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There is a pond near their home that never thaws. It hasn’t always been their home, but the pond has always been there. When Viktor was young, they lived in St. Petersburg, Mama, Papa, and he, but things changed, as they’re wont to do. One day you sleep in a fine bed, with everything you could wish for around you, and the next? The next you sleep in a cold and draughty dacha, with only your family and what little you could gather in the night. No more fine bed, just thin blankets and the sound of Mama crying through the wall, and Papa pacing endlessly a floor below. Viktor is strong though, despite what the boys in the village hiss about him. While he misses St. Petersburg like an ache, he tries to be content. He keeps a cheerful smile for Mama, and listens to his Papa pace without comment. He doesn’t mention how much he misses dancing, or the other beautiful things he used to spend his time on.
Viktor discovered the pond only a few weeks after they arrived at the dacha. When they’d visited when he was younger, and it was still an adventure to play at a simple life, he had never ventured into the woods alone. Now, when he wasn’t following his papa to learn from him, he was always alone. Fleeing the silence of their home and the noise of the village both, he made his way deeper into the woods, and there it was - a smooth expanse of ice, untouched and sparkling. For a moment, the sight alone was enough to cheer him. When had he last seen something beautiful? But disappointment was quick to rise; what use was ice without skates? In the rush to flee, who thinks to grab something so frivolous? Permitting himself a few moments to remember the rush of gliding and spinning on the frozen Neva, Viktor turned and walked on, leaving the ice behind. Why bother wishing? At the very least a sudden frost in early autumn couldn’t support the weight of a man grown, even one as slight as he.
He didn’t forget the pond though, and each spare moment he had he slipped away to stare at the clean, smooth ice, wondering at the sight of it on the still-warm days of autumn. Imagining being free to dance on it, to act on its beauty and add his own to it. On occasion, when the longing was too much, he’d indulge himself in simple dances along the bank, stretching his body in ways he feared he’d forget in the dreariness of his new life. Accompanied by the gentle wind and the faint crackle of settling ice, he imagined himself on stage again at the Mariinsky, elegance and beauty personified. The setting sun was his curtain call, the glimmer of the ice his audience. Every single step was an ache when he was done, but in the moment, he flew.
-
Months went by, and autumn slipped easily into winter, the days growing steadily colder. Each one brought new heartache - the cruel taunts of the other boys in the village grew sharper as Viktor continued to refuse to cut his hair, as hunger turned to ethereal frailty in his face. While his papa sometimes looked askance at the length of his braid, he at least kept his silence. As long as it didn’t interfere with his training or their patients, what did it matter? The lengthening days also kept Viktor from his pond, the nights creeping in too quick and too cold to indulge in dance for long, and while the ice would now be firm enough to support his weight, what joy could be found in simply walking across it?
It was with such a thought in his mind that things changed for Viktor. A dropped comb in his bedroom led him under his bed, and there, like it was waiting for him, a misaligned floorboard. Curious as to how it could have happened, Viktor lifted it carefully. A cloth-wrapped bundle lay below, a dried rose resting on top. Torn between delight at something curious and new, and confusion as to who could have left such a thing in their family dacha, he lifted both from the hidden space, careful to keep the rose supported on the unexpectedly heavy parcel. White as frost even in its desiccated state, he imagined for a moment he could still smell its sweet scent.
Laying it carefully on his pillow, he turned his attention to the package. The cloth was surprisingly clean for having been under the floor for who knows how long, although it was rough and colourless. Taking a moment to relish the excitement of something new, something different, Viktor closed his eyes as he unwrapped the package - it could be anything, in that moment. Something magical, something wonderful, even something utterly mundane, it was still something unexpected.
Even when he opened his eyes he felt sure he was still dreaming. Laying in his lap, tangled in the rough-spun cloth, was a set of blades. The old style, favoured by his grandmother, that could be strapped to any shoes and adjusted to fit. Nothing like his carefully maintained leather boots, but all the more beautiful for their extreme novelty. The leather straps and brass buckles tarnished but strong, the blades shining and sharp. He ran his thumb down the edge of one, curious and idle, and flinched as it cut shallowly into his skin - the welling blood lent a clarity to the moment that was previously lacking. Of all the things to find squirrelled away beneath the floor, how often outside of fairy tales did one get exactly what they wished? And oh, how he’d wished for skates over the past months, wished for them more than anything else he’d left behind.
In truth, Viktor knew in that moment he should give them to his father to sell. The life they led was no longer one of indulgences, and every ruble that could be earned was precious, but he wanted them. It felt like so long since he’d actually allowed himself to want anything that the desire felt like a pain in his chest. He wanted something beautiful, something his. Sucking the blood from his thumb he considered the window - night would fall soon, but the pond wasn’t far and he knew the way well. Perhaps, just once, he could give in to his desires, and tomorrow he’d do the right thing. Tomorrow.
-
He reached the pond just as the sun was setting, brilliant orange giving way to the purple light of dusk. In that perfect moment, skates strapped to his shoes, he took his first steps on to the ice he’d admired for so long and felt something click into place in his heart. Every push forward was invigorating, every glide dropped a weight from his shoulders and lifted his spirit. Laughing delightedly as he reached the centre of the pond he threw himself into a spin. The ice was almost clear beneath his feet, even more beautiful than he’d ever thought it before. It felt like coming home, finally. The rising moon became a spotlight on his dance, each star twinkling into view the floodlights of his stage. Rising out of a sit spin he admired the sweep of his shadow across the ice, broad and arching. It felt like any second now he’d sprout wings and take flight in his happiness.
Happy as he was though, Viktor knew better than to stay out too late - distracted as his parents were, he’d be missed if he was gone too long. Allowing himself one last moment at the centre of the ice, eyes closed and head tilted up towards the bright light of the moon, he breathed deeply and enjoyed the cold air that filled him. What a strange thing to miss, he thought, the burn of exertion in his muscles, the ache in his ribs and legs, but he had missed it. He knew now that he would be unable to tell anyone about his miraculous find. It was selfish, undeniably, but he had given up everything else without complaint, had smiled his way through every heartache since that last fateful night in St. Petersburg. Surely he couldn’t be begrudged this one indulgence in his own happiness.
Smiling, he pushed himself back to the edge of the pond, mind already on when he could come and skate next, so distracted by dreams of learning to jump again, to spin so fast the world blurred out of focus around him, that he didn’t notice he left his shadow behind.
-
The ache in his body the next day was intense, but so worth it. Viktor woke with the sense that his dreams had ended only as his eyes had opened, as if he could have seen them still playing out had he woken just a little slower. The world seemed fresher somehow now that he had a secret joy, suddenly full of possibilities - the impossible had already happened after all, so who was to say what could happen next? Even his mother’s silent figure in the tiny kitchen of the dacha wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits, and for once his bright grin at her was genuine enough to inspire the tiniest of smiles back.
When they lived in St. Petersburg, Viktor’s education was delivered by only the finest tutors. Happy as his parents were for him to dance, his papa insisted that his son should have some measure of skill, even if he never used it. There were no tutors to be found in the village. The village school, such as it was, supported children only until the age of 12, and Viktor’s education was yet another thing that set him apart. He followed his papa on his rounds of the village now, checking on the sick, the elderly, the expectant mothers - learning through exposure what most would go to university to learn. How curious it was to watch his papa accept food and scarce handfuls of rubles as payment, when previously an hour of his papa’s time would cost more than these villagers would see in their lives.
If Viktor was anything, however, he was a dutiful son, and he followed and watched and learned with all the focus he could muster.
While the scandal that caused their flight from St. Petersburg hadn’t followed them to the village, it didn’t mean they were particularly welcomed. Grateful as some were for a doctor to move in next door, more still were suspicious of the clearly once-wealthy family, and their strange ways. While as villages went Viktor imagined this was quite a large one, the people were still very simple. They worked hard, and wore drab colours, and seemed to exist in a kind of grey state, like if he watched them too long they’d fade away into the background.
Well. Not all of them.
