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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

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To the edge of days (Prologue, pt.1)

To the edge of days Masterlist

Pairing: Hvitserk/Reader

Summary: A fairytale retelling of the story of the Sea Tsar and Vasilisa the Wise, with some elements of the Swan Maiden myths and folklore.

Word Count: 3.5k (I can’t write short stuff anymore, help)

Warnings: Fantasy/Magic!AU, some nudity, canon-typical mentions or descriptions of violence, and ✨magic✨ (and shapeshifter!Reader and OCs, but if you don’t like that sort of stuff rest assured that both the swan maiden/shapeshifting and the magic only have relevance on the prologue and 1st chapter, then it’s just basically canon universe rules in an AU with a few mentioned fantasy elements -well that was a needlessly complicated description-).

A/N: This is (the first part of) my entry for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie’s 500 Followers Celebration, with the prompt of the fairytale of The Sea Tsar and Vasilisa the Wise.

Congratulations again, bonita! You’re so amazing, such a lovely person and so damn talented, ilysm!! Thank you for all you do, for all your wonderful Hvitty fics that feed my soul, hope you like this! 😘

A lil info dump on the fairytale(s) and folklore that this takes inspiration from: You can find a summary of the story of The Sea Tsar and Vasilisa the Wise right here and a translation of the original right here. Of course, Hvitserk takes the role of the hero, Iván Tsarévich, and the reader character that of Vasilisa. The fairytale uses a lot of familiar figures of Russian folklore, such as the animal bride, a woman capable of shape-shifting into a swan or similar bird, but who depends on a cloak of feathers to be able to return to her bird form, otherwise trapped in human form (in this fairytale, as in many others, she is spied on by the hero, who is then able to marry her, though in most stories with the swan maiden her husband hides the cloak from her so she cannot return to her sisters/world, only for her to find it or her children to give it back to her at the end, allowing her to go freely); and the the devil’s daughter, as Vasilisa is a daughter of the Sea Tsar that torments Iván. This follows loosely the structure of the The Sea Tsar and Vasilisa the Wise fairytale, while also incorporating some elements from swan maiden folklore, a little information on that you can find here.

And lastly, title is from the Atticus quote: I will chase you to the edge of days, to our last tomorrows.

If anything is unclear or I’ve missed anything, please let me know! Thank you!

Shrugging off the cloak of feathers with a sigh, you hide it in the hollow under some old tree’s roots as you always do, before following the sound of your sister’s voice to the stream of clear waters.

“You finally decided to join us, eh?” Živa states as soon as she sees you, playing with a flower that floats in the water around her.

“I heard your squawks all the way from home, you didn’t leave me much of a choice.” You retort, chuckling and ducking out of the way of the flower Živa tries throwing at your head.

“If you could stop slandering me and convince your sister to come down and no longer circle us like a vulture, that would be great.”

You look up to see the raven flying overhead, a caw that sounds almost offended reaching you after Živa’s words.

“She likes making sure we are safe here, you know that.”

Živa only huffs, petulantly offended, and sinks further down into the water until only the top of her head is visible. With a chuckle, you walk towards her, careful steps taking you over the boulders that litter the shore until you find one where you can sit and only dip your feet into the tranquil waters.

With one last cry, the raven flying overhead dives down as quick as lightning, seemingly unstopped until in the blink of an eye your sister stands in the place where it would have crashed.

Your eyes narrow with your smile, “Dramatic.”

Morana shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her own lips as she takes off her own cloak of feathers, carefully placing it on a rock by her side before she starts walking further into the water to join you two.

Talking about everything and nothing for a while, you are almost considering joining them in swimming, when the eldest of your sisters takes a breath and brings the world past the wilderness you call your own to the front of your mind.

“I saw a group of hunters heading North,” She comments casually, shooing away a floating flower left behind by Živa. “From Kiev.”

Your other sister needs only the mention of that kingdom to perk up, a cruel edge in her dark eyes as she taunts without hesitation, “You haven’t done anything impressive, there is not even a whisper of death in the air.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

The smile falls from Živa’s face, her expression twisting somewhere between affront and confusion, “Why not?”

