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foundtherightwords · 8 months

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The Firebird - Chapter 2

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

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

Chapter warning: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

A/N: A note on the Russian names/pronunciation:

Paul's full name in Russian, Pavel Petrovich, is used for formal occasions. Pasha and Pavlik are short forms, while Pashenka and Pavlushka are pet names.

The princess's name, Zhara, is based on the Russian word for fire, Zhar (Жар). "Zh" is pronounced like the "s" in "leisure", or the French "j".

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - A Princess Named Zhara

Paul had, in fact, seen a number of undressed women before, though perhaps not quite so thoroughly undressed.

But the flush of embarrassment that crept up his face was nothing compared to his utter perplexity upon seeing this strange girl.

"Who are you?" he said, once he found his voice again. "And what have you done to my bird?"

"Your bird?" she scoffed. She was still slumped over in the bush, her head resting on her arm. "What makes her yours? You didn't even manage to catch her."

This is some trick, surely, thought Paul. The bird hadn't really flown into this bush, and this young woman just happened to be lying here. But he hadn't seen the bird come out again... So it must still be around here somewhere...

"I was just trying to find a quiet place to rest," the young woman was saying, "and maybe find some clothes too. Is that too much to ask? I've been flying the whole day with a bust-up wing. But no, oh no. I had to have the misfortune of flying into the biggest cretin in the whole of Lukomorye..."

Ignoring her mumbles, Paul searched the grove and the adjacent meadow for any sign of the red-and-gold plumes, but there was none. The meadow, separated from the forest by a burbling brook, was large and flat. There was no bush, only smooth grass that spread all the way to the horizon where the sky still had a faint, pinkish edge where it met the earth, so he doubted the bird could have hidden there. He turned back to the grove, but here the curtain of darkness had lowered completely, and he could see nothing but the birch trunks shining pale like a brigade of ghost soldiers. It was too late to keep searching. Paul could feel fatigue settling into his bones, and decided to turn back. Perhaps in the morning, he could return with some servants. A wounded bird couldn't have gone far.

He went back to the thicket. The young woman had sat up. In the gloom, her hair had darkened to a mahogany shade, contrasting with the paleness of her skin. Paul was reminded of Eve in the Garden of Eden, and blushed again.

"Where did you come from?" he asked. "What happened to you?"

"Go away," she said, sniffling.

"There's a village nearby. I can raise an alert and get you help, should you need it."

"No one can help me. Just go away and leave me alone." She buried her face in her arms until her hair enveloped her whole body like a mantle.

Paul shrugged and turned away. It was likely that she was a peasant girl from one of the villages around Tsarskoye Selo, abandoned by a lover and too afraid to come home. Well, if she didn't want help, then it certainly wasn't his problem.

As he walked off, he couldn't help noticing how small and lost the girl looked, with her arms wrapped around legs that were drawn up to her chest and her head bent over her knees. Sighing, he unclasped his cloak and tossed it at her feet. She turned quizzical eyes to the cloak, then to him, but made no move to pick up the garment. Paul paid no more attention to her and went in search of his horse.

But something was different about the grove. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, only that it gave him the same otherworldly feeling he'd had when he'd first seen the bird. And then, as he walked deeper and deeper into the grove, he realized what it was—the grove was much larger than he remembered. After leaving the horse, he'd only had to run a few dozen steps to reach the thicket, yet now, despite having walked far enough that the girl was only a speck of white in the distance, he couldn't see the arch of the two crooked birches or his horse anywhere.

He kept walking and walking, but it was like walking in place, for the birches remained unchanged, and he couldn't tell if he had passed this tree or that already. The white trees almost glimmered in the dark, and he felt he was going blind after looking at them for too long. Eventually, he had to stop, too tired to go on, afraid that he would push himself to exhaustion walking in circles.

Was he lost? Was the grove really that vast and he had gone further than he thought? Perhaps the girl would know. He turned around, intending to go back to ask, and almost walked straight into the girl. Somehow, she had followed him without him knowing. She had donned his cloak, and her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, which fell to her knees. It was tied at the end with a string of dry grass.