In St. Petersburg, Viktor had been adored. He had never known cruelty, never been spoken to unkindly. He had never known fear. Here in the village, however, none of this was true. Even crossing the square to return home to the dacha he felt eyes upon his back. He kept his shoulders straight, and his head high, but he pulled his long braid forward to hang across his chest, and kept his eyes fixed on the way ahead.
Ivan Konstantinovich Nabatov had a particular way of staring that chilled Viktor’s blood. Before, he had known the word ‘malice’ only from novels. Now, he knew malice from the look in Ivan Konstantinovich’s eyes. Since his first day in the village Ivan had made it clear he was not welcome. While his papa at least had something to offer the village in the form of a trade, mistrusted as doctors were, and as a woman his mama was below Ivan’s notice, Viktor was an aberration. Even without the silk and jewels he once worn, the memory of their past wealth was written across Viktor’s body - his hair outshone any silver, his body was tall and strong. While he had been conscious that mentioning his past career as a dancer, short as it was, would be ill-advised in a place such as this, he couldn’t hide the natural grace of his movement.
To men like Ivan, these features were not desirable but shameful, enraging even. What started as hissed curses and threats as he passed by had started to grow. Now he felt lucky if he made it through the day without a bruise hidden somewhere on his body. He had learned to be nimble in passing through crowds, not to linger in the market, to leave homes as soon as his role in his father’s practice was done. He tried to laugh it off, on the rare occasions his papa witnessed an aimed kick, or a hissed slur - simple teasing between young men, nothing to worry about - but Viktor grew increasingly fearful in his own mind that Ivan and his cronies would escalate in some new fashion, even if he couldn’t quite imagine what that could be.
-
It wasn’t possible for Viktor to escape to his pond every night, as much as he wished it was. The winter was vicious around them, and often it was simply too cold, or too dark. But the nights he did manage to flee were the brightest Viktor had known in what felt like years. He painstakingly taught himself to spin fluidly again, to jump with grace, just he and the moon, and the wind his accompaniment. Each moment on the ice seemed to bolster some part of himself that had been lacking, seemed to revitalise him in a way all the food or rest in the world never could. He mourned already the inevitable breaking of spring, and with it the loss of his freedom.
-
It was after one such night that Viktor first dreamed of the pond.
The moon shone vividly on a figure, barefoot at the centre of the ice, one hand reaching out in invitation. Something in Viktor longed to hide from the figure, cried out in fear at the sight of it, but something else compelled him forward. He walked slowly across the ice, each step careful and light. He wanted to take the figure’s hand. He wanted to run away. He wanted to dance with the figure. He wanted to scream. The moon shone coldly on them, revealing the pale gleam of their skin, but their face was shadowed and unknowable. Viktor was both desperate to see them, and feared nothing more than what he would see. The distance between them now was scant, but still Viktor had not raised his arm to take the figure’s hand.
Waking in the cold morning light slowly, Viktor shook off the vestiges of his dream with his first pained blink. What had he dreamed? He had a vague lingering sense of anxiety, and the suggestion of a reaching hand, but the details escaped him. By the time he was dressed he’d forgotten entirely, already thinking of the day ahead. His legs still ached from skating the night before, but the dawning day was beautiful in its chill, and he knew he only had a few visits to make with his papa before he was free to do as he wished - he’d be on the ice by the early afternoon if things went well.
One such visit was to the proprietor of the tiny village pub, who’d cut his hand on a cracked glass. His papa was teaching him how to treat a wound that festered, but it was a slow process, hindered by their patient’s negligence in following their instruction. Konstantin Vasil’ev was every inch the brute his son Ivan was, if slightly tempered by age. His hissed under his breath about bourgeois doctors wasting his time and money, but invited them back each time they came to change his dressings. Sitting in his pub however, watching him and papa speak, was an exercise in patience for Viktor. He felt like the stale smell of alcohol soaked into his clothes the second he entered, and he felt more unclean with every passing minute. It didn’t help that Ivan seemed to make a point of being present for every visit, and would glare from the far corner of the room at them, no matter the time of day. How did he get away from work for the purpose of torturing him, Viktor wondered frequently, but he dared not attempt even small talk.
Sure enough, today was the same and there was Ivan, ensconced in the corner with two of his friends, already red in the face and drinking their way steadily through a bottle of vodka. His eyes fixed on Viktor as he passed. His papa marched past without noticing, already calling out a greeting to Konstantin, who scoffed but laid down his rag and made his way around the bar, rolling up one sleeve as he went.
‘My son has observed this enough, and I’m confident he can wrap your hand for you now, if you agree, Konstantin Vasil’ev,’ said Papa, clapping a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. ‘I need to check on Marya Borisova, she’s coming along faster than we’d like.’
A second scoff, but eventually Konstantin nodded, dropping heavily into a seat by the bar and holding his hand out towards Viktor.
This was different. Papa hadn’t warned Viktor about this, that he was to be left alone in such a place. But, he supposed, reaching for his bag, he hadn’t told his papa why he shouldn’t be left alone. It was too late anyway, at the first sign of agreement his papa had called a cheerful farewell and left the pub as quickly as they’d arrived. It was fine. He’d wrap Konstantin’s hand, arrange to see him in two days’ time, and be on his way. Nothing to worry about.
As he worked, unwrapping and cleaning Konstantin’s hand, he began to believe that he was right - the pub was quiet, Konstantin was distracted talking to someone out of Viktor’s eyeline, everything seemed just fine. And then he felt it. The heavy weight of his braid lifted from his back, and he flinched forward, only to get caught like a dog on a leash.
‘You bring your filth to my home?’ Ivan Konstantinovich had the bulk of his braid caught in one meaty fist, standing far above Viktor. Heart beating like a rabbit’s, Viktor gripped the base of his braid and tugged sharply, pulling it from Ivan’s grip - the string he’d tied it with was left behind in his hand, but better that than leave his hair in his grasp.
‘I’m only here to wrap your father’s hand, I’ll be gone shortly. I mean no offence.’ It stung him to cower in front of a man like Ivan, but better to appear weak and pitiful than proud and foolish. Ivan opened his mouth, but before he could speak his father grunted, and sharply nodded his head towards the table Ivan had left.
‘Get on with it then, Голубой.’ Ivan kicked Viktor’s seat as he walked away, string still clutched tightly in one fist. Holding in a flinch from the slur, Viktor redoubled his attentions on Konstantin’s hand, avoiding his hard glare.
Tying the bandage tightly in place, Viktor ducked his head, muttered something to the effect of returning in a few days to check on it, and fled the pub - something clattered against the doorframe as he stepped through, but he knew better than to look back. His hair now hung loose around his face, but he pushed it roughly away and carried on.
He couldn’t face the thought of joining his father again, and so he let his feet carry him through the square, past the dacha, past everything, until he stood in front of the ice again. He had hidden his skates in a hollow tree nearby, and was grateful for his own forethought as he pulled them on hastily. Allowing himself one hard, shuddering breath, he threw himself frantically into a series of spins and jumps as fast as he could, scoring the ice deeply, his hair whipping around him with all the violence of a sudden storm. Each breath ached in his lungs and his legs screamed with every movement, but he pushed on.
How long this lasted, he couldn’t say, but some indelible time later, just as he went to push into another spin, his blade caught a gouge and he fell roughly against the ice, rolling to a stop facing the sky. Lying there, his hair spread around him like a shroud, he finally gave in to the sobs caught beneath his ribs. It felt, in that moment, like every horrible thing that had happened in the year since he’d left his home suddenly welled up inside him, and he had no one to share it with but the impassive sky. He let himself feel it as long as he could stand, before he rolled over and began the onerous task of pushing himself back up onto shaking legs.
It was only by chance that he glanced at where he’d lain just a moment before, and spotted, just where his head had been, the dark shape of a hand pressed against the ice.
He threw himself back, but even as he moved the hand retreated from sight, back into the dark water below. Had he really seen that? Had he imagined it? He looked frantically around, but the ice was solid and sure in all directions, no hint that someone could somehow have fallen through, especially not without him noticing. Panting against the shock and the remaining weariness of his previous emotion he lingered only a moment longer, eyes fixed where he was sure the hand had been, before he pushed himself cautiously back towards the shore, eyes fixed on the ice below. He wasn’t sure if he was looking for weaknesses (although, this deep in winter, how could there be?) or for some indication that he hadn’t imagined a hand , but he watched carefully all the same.