“I would have had to endure you boasting about how you could have done better, when we both know you aren’t as fast as you think you are.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Morana’s answering smile is cold and refrained, but the glint in her eye speaks of more life than her eerily calm tone gives away,

“Will you rise to it?”

Your sister’s eyes shine with a childish glee at the promise of carnage that should be striking, should feel like a stark contrast to her warm disposition, but somehow the bloodthirst seems to fit well with the season she breathes life to. It is during spring that men go to war, and in the season of rebirth and battle it is often blood and not rain that waters the flowers.

Big eyes turn to you, and she swims closer,

“Are you up for it?”

You frown, moving your feet back and forth in the water as you argue, “I just got here.”

Her nose furrows as she teases in mocking sadness, voice low, “You’ve got too soft a heart, dear sister.”

As you lean closer, your answer is just as low, an exchange that is entirely too natural between you, “At least I have one.”

She smiles but doesn’t argue, and returns to shore and shrugs the cloak she left in a small cove of roots and dead branches back on. There’s still the faint stain of red on the warm colored feathers, old blood sticking stubbornly to the almost golden tone of her cloak, and you truly do not want to know if the blood is her own or someone else’s.

Živa calls for Morana to hurry which only makes her move more slowly on purpose, but before long your sisters have taken to the skies again, the almost taunting screeches of a hawk slowly getting more and more distant until all you can hear is the lull of the waters and the branches of the trees resisting the tranquil breeze.

With them gone and only the wind for company, you allow yourself to relax, stripping down and leaving your dress safe by the riverbank, before slipping into the calm waters, bathing and swimming to your heart’s content.

Somewhere in the back of your mind there’s the tether to the world around you, to the skies and the land, and you can almost hear the screech of a hawk in the distance even though you know Živa is far from you, you can hear a crow caw even though Morana never enjoyed being quite as loud as your other sister.

Eyes closed, you reach for them, and as always the tether to Živa strengthens with more ease, and you can feel the wind against her wings, the warm blood on her tongue, the thrill in her heart at the melody that war is for her.

You see flashes of what is happening around her, feel her jump between beast and woman with the ease only she has for it. When she lingers for a moment too long as a woman instead of a bird, you notice that the armor in those men is not that of mere hunters.

But before you can linger on it, a sound startles you back into reality.

You know that sound. A branch giving way under someone’s step.

Stalling your breath, you stay still in the water, and slowly you turn your head to glance back to the shore.

Ice runs through your veins when you find a man standing there, warm eyes on you, frame lean but still that of a warrior, a sword hanging from his side.

The scream that leaves your lips sounds too alike the shrill cry of an owl even to your own ears, and you scramble back further into the waters, never turning your back to the intruder.

Your heartbeat rushes in your ears and fear sings in your blood, but you still notice the dark color of his armor, and you know where he comes from.

You know where he comes from, and because of that you know what he might do, what he is capable of.

“What are you doing here!?”

He startles as well, drawing back, “You don’t have to-…I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then leave.” You hiss, trying to be as discreet as you can as you seek with one hand desperately for a big enough stone on the riverbed. You aren’t sure what that might do against iron and brute strength, but it might stall him enough for you to fetch your cloak and kill him or fly away.

He hesitates, seemingly attempting a step forward before stopping himself. Your eyes narrow as you look at him, waiting for an action or an answer but receiving nothing but hesitant motions and ambivalent silence.

“How are you not freezing?” He asks eventually, seemingly honest, apparently truly curious. You hesitate, and the part of you that sounds too alike Živa makes you believe maybe that is what he is attempting, to distract you, to make you falter.

“That is none of your concern.”

“I will not hurt you.”

“I know that,” You retort, but he mistakes the meaning of your words it seems, and when you notice the slight loosening of the tension of his frame, you clarify, “You cannot. But you might try.”

You seem to startle a smile out of him, and you aren’t so sure why you feel that useless warmth at the sight of it, but it is quite easy to push that to the back of your mind.