"You're not from here," she said, before Paul could speak.

"What?"

"You're from Rus'."

"Do you know the way back to Tsarskoye Selo?" Paul asked. He began to wonder if the girl was at all sane. Though the royal household and the courtiers rarely ventured outside the confines of the Summer Palace, every peasant in the area knew of the court. Yet this girl didn't seem to recognize him at all. Her eyes shone with a strange light, and she was looking at him with a mixture of wonder and curiosity.

"There is no Tsarskoye Selo here," she said slowly, pronouncing the words as though unfamiliar with them. "See, this is not Rus'. This is Lukomorye."

"What?" Paul repeated. He was quite certain now that the girl was mad.

The girl sighed. She put one hand out of the cloak and snapped her fingers.

Paul jumped back, crying out in alarm.

The tips of her fingers had caught fire.

"I bet you don't have anything like this in your land, do you?" the girl said.

"What sort of trickery is this?" Paul whispered. He had seen fire eaters at feast days in court, but none of them had ever made fire come out of their fingers.

"It's not a trick."

The girl closed her palm, and the fire went out without even a puff of smoke. She snapped her fingers again, and again fire burst from their tips. Her fingers burned steadily like candles in the dark, illuminating her face so Paul could see the myriad of freckles scattering across her skin like stars on the night sky. The fire gleamed on her coppery hair and reflected in her eyes, which he saw were of the same golden amber color as the bird's. It was those eyes, rather than the unnatural flames on her fingertips, that finally convinced Paul.

"You're the bird," he said, comprehension dawning.

"Oh, he's sharp," she said, mockery dripping from every word. "Here I was thinking you're just another nincompoop."

Paul was so shocked he even forgot to take offense at her impudent tone. "But—how—"

"I told you, this is Lukomorye. The land of magic. The Otherworld. Surely you know of us, as we know of you?"

Paul recalled the dreamlike feeling he'd been having, the childhood memories. "The land of magic. Like... in the fairy tales?"

"If that's what you call them."

He took a breath and tried to think rationally. "Prove it then," he said. "If you're really the bird, turn back. Transform."

"I'm not a shape-shifter," the girl said, closing her palm to put out the fire again. She clutched the cloak closer to her body as a shadow passed over her features. "I'm cursed, if you must know. I only turn into a bird during the day."

"That's convenient," Paul retorted. He was beginning to see how absurd the situation was and refused to let himself be swayed. "All right, if this isn't my world, can you take me back?"

The girl shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid I can't. Opening doors between the worlds is a very imprecise sort of magic. Most of the time it just happens. I was injured, and frightened, and must have opened one by mistake..."

Her words made no sense to Paul. He took a step back, as though by putting some distance between them, he could avoid being infected by her otherworldly air and keep his mind clear. He remembered how he had ended up here in the first place, his quarrel with his mother, and his usual anger and suspicion came surging back. "This must be some trick, some mischief meant to harm or confuse me, to make me seem unfit for the throne—"

Her eyebrows went up. "The throne? Are you some sort of prince?"

Paul drew himself to his full height. "I am. I'm Tsarevich Paul, Pavel Petrovich Romanov, son of Peter the Third, heir to the Russian throne."

The girl shrugged, unimpressed. "Well, none of that would help you here. Here, you're just another mortal." She ignored Paul's indignant spluttering. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing to be done now. It's late. Tomorrow, we can look for someone who can help you return to your world."

Without waiting for his answer, she went over to a birch tree, tapped its trunk experimentally, and, leaning her forehead against the tree, whispered, "O les chestnoi (1), I thank you for this gift I'm about to receive." Then, with a bit of bark held in one hand like a bowl, she snapped a branch and put her bark bowl underneath to collect the clear sap that dripped from the broken bit.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked, astonished.

"It's too dark to go searching for food. This birch sap will have to do."

Her words reminded Paul of how hungry he was himself. He turned and walked away.

"Where are you going?" the girl said.

"Back to the palace."