For once, getting to the edge of the pond was a relief and not a disappointment. The sun was only just beginning to set, but all the same, he’d clearly been out too long. He allowed himself one last glance over the darkening expanse before he set off home. All seemed calm, nothing out of place, but still, something was different. Shuddering against the chill, Viktor turned and walked away.
-
His father clearly wasn’t pleased when he finally got home, ready to berate him for skipping the last appointments of the day, but whatever he saw in Viktor’s face stalled his tongue. Ignoring everything around him, Viktor fled to his room, shaking now from shock and fatigue both, and he collapsed onto his bed, barely managing to shed his coat and shoes in his exhaustion.
-
The figure was there again, this time in the cold gloom of early morning. Again, Viktor walked towards them torn between longing and terror, but now he could clearly see the figure’s dark hair, their flowing robes twisting around their legs in some unfelt wind. And again, the figure’s open hand was raised towards Viktor in invitation. In the new light, the desire to reach back began to win over the terror the figure inspired, but still Viktor was reluctant, even as he continued onward slowly. What would happen if he took that hand? Would the figure lead him in a dance across the ice, or would they lead him somewhere unknown? Who were they? Every step brought the figure further into focus and now Viktor could see the suggestion of soft round cheeks and dark eyes. It was the realisation that those eyes were fixed on his own that redoubled the fear in Viktor’s heart, and he snatched back the hand he hadn’t even been aware he was lifting.
Viktor woke with a gasp, heart racing. Once more the details of his dream escaped him, but lingering still was the sight of those eyes.
-
Following the disaster of his last visit to the pub, Viktor’s father did not ask him to return for any of Konstantin Vasil’ev’s visits, instead instructing him to make himself useful checking in on the older patients. He passed a miserable few weeks wrapping gnarled hands in poultices and bandages against the cold, lancing boils, treating burns from mishandled stoves, but at least he was kept well away from Ivan in doing so. He avoided the square too, choosing instead to walk confusing routes between houses where he could pass mostly unnoticed. He could, he knew, give in and cut his hair, lower the proud tilt of his chin, retire what little finery remained in his clothing in favour of the rougher, uglier materials that clothed everyone else, but he never would. Avoiding trouble was one thing, perhaps with time enough Ivan and his cronies would move on, but to admit defeat and reduce himself? Never.
It was with such a thought in mind that Viktor paused at the edge of the trail that led to his pond. Since that awful day all those weeks ago he hadn’t returned. But perhaps, he reflected, that too was an admission of defeat. Surely he hadn’t seen anything under the ice. It had just been his imagination, overactive in the face of his distress. Or perhaps the pressure of his body had melted some strange shape below him, and he had caught a lingering glance of it before it melted further. Resolving to return as soon as he could slip away, he carried on to his next visit with new-found energy.
-
Stepping on the ice felt like coming home. Winter was truly set in now, the nights drawing in sharp and cold, but he barely noticed the chill, and the moon, full in the sky, lit the pond like daylight. The evidence of his frantic skate had long been erased, and he took his time carefully and methodically carving figures into the fresh surface. He tugged at his braid as he moved, and breathed easier when his hair fell loose about his shoulders. It was a vanity, yes, but what was the harm? In moonlight the ash blonde length looked like spun silver, and hung now almost to the small of his back. He spun in gentle circles, none of the speed or power he’d used last time, and enjoyed the sweep of his hair in the cold breeze.
He glanced down, purely by chance, after one such spin, and froze solid as he spotted something moving beneath his feet. Some dark shape below him, adjacent to his shadow. Terror crept up his throat, but even as he watched, the shape passed on, moving with speed away from him. Hands pressed to his mouth he fought to catch his breath again, before giving a sudden laugh. Fish. It was a pond, there were fish. Obviously this wasn’t a popular spot for ice-fishing, but surely the pond wasn’t empty. Perhaps his skating had disturbed something, and it had followed his movement. Shaking off the fear, he laughed again, and resumed his figures, watching more carefully now for any hint that the fish had returned.
-
Like all the dreams before, the figure was there again, once more bathed in moonlight. With every dream that passed the terror of that first sighting had faded more and more, strangled by the increasing longing to reach out and know who it was. In no time at all it seemed he stood before the figure, and still it reached out to him. Would this be the night? Could he reach back? But before he could, something changed. The figure slowly moved, raising its hand towards his face. Paralysed, Viktor held his breath as it moved, fear bubbling sickly in chest. It was only when the pale hand passed his cheek that Viktor understood - his hair was loose, and the figure was gently, slowly, pushing it back. Viktor realised in that second he had never seen the figure so clearly, and the eyes that had so terrified him were really a soft shade of brown, shining with the reddish warmth of amber in the moonlight. Fixed as those eyes were now on his hair, it was easier to look at him, the undefined figure of his nightmares solidifying into the man who stood before him. Fear lingered still, somewhere in the back of his mind, but wonder rose to the fore. Who was he?
-
For once, waking in the still-dark morning, images of his dreamed remained to him. Who had that man been? Had Viktor seen him before? In St. Petersburg perhaps; he doubted this village had ever seen anyone from further afield than Moscow, and the man on the lake had been beautifully exotic.
Viktor would later blame his distraction on the lingering memory of those stunning eyes. He took his usual circuitous route around the village in a daze, visiting patients and collecting payments with barely half his mind on what he was supposed to be doing. He wasn’t distracted enough to return to the path which took him through the square and market, but perhaps that was his mistake.
Ducking into a long, narrow passage between two houses on his way to check in on Stanislav Ilyich Luzhkov (a particular favourite of Viktor’s, if only because he refused to move more than three feet from his fire, and it gave Viktor a chance to warm up on his round), it took much longer than he would have liked for Viktor to notice he wasn’t alone in the close.
‘Too good for the square, Голубой?’ Somehow, in the late afternoon gloom, Ivan seemed even bigger than usual.
Viktor stopped short, only a few feet away from him - how had he not noticed him?
‘Not at all, I’m simply trying to get to know my way around.’
Viktor had lived in the village for almost a year now; even to his own ears, his excuse was weak. Chancing a bright grin in Ivan’s direction, he opened his mouth to say more when he was interrupted by a scuffing sound at his back. Someone stood behind him. More than one? He couldn’t be sure, and taking his eyes off Ivan Konstantinovich was not in his best interest.
In the end, watching Ivan didn’t help him overmuch. Before he could even attempt to speak again strong hands grabbed his arms tight and pulled them sharply behind his back, and with a feral grin Ivan sank his fist into Viktor’s stomach with all of his not-inconsiderable strength, before jumping back sharply to avoid the inevitable sickness that followed.
Heaving for breath, bile on his lips, Viktor spat sharply at his feet. He raised his chin, eyes streaming but face proud, and looked at Ivan with all the disdain he could muster.
His tiny show of pride earned him a rough chuckle, before Ivan moved closer again.
-
Who could say how much time passed before Viktor woke, shivering and pained in the alley, near a pool of his own vomit, blood on his face, bruises across his body. Wheezing, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. He could hardly remember anything after that first punch, each one that followed blurring into one miserable mess. Had Ivan spoken, beyond that first question? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he had just been bored. Work in the winter was scarce, and Viktor knew he spent most of his time now in his father’s pub. He remembered his arms being released at one point, and had seen Igor Sergeyevich step into the light, head thrown back in a laugh.
There was a pump at the mouth of the close. Freezing as the night was Viktor couldn’t face returning home in his current state. He washed his face as best he could, hissing as the water stung the bruises on his cheeks, the cut on his lip. A careful, gentle, inspection revealed his teeth were still all where he expected them to be, and while painful, his nose didn’t seem to be broken, nor his cheekbones, and he thanked heaven for small mercies. It seemed the worst of the beating had been contained to his ribs and stomach - had they kicked him? But even there, tender and pained as he was, nothing seemed broken.