“If I can’t, then what do you have to fear?” He prompts. He is reminding you strikingly of someone trying to lure an animal out of hiding, and you aren’t comfortable with that comparison. It usually ends with the animal dead, or in a cage.

You furrow your lips, and point out the obvious, “I do not know if you have noticed, but I am naked and you are dressed for war. I am at a disadvantage.”

He opens his mouth to answer, before stopping himself and closing his mouth again. Slowly, and seemingly against his will, his lips curve into a smile.

“Are you asking me to get naked?”

Eyes wide, you shake your head immediately, gritting your teeth when words attempt to stumble past your lips without much sense or purpose. Embarrassment burns away at you, making you feel more exposed than you already are.

But, if there is something you share with your sisters, is that no discomfort lasts long without anger.

Eyes narrowed, you hiss, “You aren’t yet that lucky.”

His head tilts to the side, and the smile doesn’t give way. It seems to widen, to sharpen, as he repeats,

“Yet.”

“Your weapons, lay…lay them down there, and step away.” You order instead of indulging such a foolish taunt.

You try not to give away your surprise when he doesn’t hesitate to comply, undoing the belt from where a sword and an axe hang and taking a small dagger from his lower back and letting it join the pile he makes of his weapons.

“There.”

The way he steps back, arms swinging for a moment longer than the simple movement would make them, almost makes you feel a tad more at ease. If the Kievan is fidgeting, perhaps…he truly has no intention to hurt you.

But perhaps it is not a nervous gesture, but the anticipation of a beast before it pounces, the nervous flutters of muscles held to high tension as they still in preparation for an attack.

Regardless, you swim closer, extending a hand and touching the tips of your fingers over the cold iron. It quickly joins the earth underneath them, nothing but dirt and dust again, and you can breathe a little easier.

“W-What did you…?” His words die, and warm eyes search yours for answers you hope you are not giving away. “You…you have magic.”

You don’t answer, and though you are aware that is an answer in and of itself, the thoughts in your mind are chasing themselves in circles too much for you to care for such a thing right now.

Disappearing momentarily behind one of the larger boulders where you discarded your clothes, you quickly shrug the dress back on, uncaring that it clings to your damp skin as you search the branches and leaves that litter the riverbank for the hiding spot of your cloak.

Your heart stops when you fail to find it, and horror dawns on you.

Before you can think twice about it, you stride back to the alcove of trees where you saw the Kievan last, hands clenched into fists and eyes searching desperately for him.

You find the man crouching by the place where you made his weapons erode away, attention solely dedicated to the iron-colored dust that now stains the tips of his fingers.

Refusing to let yourself falter at the sight of what you are sure is some sort of curiosity, you continue walking, anger bubbling under your skin at the offense, anger making it easier for the panic that bubbles somewhere in your chest at the thought of having lost your cloak to a Kievan to be swallowed down.

“You thief!” You snarl, sparing only a glance to his surroundings to see if the spark of white feathers is visible anywhere, but to no avail. As the man stumbles back, standing up once again but still backing away from you, you continue, “Whatever foolish tales they share in Kiev are not true, so give it back!”

You know the stories they tell, of how stealing the cloak of a woman like you, a woman like your sisters, gives men claim to their hearts, gives them a right to marry the woman they have stolen it from.

“What are you talking about?”

“You stole it from me!”

“Stole what!?” He asks, and you don’t fail to notice he is still stepping back away from you as you advance, and on some part of your mind you know you ought to be smart and think about what that means, but anger and fear make you keep moving, voice rising.

“You were spying on me! You stole from me!”

“I-I-I didn’t! I didn’t steal anything from you!” He lifts his hands in a show of innocence that you do not believe for a single moment. The slightly panicked chuckle that leaves his lips makes you stop walking, instead taking a moment to study him, and he seizes the chance and tries again, voice calmer, “I did not come here to steal anything from you.”

Your eyes narrow, and past gritted teeth you press, “What are you here for then? What do you want from me?”

If it is some sort of favor he wants in exchange for the cloak, then you will grant it. Many have crossed these forests having been promised wealth and power in exchange for leaving you alone, and you do not know nor care if the Gods have granted either, but it has let you get rid of them.