"Haven't you got it through your thick head yet? Your palace isn't here! Nothing from your world is here!" He took no heed of her and kept walking, but not before he heard her mumble, "All right, get yourself killed then, see if I care." Then she added, with feeling, "Cretin."

Paul stormed through the grove, trying to ignore the sense of foreboding that grew and grew the longer he went. This was clearly all a mistake. He hadn't been paying close attention while chasing after the bird and had gotten himself lost; that was all. The horse must have bolted. And as for the fire on the girl's hand... it was a trick. It had to be. As long as he found his way out of this confounded forest, everything would be right again.

He was now far enough that he could no longer see the girl. The ranks of birches were giving way to oaks and lindens and other trees, meaning he was going in the right direction. His disappearance may have been noticed at the palace already, and at this very moment, perhaps a battalion was being deployed in search of him. Taking heart in this thought, he pressed on, crashing through the dense trees, trying to ignore the soreness of his limbs, unused to strenuous exercises, and the gnawing hunger in his belly. He tried, too, not to notice that the oaks seemed much bigger and older than he'd remembered and that sometimes he couldn't recognize the leaves on a branch that hung over the path or the flowers of a bush that he had to sidestep.

There was something else he tried to ignore as well, without much success. The forest wasn't as quiet as it had been when he was chasing after the bird. Now there were all sorts of creaking and rustling around him as though a tempest was brewing overhead, yet there was nary a breath of wind, and the crescent moon shone clearly, valiantly through the thick foliage. Strangest of all, the creaking and rustling seemed to stop when he stopped and pick up when he resumed walking.

"Who's there?"

Only the hoot of an owl answered him.

He started walking. The rustling started. He stopped. It stopped as well. Could it be the girl, toying with him? "If you're trying to frighten me, think again!" Paul shouted. He thought he heard a high-pitched noise that may have been the chirping of a cricket or the eerie, distant echo of some giggles. He picked up a rock by his feet and flung it, with all his might, toward the noise. It ceased instantly.

Satisfied, he continued on his way. The creaking and rustling erupted again, to a deafening degree, right by his ears. Paul stared back in horror. The trees seemed to be enlarging, blocking out the moon. No, it wasn't the trees... or was it? He couldn't say what he was looking at. A human form was rising out of the forest, but it still looked like a tree, with bark for skin, branches for limbs, leaves for hair, and moss for whiskers.

"Who dares to disturb the peace of my forest?" the creature bellowed in a voice that sounded like a storm blowing through the trees, showing a mouth full of thorns.

Paul staggered backwards, stumbled over his ceremonial sword, which he'd forgotten to take off after the drilling exercise, and went sprawling on the ground. This movement alerted the creature to his presence, and it whirled around to face him. Two spots of yellow light, like a pair of fireflies, blinked under the leaves, showing where its eyes were. It raised an arm as thick as an oak branch over its head, apparently with the intention of bringing it crashing down on Paul. Its movements were so lumbering that Paul would've had plenty of time to move out of the way, had he not been rooted to the spot by shock and fear.

"No, les chestnoi, wait!" The girl appeared by his side, her knees bent, arms outstretched in a pleading gesture. "He's with me! He's with me!"

The creature's arm paused in midair. Its phosphoric eyes dimmed slightly as it inclined its head, its tree-trunk neck creaking in a way that caused Paul to cower, thinking that branch was coming for his head.

"Tsarevna Zhara," the creature said in a softer tone. "Forgive me. I didn't know this—mortal was under your protection."

"He's not," the girl said, glancing at Paul with irritation. "But he is from Rus' and doesn't know his way around Lukomorye. Please, spare him."

The creature's firefly eyes blinked slowly, its moss-covered mouth working, grinding its thorn teeth, while it appeared to be mulling over the matter. Finally, it dropped its arm. "Very well, my lady," it said. "Out of respect for your late father, I shall spare the moral."

"Thank you, les pravedniy (2)," the girl said with a deep bow.

The creature returned her bow with more ponderous creaking, then turned and walked into the forest. It soon became one with the trees, with only the creaking and rustling fading into the distance as evidence of its presence.