A thought struck him, and even as it did his hand flew up to check his hair - Ivan seemed to have a particular hatred for it - but thankfully his hat was still in place, and his braid was still bundled beneath it, the length tucked under his scarf.
Limping, he made his way home.
-
Seeing the figure on the pond that night was a relief. The terror of the previous dreams was gone, and Viktor felt only wondering happiness at the sight of his outstretched hand. A friendly face after his ordeal was a blessing. He was already reaching for the offered hand when the figure suddenly moved. Where previously the figure had reached cautiously towards him, this time he moved sharply, one hand coming up to cup Viktor’s face and lift it into the moonlight. His eyes narrowed at what he saw. Had the bruises followed him into his dream? They must have, for the figure gently brushed his thumb against Viktor’s lip and he felt the sting of the split. The figure didn’t make a sound, but Viktor knew instinctively that he was angry. The very air around them seemed charged with it. His hand was still holding Viktor’s jaw, but it was gentle, and his piercing eyes seemed to look somewhere beyond Viktor, even though they were fixed on his face. Should he speak? Try and explain? He found he couldn’t, the words seemed trapped in his chest. He closed his own eyes in shame, and turned his cheek into the figure’s cold hand, the chill a balm as his face seemed to remember it should be in pain.
-
He had managed to avoid showing his parents the damage Ivan and Igor had done to him when he’d finally made it home the night before, but there was no escaping it now. His mama stared at him with mute horror when he encountered her in the kitchen, her hand pressed against her mouth in shock.
‘Vitya?’ Her voice shook, and she reached out to him like one would a skittish animal.
‘It’s nothing, Mama.’
‘Vitya, your face ! How can you say this is nothing?’ With more animation than he had seen in her in months, his mother snatched up a cloth and rushed past him, out of the door and into the garden, where she scooped a handful of snow up into a bundle in the rag. Returning to his side, she pressed it gently against the swell of his cheekbone. ‘Who did this to you? What happened?’
‘Nothing worth worrying about, Mama, truly.’
How could he tell her the truth? How could he make this miserable place worse for her? To know that her son was despised for his existence? He could never tell her, had never wanted her to know.
‘Vitya,’ she began, before the words seemed to catch in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes, before she tried again, ‘You must tell me, Viktor. Or your papa. We have to do something, this isn’t - your poor face!’
‘Mama. It’s not worth it.’ What good would it do? Confronting Ivan would only make things worse for all of them. ‘It’s over now.’
He hoped that it was true; that with this beating Ivan had satisfied whatever it was that drove him to rage at the sight of Viktor, and that he would be left alone. Perhaps it was naïve, but better to hope than to live in fear. He could see his mama had more to say, but a pounding at the door stayed her voice.
‘The doctor is needed!’ a voice cried, pounding again at the kitchen door. ‘Quickly!’
Stepping away from his mama, Viktor threw open the door to find a young boy on the other side.
‘He’s already gone, what’s happened?’
‘An animal attack, Igor Vetrov is injured, please come!’ Without waiting for a response, the boy turned and ran from the house. Pausing only to grab his coat and hat, Viktor followed close behind.
-
Papa was already with the Vetrovs when Viktor arrived at their home, and while he looked horrified at the sight of his son’s face, the expression wasn’t a far shift from the horror already present in his features. He nodded towards an open door, and Viktor made his way towards it, ducking his head as he passed Igor Sergeyevich’s sobbing mother and frozen father.
The smell of copper was thick, even before he entered the room. He knew, logically, that what was on the bed was Igor, but it was almost like his eyes didn’t want to focus on him. They darted around the room outside of his control, taking in broken furniture, drying puddles of thick, dark liquid, and curious gouges in the wood of the floor. The window was open, the room icy cold.
Through sheer force of will he turned his attention to the bed, and had to hold his breath against the desire to heave. There was no doubt that the liquid on the floor was blood, not with how bone-pale Igor’s skin was. The curious gouges he had noticed in the floor were worse in this new setting, cutting across Igor’s throat and chest. What kind of animal had claws that broad? Would cut that deep? Viktor leaned heavily against the doorframe, staring sightlessly ahead.
‘There was nothing to be done for him.’ He jumped at the sudden sound of his father’s voice beside him and winced at the answering pain in his ribs.
‘What happened here?’ Viktor asked, his voice faint.
‘An animal of some kind, a bear perhaps. There are claw-marks on the windowsill.’ His father sounded dubious.
‘A bear? Did no one hear? Or see?’ Viktor couldn’t imagine it, not with the wreck of the room before him.
‘No one heard a thing.’
His father stepped away again, returning to Igor’s distraught parents. Viktor left the room in a daze, in the space of a blink he found himself standing in the street, breathing as deeply as he could against the pain in his ribs, trying to clear the scent of blood from his nose. A bear? Through a window, in the middle of winter, with no one the wiser? It was inconceivable, but even at a glance the ferocity of those wounds obviously didn’t come from a knife.
A crowd had gathered, standing at a distance from the house - Viktor could hear them whispering from where he stood, but their words were unclear. Horror and suspicion were written across all the faces he could see.
The whispers faded as the crowd noticed him, and Viktor felt a growing awareness of their eyes focusing on him. On his bruised face, his strained posture. The suspicion was growing, and soon the whispering started again, different in tone now somehow. It wasn’t wise to linger here, and he stepped back into the Vetrov’s house to wait for his father. Irinka Ivanovna’s sobs had quieted now, and she sat beside her husband, her face buried in her palms. Sergey Borisovich was shaking his head slowly as Viktor’s father spoke quietly to him. He was almost as pale as his son, and looked like the world was coming to an end around him.
Viktor turned his face to the window, unable to watch their grief any longer.
-
When he and his papa finally left the house, the crowd had dispersed, but a pall hung over the village. The streets were empty, shutters closed tight in a way they only ever were when storms rolled through. The only sign of life was the unusually busy pub, but they hurried past it, anxious to be home and away from what they had just seen.
It was only when they were on the empty path that led to their dacha that Viktor’s father spoke.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened to you, Vityusha, or should I guess?’ His voice was cold.
Viktor remained silent a moment, weighing up what he could say. His father, unlike his mother, had witnessed before some of the things that were said to Viktor as he walked the village, had seen aimed kicks and sharp pinches as he passed the younger men.
‘I don’t see the point.’
Mikhail Nikiforov was a proud man, Viktor had learned his own pride from him, but he was far from stupid. He knew as well as Viktor what could happen if they made a fuss in a place such as this. Knew what inspired the animosity of their neighbours. The silence festered between them, colder than the air around them.
‘We aren’t in St. Petersburg anymore, Vityusha. This is neither the time nor the place to hold on to the life we had before. Changes have to be made. Compromises.’ His papa’s voice had softened some, but he was firm in what he said.
Viktor kept his eyes fixed dead ahead. He was distinctly aware of the warm pressure of his braid against his neck, of the silver embroidery on his coat collar; the lush fur that lined his hat. Where his papa could now be mistaken for a native of the village, he still looked like an outsider, obvious at a glance.
His father sighed as they reached the low gate in front of their home, and rubbed his eyes.
‘That poor boy. This will not be a pleasant time for anyone, Vityusha, you must see that - be sensible.’
Viktor’s back was rigid beneath his coat. That poor boy? Yes, he hardly deserved to be savaged by some beast, but that same poor boy had only the night before held him in place as he was beaten unconscious - had joined in with no small measure of glee.
‘I understand, Papa.’ The words felt like poison on his tongue. ‘I need some time by myself, I’ll be home later.’
He walked away before his father could speak again.
-
He reached his pond in a daze, the familiar space a comfort in the face of all that had happened. He wasn’t sure what his life would be like now without this escape, this secret joy. It was all he had anymore to find pleasure in. He sat at the bank for a while, staring out across the frozen expanse. He had wrapped his ribs when he woke, but the ache in his body was significant. There would be no dancing for him till they healed. No spins, no jumping. If he fell on the ice, he risked possible fractures turning into dangerous breaks. But he wanted so badly to escape into his own world, wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything.