His eyes search yours, and he seems to be aware that every moment of his silence makes you think he is searching for an excuse, for he opens his mouth a couple of times to try to find something to say, before settling on,

“I just…want to talk to you.”

“Talk?” He nods his head, murmuring an assent for good measure. Not bothering to mask the frown that mars your features, you prompt, forcing your muscles to let go of tension enough for you to gesture with a hand, “Talk, then.”

Silence, again. You are starting to think he rarely thinks twice about the things he gets himself into.

“What…what is your name?” He asks finally, the way he voices the question makes you think he was stumbling for something to say.

Still, you hold on to rightful anger, and jut your chin upwards, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What do you want my name for? You’ll probably steal it as well.”

At that he laughs, his head dropping forward and a silent shake of his shoulders accompanying the movement. You frown, affronted, but wait for him to speak.

“I promise I won’t.”

“What use have I for a thief’s word?”

“I haven’t stolen anything from you.”

Your eyes narrow at his smile. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he is trying to be charming. If he is, he is failing.

Your words leave you past gritted teeth, “A thief and a liar then.”

He doesn’t argue, which is commendable. Instead, he tries reasoning with you.

Though, his attempts at reasoning make you feel like a child, or a crazy woman.

“Alright, what do you think I stole from you?”

“What do you think it was?” You ask instead. The man shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips that he tries forcing back.

“Nothing.”

You bite back a sigh, closing your eyes and trying to find calm again. The fear at the prospect of having lost your tether to this earth makes you feel jittery, makes anger entirely too easy to fall into, but you refuse.

“My sister would have your head for playing such games, you know.”

“My brother would have yours for such accusations. Perhaps we should introduce them to one another.”

Just imagining Živa being introduced to a human, and a Kievan at that, is outlandish and hilarious enough to make some soft part of you relent, some warm part of you wish to offer a smile.

Instead of any such foolish thing, you step forward, head titled to the side as you take him in, the dark armor, the fur draped over his shoulders, the braids in his brown hair. No man, no warrior, would venture into these forests alone, not without a purpose.

“Why are you here, thief?”

“Not a thief.”

“Not an answer.” You insist, lifting your brows.

His smile widens, again. It is unsettling.

“Would you believe me if I told you I got lost?” He prompts, but before you can say anything he shrugs one shoulder, sitting back down on the fallen tree with such nonchalance that your words die in your lips. “Well, that is the truth.”

“Where are you supposed to be then?”

He glances from a berry bush he was studying back to you, seemingly considering whether or not he should trust this information to you.

After a deliberation that is entirely too short in your opinion, he tells you, “Now? I suppose I will return to Kiev. My brother and I will meet again in Novgorod, if the Gods are with me.”

“Novgorod is far from Oleg’s control now.” You venture before you can think twice about it, searching his gaze for any indication of a lie and finding none when he nods his head and states,

“I know. That is why we were going there,” His eyes linger on yours, and you surprise yourself when you feel no urge to look away. He leans forward, elbows resting on bended knees, and tries, voice quiet, “Whatever you think I took from you, I swear I did not.

You know that now. Being able to calm your heart has let you realize you didn’t leave the cloak by the riverbank as you usually do, has let you remember hiding it a few steps back in the alcove made by an old tree’s roots.

If you are honest, you truly feel foolish right now.

You will still blame it on him for startling you like this.

At your silence, he ventures again, “Your people are not exactly allies of Oleg, are you?”

“Neither are yours, it seems.”

The side of his mouth curves into a grin, voice strangely soft, almost fond, as he mumbles, “You never answer my questions directly.”

“Can you blame me for distrusting you?”

Without waiting for an answer, and still careful of turning your back to him, you go back to the hiding spot where you find the cloak of feathers, white dotted with black, running your hand over the softness of it for a moment before you stand up and put it back on over your shoulders.

For too long you debate on whether you should escape now, on what you should do. For too long you consider indulging the foolish, and reckless, and frankly stupid part of you that wants to go back, that wants to talk with him more.