The girl walked away as well. Paul found that he could breathe and move again, and he hurried after her.

"What in saints' names was that thing?!" he exclaimed.

"That thing is a leshy," the girl said, long legs moving in and out of his cloak as she strode down the path, "and you had better show him some respect, if you don't want him coming back for your head."

The word sounded familiar, though it took Paul a moment to remember where he'd heard it and what it meant. "A forest spirit?" he bleated.

"Yes. You're lucky he was in a good mood."

It was too much for Paul. Only a few hours ago, he had been arguing with his mother about the throne. Now he was walking through a forest that was both familiar and not, with girls that turned into birds and walking trees. It did not seem possible. He sat down on the path and gripped his head in his hands, as though by doing so, he could prevent his brain from melting and leaking out through his ears, which he felt it was very much in danger of doing.

The bird-girl, noticing his absence, turned back and stood watching him for a moment. Glancing up at her, he noticed there was still something birdlike in her posture, in the way she tilted her head at him, in the way she shifted her weight, never staying quite still. Eventually, she seemed to take pity on him and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

"I suppose this is quite difficult for you to accept," she said gently. "Let us find a place to rest for the night. Morning shall bring more wisdom."

Those words, so often encountered in fairy tales, calmed Paul, and that hand, so warm that he could feel it through his coat, revived him. He followed the girl back to the thicket, now bathed in the silvery light of the crescent moon. The girl handed him her birch-bark cup with some sap in it. Being too hungry and thirsty to ask further questions, Paul drank it straight down. It was only slightly sweet, with a mossy aftertaste, but refreshing. He could feel strength and clarity slowly returning to his body and mind.

"So if you can't return me to my world, then who can?" he asked.

"Probably the same person who could free me from this curse—Baba Yaga."

Paul dropped the cup. "Baba Yaga," he said. "Baba Yaga the witch, flies around in a mortar, lives in a hut with chicken legs, that Baba Yaga?"

The girl nodded.

"She's real," he said. It wasn't exactly a question.

"Of course she's real!" the girl said. "Only," she added, "no one has seen her in ages, and even if we do find her, she may not agree to help. But she's my only hope."

"And I suppose it was Koschei the Deathless who cursed you?" Paul said, intending it as a quip to show the girl that he wasn't completely ignorant when it came to Fairyland, but at the mention of Koschei, the shadow that had passed across her face when she mentioned her curse came back, and lingered.

"I guess you can say so, in a way," she said in a small voice. Her answer puzzled Paul, but she looked so miserable that he decided to hold his tongue.

"How are we going to find Baba Yaga?" he asked instead.

"Some say she likes the taste of Russians and can smell them from hundreds of versts away," the girl replied. "So perhaps she'll find us." She glanced at Paul's blanched face, a corner of her mouth lifted into a crooked, impish smile, and some of the shadow lifted from her face. "I'm joking. Some say she has gone to Vyriy."

"Where is that?"

"Nobody knows," the girl said. "It could be a mere thought away, or a year's trek on foot and horseback, or so far that one may travel for his entire life and still can't reach it."

"Of course," Paul said bleakly.

"Lucky for us, we shall not have to go so far. I know how to find Baba Yaga. Or rather, how to find a creature that can find her."

If she continues to talk in fairy-speak, I shall have to throttle her, Paul thought grimly. The girl seemed to notice his dark look as well, for she quickly continued, "Apparently Tsar Afron of Smorodina is in possession of a horse with a golden mane, foaled by Baba Yaga's own mare. His fortress is a few days' trek from here. If we can borrow the horse from him, it shall lead us back to its mother."

Paul nodded, relieved that there was now a solid plan. A few days he could deal with.

The mention of a tsar reminded him of something else...

"That thing—the leshy," he said slowly. "He addressed you as tsarevna."

The girl lifted her chin, her amber eyes glinting in the moonlight. "I am. Zhara Artyomovna, daughter of Tsar Artyom, heir to the throne of Arthania."