He would be careful. He strapped his skates to his feet with extra care, and tentatively took to the ice. Figures would be fine, they were mindless, and if he went slowly they would be no more dangerous to him than walking on the icy ground.
Long loops, elegant counter turns, figure eights - all of them served to help him find himself again, let him forget for a moment the feeling of being held by vicious hands - forget the smell of blood, both his own, and someone else’s.
He knew his father was right. He had clung to his pride for too long. His every action now painted a target on his back. The world was turning against men like Viktor, more and more every day. What news reached the village only served to prove that the rest of Russia increasingly shared the opinions of men like Ivan and Igor. With shaking hands he tugged his braid free of his collar, and gently unwound it, releasing the long strands with the same delicacy as he performed his figures.
When the last of it was free, and his hair hung heavy down his back, he tipped his chin down, and let it fall forward on either side of his face. All he would truly have left soon was the skates on his feet, he thought, staring at the leather and brass encasing his shoes. That would have to be enough.
Even as the thought crossed his mind however, he noticed something odd. The ice below him was unusually dark. Very slowly, still moving forward, he glanced through the curtain of his hair and saw his shadow spreading out to his left, very obviously his own. What was beneath his feet was something different. He cautiously turned and skated away from the dark shape, only to feel his breath quicken as it turned too, and followed him. This was no fish. This was something different. The shape was indistinct, but it was large, and moved quickly.
Perhaps it was the shock of the beating, and the body, but fear seemed far away from Viktor’s grasp. He skated this way and that, and still the shadow followed. After the initial surprise faded, he was left only deeply curious. What could it be?
It felt almost like they were dancing together, he thought, hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat, before drawing to a stop, staring down at the shadow in confusion. Unbidden, the memory of his dream rose in his mind. A figure in dark robes, a beckoning hand, a soft touch on his jaw - sharp eyes looking at, but also through him.
The shadow had paused too, and he kept his eyes fixed on it, directly below his feet. It was warped and indistinct below the thick ice, but it was there all the same. After a moment, as though it was aware it was being observed, it began to move again, drawing away from the ice slightly. A shape grew clearer, and there, inches from the tips of his skates - a hand, pressing against the ice, reaching towards him.
Viktor choked on a gasp, and for a moment it felt the whole world had vanished, leaving only him, the ice, and that hand. The shadow made no further movements, it seemed content to wait, merely showing its presence, and gradually Viktor calmed himself. His mind whirled, but his breathing was steady. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem particularly inclined to harm him. It didn’t pound against the ice, trying to break through; it didn’t scratch or change at all. It just was.
So, so carefully, Viktor lowered himself to his knees. The hand didn’t move. He peered at it, and after a moment, cautiously raised his own hand. Tugging off his glove, he reached out. It felt like he was dreaming again, as he hesitantly reached towards the ice. What was he doing? After what he had seen this morning, why wasn’t he running as fast as he could for safety? But those thoughts were whispers compared to the deep curiosity now burning in his heart. After a small eternity, he laid his own hand over the top of the one below the ice.
It was slightly smaller than his own, but perhaps that was the ice between them tricking his eyes, he thought with a note of mild hysteria.
A sharp crack from the far shore broke his attention, his head snapping towards the sound - an animal? Something else? He snatched his hand back and pulled on his glove. The hand below the ice retreated from view, the shadow vanishing too into the depths of the water. Viktor hurried away, ignoring the pain in his ribs to push himself back to land. Lingering here was a bad idea.
He pulled his blades off the second he reached the shore, drying them with careful haste before returning them to the hollow tree. No more sounds came from the forest, but still he felt a deep need to get away.
His papa didn’t look at him as he entered the dacha, and Viktor said nothing to him. His mama looked askance as he passed, but she too said nothing. What was there to say?
When he entered his room, however, his breath again stopped in his throat. Lying on his pillow was another white rose.
-
Viktor was pushing his luck, he knew, but even after the bruises on his face healed, he still couldn’t face cutting his hair. He had unpicked the embroidery from his coat, and had retired the few brightly coloured scarves and shirts he retained in favour of the dull shades favoured by the village, but his hair was a step too far. He hid it constantly now, kept it tucked beneath his shirt, his scarf, his hat, never letting it show when he was outside of the house.
It had been a month since the death of Igor. A month since the beating. A month since the pond, the hand, the shadow. A month since the rose. He had kept it, tucked away with the one he had found with his skates, but the fragile flower stuck in his mind like a splinter, his thoughts returning to it more than anything else. What did it mean?
His father had asked him to accompany him much less frequently now, although Viktor couldn’t tell if that was out of care for his recovery or a desire to keep him out of sight of the village. No one knew he had seen Igor the night he was killed, no one but Ivan, but what whispers he had heard in passing hadn’t been kind. A rumour had risen in the village of an evil, some unknown threat which had focused on the Vetrov family, and while no one wanted to risk saying too much and bringing the same misfortune to their own doors, whispered conversations could still be heard on every corner.
The increasing brightness of the days approaching spring seemed to bolster spirits though. Igor would be buried when the frost broke and the ground grew warm enough to dig, and the talk in the village was that that would be the end of the whole matter.
Ivan Konstantinovich still hissed and glared on the rare occasions they passed each other now, but as Viktor had hoped, something in him seemed satisfied by the pain he had caused. Or, perhaps the death of his friend had disturbed him so deeply that further violence, at least for the moment, was beyond him. The visible changes in Viktor’s appearance had inspired no end of smug glances and vicious comments about no longer being too good for them all, but that was the worst of their infrequent encounters.
Even his dreams had tapered off. He hadn’t returned to the pond since that strange and frightening day, and the figure in his dreams had not visited him again. Instead, he woke now with jumbled images of ice, roses, blood, and reaching pale hands.
His father was busier than ever as winter began to lessen its grip on the world around them. Word had spread to villages beyond their own that a doctor was in residence, and he was increasingly called upon to travel to treat difficult cases that were beyond the capabilities of the sorts of healers usually found in such places.
His mama too had seemingly found her place in the village at last, with the women of the village visiting her now for her skills in sewing. Where before she had never had to turn her hand to more than the kind of embroidery noble ladies practised to while away dull morning hours, now she decorated wedding trousseau and christening gowns. His mother’s new industry brought food and small sums of money to their household, but still their existence was tight. Viktor tried not to feel bitter that the village accepted beauty only when it could be applied to women and children, and he was excluded by virtue of his gender, but it was difficult. He was truly happy that his mama no longer suffered so much in her loneliness, but his own was stifling.
It grew too much for him to bear one day. His mama was occupied visiting a new mother to discuss the christening robe she wished to embellish, his papa was a village away, held up by a sudden cold snap the day before, and Viktor couldn’t keep still. Even as he walked the path to his pond he rationalised with himself - the shadow he had seen, the hand, they hadn’t harmed him. Nothing had happened. Whatever it was beneath the ice was only that, stuck beneath the ice (he carefully kept his mind from drifting to the relentless advance of spring, the thinning and breaking of said ice), and it had made no overtures towards him beyond holding out a hand. What was there to be scared of in a hand? (Here, he kept his thoughts far from the spread of the claw marks on Igor’s body, and the unanswered questions of what had put them there).
Resolving himself to bravery, Viktor took his first steps onto the ice, eyes fixed to its surface. The sky was bright, but the sun was hidden, and his own shadow was hardly present. The ice was still as curiously clear as it had been since the first time he saw it in the early days of autumn, but no shadow rose to join him. Had it all been in his head? No. It lasted too long, was too distinct. Perhaps, whatever it was, it lay dormant now, somewhere in the waters below, no longer interested in him.
Viktor forced his eyes up, emptied his mind of all thoughts, and began to skate with purpose. His ribs had recovered, his bruises healed, but he felt weak upon the ice - too much time had passed without practice that he felt new again, but only for a while. He pushed through the fatigue building in his muscles and began to follow the rough routine he had been building when he had last skated freely - the twisting figures, smooth spins, small jumps. He let his body guide him, loosened his hair once more, and allowed himself to feel free.