The cloak serves more as an armor than you would ever be willing to admit, and you tell yourself it is the confidence having your own form of a sword and shield with you that lets you return, and not your foolishly soft heart that forces you to.

When you walk back, you find him absently picking some berries from a nearby bush. You notice the look he gives you, a silent challenge to see if you will admit you were wrong in accusing him of stealing from you, but you arrogantly lift your chin upwards and refuse to give away any ground.

You could swear you hear him chuckle as you find a seat on a rock a good distance away from him.

“Will you apologize?” He ventures, shrugging at your startled expression, “You wrongfully accused me.”

“You were watching me bathe. Forgive me for thinking you were less than an honest man.”

His answering smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle adorably, and he purposely ignores the venom of your answer to cheerfully claim,

“Apology accepted.”

“I-I-…it wasn’t…” You sputter, but he makes no note of it, continuing,

“And for what it is worth, I truly am sorry for startling you.”

There’s a whisper by your foolish heart, too-soft heart, that promises you there is no harm in believing he is honest, that reassures you the regret in his voice is not an act.

Instead of acknowledging the apology, you ask, “Why were you…watching me?”

If the question startles him, he doesn’t show it. Though you could swear his smile softens a little, a thoughtful hum leaving him as he licks his lips.

“It is not every day that I stumble upon a beautiful woman bathing in the middle of the forest.”

“Charming.” You deadpan. He brings a berry to his lips, swallowing before asking,

“Truly?”

“No.”

He shrugs again, popping another berry into his mouth, “Worth a try. And it is true.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope this was alright! I’m still trying to get the hang of Hvitserk’s character so I apologize if I did poorly.

I’ll post the second part of the prologue in a few days, maybe a week? Idk. Thank you for reading!

Hvitserk Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

#hvitserk x reader #hvitserk imagine #Hvitserk #to the edge of days masterlist

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matthew-s-j · 3 years

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Russian Wizarding World | Koldovstoretz

Koldovstoretz (Russian: колдовсторец) is the Russian wizarding school. It is one of the eleven schools registered with the International Confederation of Wizards.

Article in russian Волшебный мир России | Колдовстворец

Russian: колдовсторец

Location: Russia, Island of Buyan

Mysterious island in the ocean with the ability to appear and disappear using tides.

Permanent residents:

Koldovstoretz students

Koldovstoretz staff

Entities, spirits and unquiet dead

History

Buyan was discovered by Prince Gvidon, son of Tsar Saltan. His aunts arrange to have the baby Gvidon and his mother sealed in a barrel and thrown into the sea. The sea takes pity on them and casts them on the shore of a remote island.

Koldovstoretz was founded around 1050 - 1100 A.D. by wizard and the shape-shifter Volkh Vseslavich (Russian: Волх Всеславьевич) and his wife Marya Yaroslavna (Russian: Марья Ярославна).

Pelageya "The wizard and the werewolf Prince" (text)

In the sky of the wolf shadow Finish your day The squad shunned The wizard and the werewolf Prince

School

Go I Know Not Whither and Fetch I Know Not What (Russian: Пойди туда, не знаю куда, принеси то, не знаю что)

Coat of Arms

Firebird (Russian: жар-птица) In Slavic mythology and folklore, the Firebird is a magical and prophetic glowing or burning bird from a faraway land which is both a blessing and a harbinger of doom to its captor.

Known students

Ivan the Fool (Russian: Иван-дурак)

Vasilisa the Wise (Russian: Василиса Премудрая)

Marya Morevna (Russian: Марья Моревна)

Fyodor Alexeyevich Basmanov (Russian: Фёдор Алексеевич Басманов)

Solokha (Russian: Солоха)

Margarita Nikolaevna (Russian: Маргарита Николаевна)

Administration

The highest position of staff was the Rector.

Prorektor (deputy rector) assisted the rector in his duties.

Master who is in charge of a class.

Teacher instructs or trains students.

