but he can use the ends to stab the bully. This he promptly does, rushing at the stranger with a prime chicken feather clutched in his hand like a dagger. "Hah!" But his clumsy stabs, and misses, at the other boy's arms, torso, head and neck, only make his would-be victim laugh and leap and twist around to avoid him. Soon Viktor himself is laughing, and no longer interested in stabbing, at least not for anger's sake.
"Where do you come from? Not here." he eventually asks, when the pair are sitting where he sat before, looking out over the water. Storm clouds are gathering on the grey horizon, causing the merchants to yell at their men to hurry it up and stow their valuable goods under deck. Sea gulls shriek and whirl, beady eyes on the watch for stray crumbs, stray cockles dropped from seller's carts. Life, and this small world of tall ships and infinite possibilities, seems eternal amongst the hustle and bustle of the docks.
The other boy, who Viktor has forgotten to ask the name of, blinks and looks from the ships in the harbour, east. "Russia. And you are Bulgarian."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Your language. Your face. Your rage and fear."
"I am not afraid."
But to that the stranger only smiles, brief and small, like the expression struggles to emerge from under the heavy weight of something. The boys sit in their own bubble of silence for a while, until the older one gasps when a bark sounds from the ever moving crowd behind them.
"Yuri!" the name sounds like a growl, but Viktor picks it out of the savagery regardless. "There you are. Come on, foolish boy. My business is concluded." A giant well over six feet tall stands in the mud, richly black bearded and red coated, his crafty blue eyes flicking back and forth, up and down the street even while he addresses his son. The butts of pistols peek out from under his coat and to Viktor he is clearly a (mildly) disguised pirate. Immediately he wonders which vessel is the man's, and looks back at the array, now changed, but he can see no stealthy, fast ship suitable for a pirate, only an immense triple masted horseshoe shaped galleon with its characteristic raised quarterdeck and forecastle. He narrows his eyes at the very interesting mainsail…
"Good day to you."
In his study of the suspicious ship, he almost misses his new friend, because that is what he is, bidding him farewell and returning under the wing of what appears to be a very twitchy fighting cock, Yuri's father already in the process of turning back to the stream of people sailing up and down the street, his hand on the pommel of a sword.
"Goodbye." Viktor says, staring until his friend of a couple hours melts away into the crowd like he never was.