He spotted it in the middle of a spin, and had to fight hard to keep his balance against the sudden shock - the shadow was back, following him once more. Viktor kept going, pushing more energy into his movements, watching his feet whenever he felt sure his balance wouldn’t suffer for it. The shadow kept pace with him through every step, gliding silently beneath him, as though it already knew where he planned to go. Perhaps it did, he realised with a jolt. He had been skating this rudimentary routine on and off for months now - had it watched him all that time? Had it learned his dance?
He kept going till the final flourish, arms wrapped around himself at the centre of the ice. This time however, rather than tipping his head towards the sun, he looked straight down at the shadow beneath his feet. As before, it seemed to know it had his attention, and after a moment, a hand was once again pressed against the ice. This time however, one by one, the tips of the fingers tapped against the ice in a slow wave, like it was saying hello.
Viktor knelt beside it, and with more confidence this time, placed his bare hand on top. He tapped his fingers in the same manner, and laughed breathlessly when he felt the hand return the gesture. He lifted his hand when the ice grew painfully cold beneath it, and this time the shadow was the first to leave, sinking slowly down and out of sight, the tips of its fingers the last to vanish.
-
Viktor could think of nothing else in the hours following his trip to the pond. Whatever was beneath the ice was alive, and aware, and had communicated with him. What was it? Was it the monster that killed Igor, or something else? He had never heard of anything like it, not in any fairy tale or novel he’d read, and he could hardly ask his father about it without sounding mad. It consumed him, the need to know.
In his distraction, he didn’t notice his papa’s return until the door of his bedroom opened.
‘Vityusha.’ His papa’s face was uncommonly hesitant. ‘Vityusha, I...’ He stopped, and dragged one hand slowly down his face. ‘You won’t like this, I know,’ he began again, crossing the room to sit heavily on the bed. ‘But it’s time we discuss your hair again.’
Viktor felt a muscle in his cheek begin to jump. He was suddenly aware of every strand of his hair, the weight of it, the warmth.
‘I learned yesterday that every spring, as soon as winter breaks, a caravan of gypsies passes through the next town over.’ His papa stopped again, and Viktor saw in his face the same muscle twitch as he felt in his own cheek. ‘These gypsies... pay handsomely for hair. More than I can earn for us in a month now, for hair half the length of yours.’
Viktor felt tears well in his eyes, and he turned his face away.
‘I’m not telling you this to hurt you, Vityusha. I know you take pride in your hair, but you know that here, in this place, it isn’t safe. I don’t want you to get hurt again. And, this way, you know it’s for a better reason than appeasing some small-minded fools.’ His papa was growing more confident with every word, his initial hesitation forgotten. ‘It would help us survive - we can’t live on what little your mama and I can bring in. This money would give me time to train you more, so you can start going to other villages too.’
Was it even worth arguing? Viktor had known this was coming. Perhaps not in this manner, his hair suddenly a commodity, but he knew he would have to give it up sooner or later. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep from crying, and nodded once sharply. He still couldn’t look at his father.
His papa sighed, and gently placed his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. ‘I wish things were different Vityusha. You know I do. If it wasn’t for my mistakes we wouldn’t be here in the first place, but we are. And we will all have to do what we can to make this place our own.’
With these final words, his father sighed once more, and left the room. The door had barely closed behind him when the first sob welled in Viktor’s throat, and he buried his face in his hands.
-
The sun was bright in the sky above the pond, and Viktor had barely set his eyes upon the figure before he was rushing out to meet him. In the light, the details of his face were clearer than ever. His eyes were the rich brown of brandy, his skin was darker than Viktor’s (although that wasn’t difficult), and his cheeks were softly rounded around a sweet smile. He was a little shorter than Viktor, he was surprised to notice. His hand, as ever, was held out towards Viktor, palm up as though inviting him to dance. This time, Viktor reached out to take it, but before he could a sob welled in his throat, and the figure’s soft smile fell into a frown. He grasped Viktor’s face again, tilting it upwards as though checking for more bruises, and he looked confused when he found nothing amiss.
Painfully gently, the figure brushed his fingers through Viktor’s loose hair, and Viktor’s sobs grew in intensity. With a firm hand, the figure guided Viktor’s head to his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around him. Clutching the back of the figure’s robe, Viktor cried bleakly in his embrace. It had been so long since anyone had offered him any kind of comfort that the figure’s gentle embrace seemed to burn. He could feel every point of contact distinctly, and craved more even as he was held. As his sobs tapered off, he became aware that the figure was gently stroking his hair, and Viktor tightened his embrace in sudden fear - would the figure still care for him when his hair was short?
As though he had heard Viktor’s thought, he nudged Viktor’s chin with his knuckle, encouraging him to lift his head. He kept one arm tight around Viktor’s waist, to Viktor’s great relief. It felt like it was the only thing holding him up. The figure studied Viktor’s face once more, although his gaze seemed to pass right through him, like he could see something more than messy tear stains and red-rimmed eyes. His gaze re-focused after a moment, and a tiny dimple appeared in his cheek as he smiled.
Briefly, when he woke, Viktor could have sworn he still felt the weight of an arm around his waist.
-
Waking in the light after the endless dark of winter brought home to Viktor the truth the night before had lacked. Spring was coming. Already the market had started to sell goods from further south that spoke of soft earth and growth. The deadline his father had given him couldn't be more than a few weeks away. The soft and loving comfort of his dream soothed the awful ache somewhat, but the lingering fear was there that the figure he was now so fond of wouldn't want him anymore when he was no longer beautiful.
There was not much to do about it, he thought idly to himself as he got ready for the day. His hair was the last link he had to his life before, and it would be gone when the ice was. This life he had now, miserable as it was, was all that was left. Perhaps he could skate again when winter returned, but that was incomprehensibly far away.
His hands had already started to tightly braid his hair against his neck when Viktor realised, soon even this calming morning routine would be gone. Anger and sour spite rose in his throat, and with a violent shake of his head he undid the short length of braid he'd already completed, and began again. If his hair was no longer to be his, then he'd enjoy it while it lasted. Beginning again, he twisted and tucked it into one of the more elaborate braids he had favoured in St Petersburg.
A beautiful, eye-catching, complex braid of seven strands, one of many he had learned how to do from the ballerinas in his corps at the Mariinksy. The sight of it emboldened his resolve. He'd give himself this, and hang everyone else.
-
Days passed before the first person noticed it, on a day when the heat of the sun finally overcame the frigid wind, and Viktor went out without a scarf. His hat was still firmly in place, but shining at the nape of his neck, the silver of his hair was finer than any jewellery. Whispers spread quickly, but he paid them no mind. His father looked pained at the sight of him, but said nothing.
He had taken to slipping away to the pond every night now, cramming as much time on the ice as he could before it inevitably thinned and became unsafe. Curiously, even at the banks it remained solid and sure, not spreading to slush the way he expected by now, but he knew that frozen water could surprise you, and limited his skating now to simply dancing with the shadow beneath the ice.
Every time he reached the centre of the pond, it was there, like it waited for him, and before he left each night he knelt to tap his fingertips in a farewell, the pale hand tapping back faithfully.
-
After one such day, Viktor found himself in the unusual situation of an empty house. Papa once again was travelling to another village, assisting in a birth, but he wasn’t sure where his mama was. The floodgates had opened on her popularity it seemed, although, he reflected, such natural charisma and charm could thrive anywhere - her embroidery must have made her no small number of friends. It seemed only he couldn’t find his place here.
More than a week had passed since his father’s ultimatum, and each day Viktor had taken extra care in styling his hair in some new and interesting fashion. It hurt, at the end of the night, unbraiding it and letting it hang loose around his shoulders. He missed it already. He knew it was a strange thing to be so attached to - it was only hair, but it meant so much more.
Enjoying the unusual peace in the house, he sat by the fire to brush it out slowly. He had barely begun when the door opened and his mother burst through, looking hunted. He stood in concern, and his anxiety worsened when she grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘Vitya, Vitya, why didn’t you tell me?’ She shook him as she spoke, her voice shrill and frightened.