So they let women rule in this land too, a bitter thought came into Paul's mind, but he immediately felt guilty about it. After all, this girl—Zhara—had saved him from the leshy and even offered to help him, when she could have left him to rot. Almost as though she could read his mind, she smiled her crooked smile again. "I suppose that makes us equals, does it not? And it would not be beneath you to travel with me, would it, Tsarevich Paul?"

Her knowing, teasing smile only deepened his shame. "Are we to sleep here then, out in the open?" he said, scowling to mask his discomfort.

The girl was already gathering dried leaves and grass into a little bed for herself. "What do you require? Silk sheets? Feather mattresses?" she snapped. "I'm sorry Lukomorye cannot provide you with the comforts you're used to. This is all we have."

Paul wondered what sort of tsars they had in this land, when a tsarevna was no better than a peasant girl and thought nothing of sleeping on the ground. He was aware that this was unkind and scowled again, though this time more at himself.

"What about wild animals?"

"The leshy shall protect us."

"What about the cold?" Though it was summer, it was cool under the trees, and already he could feel the chilliness coming through his shirt. "Can we at least have a fire?"

The girl looked down at the cloak she was clutching about herself, then looked at Paul, who was rubbing his hands together to chase away the chill. "Oh, of course. But you'll have to gather the firewood. I can't do much with this." She lifted her injured arm out of the cloak with a wince. The wound was still weeping a little.

With a sigh, Paul got up and went around the clearing, picking up all the twigs and branches he could find. Zhara raised an eyebrow at the meager pile he brought back, but said nothing. She waved her hand over it, and soon, a cheery fire was crackling amidst the grove. "There. Good enough for you now, Tsarevich Paul?" she said, before returning to her bed of dry leaves.

"It's fine," Paul grumbled. Seeing that she still held her injured arm awkwardly by her side, he unwound the silk cravat from around his neck and wrapped it around her wound. Her skin was pleasantly warm under his fingertips. No wonder she didn't need a fire. She watched him with twinkling eyes but made no remark on his handiwork, and only said a quiet "Thank you" once he finished.

He went back to the fire and tried his best to make himself comfortable. He wondered if his absence had been noticed at the palace, or they'd simply shrugged it off and made a point to lock the doors from now on, as they had after he'd snuck out of the nursery when he was a child. He wondered if his mother would care.

Then he became aware of whispery voices and giggles all around him, soft, tinkling sounds that nevertheless hid a menacing note, like the wind blowing through broken glass. He opened his eyes and saw little flickers of light among the tall grass, surrounding them, moving closer and closer.

"What—what are those?" he asked, hugging his sword closer to himself.

The girl lifted her head and glanced at the lights. "Oh, those are the leshy's little children. Harmless creatures. They're just curious." She lay back down and promptly went to sleep.

But Paul couldn't sleep. The lights were now just on the very edge of the fire's halo, and he could see that they were indeed the same phosphoric eyes as the leshy's, only these were set on bodies that resembled toadstools or broken twigs and rotten leaves. He shivered, thinking how close he'd come to picking up one of them for the fire by mistake. Compared to the leshy, they were much lighter on their feet—if they even had feet—flitting from bush to bush, branch to branch, crowding, jostling, pushing each other forward, daring each other to get closer to Paul.

Then they began to sing:

Pavel, Paul, little Pashenka Scolded by his mama He runs away from home, he falls down a lane And no one hears from Pashenka ever again.

At this, Paul's fear was replaced by anger, and he picked up his plumed hat by the fire and threw it as hard as he could at those glow-worm eyes. "Shut up!" he shouted.

"Stop tossing things about, you ninny," came the girl's irritated voice from under the folds of the cloak, "and go to sleep."

The lights scattered, leaving behind a peal of burbling laughs that soon faded into the murmur of the stream. Paul lay still, listening to the sounds of the forest for a long, long time, until eventually, exhaustion overcame him, and he slept.

Chapter 3

1. Les chestnoi: honorable one of the forest. 2. Les pravedniy: righteous one of the forest.

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

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