‘Mama! Tell you what? What’s happened?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me what they say about you? What they say to you! The things I heard in the market today Vitya, I couldn’t believe - such awful things!’ She began to cry, and Viktor pulled her close.
‘It’s alright, Mama. It’s fine. It’s just words.’
‘It’s not alright, Vitya! You think I don’t remember you coming home, beaten to within an inch of your life? You think I don’t remember the bruises?’
‘There’s not much to be done, Mama. They don’t like me, I know, but they’ll get used to me. Eventually.’ Hopefully. Maybe.
‘You’re not helping yourself, Vitya!’ She pushed back out of his arms, raising a hand to point in his face. ‘You look too much like you’ll go back to St. Petersburg any second! This has gone on much too long, we’re cutting your hair tonight, and tomorrow you will show this town that you belong here!’
Viktor shook his head slowly, staring at her in shock. Yelena Nikiforova was a great beauty, known much further than St. Petersburg for her own stunning silver hair. Of all the people Viktor thought would understand his desire to cling to his own, his mama was the top of the list. And here she was, telling him it had to go.
‘I- I am cutting it, Mama. But in spring, Papa said-’
‘Tonight, Vitya. I won’t see you leave this house and put yourself in danger again, now I know how bad it is.’
The look on his mama’s face was firm behind her tears, but Viktor felt his own resolve grow.
‘I’m cutting it in spring, Mama, and we’re selling it then. I’m keeping it as long as I can. I have nothing here - nothing to my name, nothing to make me even remotely happy. Can’t you understand why I need to hold on to this? At least for a little while longer?’ He had to make her understand. ‘Spring will be here in a couple of weeks - already there are snowdrops blooming.’ Every one of them was a spark of pain in Viktor’s chest.
‘This place is horrible, Viktor, I know that.’ Viktor winced at the use of his full name. ‘But you don’t need to make it worse for yourself! These braids, you think I haven’t noticed? You’re baiting them now!’
Viktor dragged a hand down his face, screwing his eyes shut against his mama’s anger.
‘Forgive me for finding joy in something, mama.’ It was his mother’s turn to flinch, her mouth moving soundlessly. ‘ I didn’t choose to come here - you could have left me in St. Petersburg and we’d have all been the happier for it!’
‘Vitya, you know that wasn’t possible! After what happened -’
Brutally, he cut her off. ‘Yes, yes, the scandal , a single mistake in the wrong person’s care and suddenly all my work, all my dreams are torn away from me in the night.’
Never had Viktor spoken to either of his parents like this, never given voice to the bitterness he tried so hard to smother. His mother had begun to cry again, crystal tears on bloodless cheeks. Suddenly, Viktor found he had no sympathy for her. No sympathy for any of this. He snatched up his comb from the chair he’d left it on, and turned away.
-
The fight that ensued when his father returned was awful. Raised voices, cruel words, tears on all sides, but what else could they do? Viktor was too old to remain with his family in this useless, childish way, but what else was there? Leave? Join the imperial army, or head south and find work on some farm? He had no skills to offer in any of these places, and had neither the temperament or drive to try. Nor could he marry and join some other family, his inclinations falling the way they did. Viktor was quite confident that marriage and love were as far from his grasp as any of his old dreams were. The truth of the matter was, in this place, in this time, there was space for his mama and papa, and none left for him. Anyone could see that, cruel as it was.
He took to restlessly wandering the edge of the woods, avoiding his parents by endlessly counting the blossoms that heralded the end of his last connection with his home. His visits to the pond were marked by a frantic need to squeeze every second of skating he could into the last days of the ice - although still it stood sturdy and strong beneath his feet. The shadow and the hand were ever present. Sometimes the hand would drag lightly against the ice as he moved, seeming to match the positions of his own.
The night his father told him, flat and toneless through the closed bedroom door, that the gypsies had been spotted in their travels a bare three days from the next village over, Viktor left the house without a word. He would later come to regret this, just a little.
-
He followed the winding path from the village blindly, trusting his feet to guide him through muscle memory. The moonlight seemed like an oppressive weight on his shoulders, the silence of the path pressed heavily on him. There was no comfort in the familiarity tonight, merely a sharp and awful ache, a desire to be away - even if only as far as the pond. If the ice was broken, he didn’t know what he would do.
It was only when he stepped through the treeline that something changed. A soft crack to his left pulled his attention, and peering in the dark he thought fleetingly again of what had become of Igor. The flicker of a match in the dark was almost blinding.
‘Out late again, Голубой?’ Ivan stood not five feet from him, speaking around a cigarette clenched tight between his teeth, the match raised to light it.
Fear was slow to rise, exhaustion already present in all the spaces it normally would fill, and Viktor found his patience at an end.
‘And if I am?’
As he had done before, Ivan chuckled at the rare show of spirit.
‘You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?’ He wasn’t even looking at Viktor, his eyes were fixed somewhere beyond him, and Viktor spared a brief thought to worry that perhaps he’d brought friends again.
‘You’ve hardly given me evidence to the contrary.’ Of all the possible things Viktor could have said, he picked the very worst, but the words were sweet as they left his lips. Ivan hated him anyway. Might as well make himself someone worth hating.
Another rough chuckle, and with a final deep drag Ivan flicked his cigarette into the underbrush, uncaring of where it landed.
‘The thing about you, Голубой, is that you’ve never been taught your place,’ Finally Ivan looked at Viktor, who stared back wordlessly.
‘You think the world is yours, and we’ll just accept you as you are, with all your bourgeois bullshit. Your fucking clothes, and your hair. You think we’ll stand for you shaming yourself like that,’ Ivan took a step closer, reaching into his pocket as he spoke. ‘I would have thought you’d learn, after Igor and I tried so hard to teach you, but you didn’t, did you? You got worse. Fucking filth .’ With another step forward, Ivan pulled a knife from his pocket. The moonlight caught the blade with a sharp gleam, but Viktor didn’t wait around to see how long it was. In one motion he turned and bolted into the trees.
Would this be how he died? Would his parents ever know what became of him? If he could reach the pond, he thought desperately, running hard from the sound of Ivan crashing along behind him, he could hide in the trees there. He knew every inch of the area, he had to know it better than Ivan by now. He might be safe. At least for a while.
The crashing was getting closer. Viktor was fast, but Ivan was faster. Even at a dead sprint, he felt a hand catch his braid, and with a sharp pull Ivan had him on the ground, knife in hand. Desperately, Viktor writhed to get free, pulling hard at the base of his braid, kicking out at Ivan’s hulking shape. The knife caught the moonlight with every motion, somehow always directly in Viktor’s eyeline as Ivan held it up high, pulling Viktor’s braid taught between them as though intending to saw it off his head.
With one particularly strong kick, Viktor knocked himself from Ivan’s hold, and was up and running immediately. Frantically he pushed his hair back from his face, trying to keep it out of his eyes. He was so close now, he could see the glitter of the ice through the trees. Ivan once again was gaining on him, not even winded by their struggle.
Bursting out into the clearing that housed the pond, Viktor looked around desperately for options - Ivan was too close for him to hide, much too close for him to sit and pull on his skates. Swallowing hard against the terror swamping him, he scrambled out onto the ice and hoped with every fibre of his being it would support his weight this one final time.
He was only a few feet on the ice when Ivan crashed into view, Viktor looked frantically over his shoulder as he ran, trying to see what he would do next. Strangely, Ivan paused at the bank, looking around him in what seemed like confusion, before he too stepped onto the ice. Viktor had better things to do that wonder what could be confusing the person chasing him with a knife, and he turned his attention to the ice below him, eyes sweeping desperately to watch for cracks or slick patches where it had grown thin. Moving faster than he had ever seen it, the shadow rose up to join him, streaking and swirling beneath his feet. Hysteria building, he wondered what it thought of him now, absent his skates, running in fear. As though aware of his thoughts, the shadow stopped abruptly, before pelting back from Viktor, towards Ivan.
He was almost at the centre of the ice now, Ivan some distance away, and he chanced another glance over his shoulder, wondering at the behaviour of the shadow. Was it attracted to the unusual movement?
From the ice, just in front of Ivan, a black mist rose. Ivan and Viktor both stopped. Viktor turned around to stare. The mist seemed to gather in the moonlight, gaining shape and opacity by the second. In no time at all, to confusion like Viktor had never known, the figure of his dreams was there, facing Ivan.
From a distance, Viktor heard Ivan speak.
‘What the fuck is this?’
The figure didn’t make a sound, but as Viktor watched, it launched itself at Ivan with unimaginable speed. Ivan gave one terrible scream, before an awful gurgling filled the air, and the figure dragged him down hard to the ice, savaging him with claws that seemed formed of solid wind and stars. The ice beneath them gave a terrible crack, and both of them vanished in an instant.
Frozen as he was by horror and fear, Viktor stared at the spot they’d vanished. He’d heard the ice crack, he had, but from where he stood it seemed as solid as it had always been, smooth in all directions. A bang beneath his feet made him fall, and below the ice he saw Ivan’s terrible face, blood clouding the already dark water around him. One fist was weakly banging on the ice, growing fainter and fainter.
Viktor had never known fear like this. His vision narrowed, his hands and feet felt disconnected from his body, his breath came quick and agonising. He scrambled in a crawl away from the awful sight, towards the spot where Ivan and the figure had slipped through - perhaps, if the knife was still there, he could cut through and rescue Ivan. He shed his heavy coat as he went, preparing to dive into the water if he had to.
The knife wasn’t there, but a terrible spray of blood stained the ice black. There were no cracks, no swelling water. The ice looked untouched, aside from that awful stain. Viktor stopped and stared at it blankly. The pounding behind him had stopped. It was too late. It was all too late.
In the silence that followed, the tiny sound of bare feet on the ice rang in Viktor’s ears like a church bell. Shaking, he turned on his knees, and raised his head.
The figure from his dreams stood, at the centre of the ice, one hand held out towards Viktor.
The sight of him, familiar and dear, seemed to push the fear somewhere out of reach. All the terror of the past few minutes drained away. The figure had never hurt Viktor, it had always helped him, he understood that now. It had known, somehow, that Igor had harmed him. Had known Ivan had too. Had cared when he hurt, and when he wept. Had loved him, silently, unexpectedly. Viktor climbed carefully to his feet.
He walked slowly towards the figure, drinking in the sight of him. There was no sign upon him of the violence of the last few minutes. He was dry, there was no blood on his pale skin - he looked as he always had. He had saved his life. In more ways than one, Viktor reflected, his mind returning to the dried rose on top of his skates, on top of his pillow after Igor died. Where would he be without those skates? Would he have survived the winter with Igor and Ivan egging each other on?
In no time at all he stood before the figure, his hand still held out in invitation. He seemed prepared to wait forever like that, as he had waited in all of Viktor’s dreams. Finally, Viktor reached back, and placed his own hand in the figure’s grasp. His ensuing smile was stunning to behold.
The figure raised Viktor’s knuckles to his lips, and brushed a gentle kiss over them.
‘I am Yuuri.’ His voice was soft, melodic almost.
‘I’m Viktor.’
‘I know,’ said Yuuri, laughing lightly. ‘I know who you are, my Viktor.’
With that, he tugged gently, and wrapped his other arm around Viktor’s waist, leading him into position. With only the soft wind to accompany them, they danced together in the moonlight, Viktor’s eyes fixed on his saviour’s face.
Who was he, to know him so well? The sense Viktor had had of the shadow following his dance was proven right, as Yuuri led him in the familiar steps of his routine, adapted for two. How long had he watched Viktor before he reached out? Had he been here all this time, since that first autumn day when Viktor stumbled upon the pond? In the back of his mind, Viktor knew he should be frightened, but the feeling seemed distant, hard to reach. He had just watched Yuuri savage and drown a man - had just learned the truth of so many strange and awful things - but wonderful things had happened too.
The few and far between bright spots of happiness he’d experienced in the past two seasons had all involved Yuuri. The fear and horror he’d felt had also involved Yuuri. How curious that Viktor felt so suddenly and completely at ease, held gently against his chest. He should be terrified beyond measure, but all that had occurred before he took Yuuri’s hand seemed to slip from his mind like sand through an hourglass. Yuuri’s eyes flickered over Viktor’s face, up to his hair, down to their joined hands, restless and quick. Was he nervous? Excited? However he felt, his hands were firm and sure, and he led Viktor around the ice with grace. All the joy he’d felt skating was incomparable to this moment, dancing with a beautiful man in the clear, cold night.
His mind wandered as Yuuri confidently led him through spins, and lifted him when the routine called for jumps. Somehow, he knew that Yuuri would never let him fall. Not here, not on this ice. In fact, in all the months he’d been coming here, Viktor had only fallen once - that awful day when Ivan first grabbed his hair. Had Yuuri protected him all that time? Would Yuuri continue to do so, when he left the ice that night?
His thoughts seemed to stutter to a halt, even as his body moved. Would Yuuri let him leave? Did he even want to leave? What would he return to? In two days he would lose his hair, the last of his identity, sold off like sheep's wool. Beyond that indignity, who knew? That money wouldn’t last forever, and as much as he knew his parents loved him, Viktor was nothing but a burden to them. All his talents, all his skills, they were useless in this place. The world didn’t have a place for Viktor Nikiforov anymore, it was made clearer to him every day. His Papa had usable skills, he fit well in their new life (failing to save someone’s hand in a village like this was a sad fact of life, not a world-ending scandal). Even his Mama had made the best of it in the end, making friends and establishing herself as a skilled seamstress. What could he offer to the world when dancing was forbidden to him? When beauty was restricted only to women and babies? They would miss him, he knew, but they would have the chance to thrive without him.
If Yuuri noticed his distraction, he didn’t show it. When Viktor returned his focus to his face, he found him smiling a tiny, delighted grin, one cheek dimpling deeply. It was so at odds with everything Viktor had witnessed that night that his breath caught in his throat. What was this creature that held him so firmly, but with such care? What kind of creature took the appearance of a man, soft and dimpled and just a tiny bit shorter than Viktor, but who was also capable of such extreme violence? No story had ever prepared him for the undeniable reality of Yuuri.
With every twist and dip and spin, though, step by step, Viktor realised he didn’t actually care what Yuuri was. Yuuri had given him life in this dreary place. Had shown him love when all he could feel was the lack of it. Had held him, and dried his tears, and asked absolutely nothing in return. Yuuri had been there for him, silent and sure as the ice beneath their feet, and in that moment, held in his arms like something precious, something dear, Viktor felt only gratitude and joy.
-
Some indeterminable time later, Yuuri brought their dance to a close. He released Viktor’s waist, but held his hand tightly, as though afraid Viktor would vanish. With an almost shy duck of his head, he raised his other hand to reveal a white rose, fresh and vibrant, beautiful. Holding it out to Viktor he asked, ‘Will you come with me now?’ Still, his voice was soft. There was no demand, only the gentlest entreaty.
Briefly, Viktor considered saying no. Yuuri cared for him, he could see that; surely he would let him go if he wished. His thoughts returned to his parents, who would be missing him already. Could he leave them behind so easily, to step into the unknown with a mysterious creature? His life could change for the better now, without Ivan to pour poison in the villagers’ ears about him; surely he could find his place here, in the end.
Such thoughts were bitter though, and fleeting. What would he be living for, in this awful half-life he led? Even if he could find his place here, did he actually want to? Yes, he regretted that his last days with his parents were cold and angry, but without him, they would be free. No more extra mouth to feed, no more hissing rumours in the marketplace. Just two people, making a life together. Perhaps they would think he ran away, back to St. Petersburg maybe. He hoped they would know he was happy, somehow. He trusted he would be.
Smiling back at Yuuri, he took the rose, and leaned in to brush a kiss against his cheek.
‘I will.’
Yuuri’s answering smile was blinding. Once more he gripped Viktor, and they began to dance again, slipping through the ice together without a sound.