Core classes

Mandatory disciplines:

practical magic

charms

alchemy

potioncraft

dark discipline

divination and runic magic

levitation

Jerel's song theater "OI on Ivan Kupala" (text)

Potion searched twigs weaving Oh Ivan , the one on Midsummer On the blue waves that they and embark Oh Ivan , the one on Midsummer

Students can choose from three learning paths

light line

protective magic

apotropaic magic

curse removal

barrier magic

defensive magic

natural line

shamanism

herbalism

magical creatures

medical magic

dark line

necromancy

undead manipulation

demonology

blood magic

curse

Electives

history of magic

divination

teleportation

art

Terem

Melnitsa "A Bride for Poloz" (text)

Fog has shrouded the glade - Serpent king is awaiting you there, You are his betrothed

Class room

Dormitory

School territory

Library

Uniform

Jenia Lubich "Ritual Song" (text)

Time is a fast river, no one will be spared. Waiting for the groom's bride. Waiting like the hour. In white color dressed, accurately in a shroud is worth. The rest is doomed, the wedding bell is ringing.

More songs

Pelageya "Lullaby" (text)

Pelageya "Valenki" (text)

Anna Pingina "The Swallow" (text)

Anna Pingina "Lullaby" (text)

Melnitsa "Werewolf" (text)

Melnitsa "Olga" (text)

Melnitsa "Sister" (text)

Alevtina "Sun"

Lyube & Melnitsa "Plumelet" (text)

#harry potter #hogwarts #magic #magic school #russia #koldovstoretz #folklore #russian folklore #folk music #wizard #witch #russian wizarding world

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acidmanticore · 3 years

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More fairy tales?

"Princess-frog" or "Frog princess"

[starting with Vasnetsov painting of course, other illustrations are by Bilibin]

In one kingdom lived a tsar, and he had three sons. Youngest one was prince Ivan.

Once tsar called for his sons and told them:

- My dear children, you're of age now, it's time to think about getting married!

- But how do we choose who to marry, father?

- Take each an arrow, draw your bows and shoot to the different sides. Where the store falls, go look for your bride.

Brothers went to the castle square, drew their bows and shot.

First the oldest brother shot, arrow feel into boyar's court and boyar's daughter picked it up.

Then the second brother shot, any his arrow flew into merchant's yard, and merchant's daughter picked it up.

Prince Ivan shot an arrow and it fell into the mire and the frog picked it up.

Older brothers went looking for their arrows and found them soon - one in the boyar's chambers, another - in the merchant's house. But prince Ivan could find his arrow. For two days he was walking through forests and mountains and on the third day came to the mire. Looks - little frog sits there holding his arrow.

Prince Ivan wanted to run and pretend he haven't find anything but frog said:

- Croak-croak, prince Ivan! Come here, take your arrow and marry me.

Prince got very sad and answered:

- How can I marry you? People will laugh at me!

- Take it, prince Ivan, you don't regret it.

Prince Ivan thought for a while, took a frog, wrapped it into a napkin and brought it home.

Older brothers returned and told where their arrows fell.

Prince Ivan told as well. Brothers started laughing but father said:

- Well, there's nothing to do, marry a frog!

The marriage y were celebrated, three princess got married: older prince married the boyar's daughter, middle prince married three merchant's daughter and prince Ivan married... A frog.

Next day tsar called for his sons and said:

- Well, my dear sons, you all married now. I want to know if your wives know how to cook. Let them bake each a loaf of bread for the tomorrow morning.

Princes bowed deeply and went away. Prince Ivan returned to his chambers devastated, almost in tears.

- Croak-croak, prince Ivan, - said the frog, - why are you so sad? Did your father tell you something hurtful?

- How can't I be sad! - answered prince Ivan, - My father ordered you to bake a bread for tomorrow morning! Yourself!

- Don't worry, prince Ivan! Go sleep, morning is wiser than evening!

Frog waited till prince fell asleep, threw frog skin off and turned into beautiful princess Vasilisa the Wise - so beautiful it can't be described by words in any tale.

She took a sieve, sifted wheat flour, kneaded the white dough, baked a loaf - loose and soft, decorated the loaf with different intricate patterns: on the sides - towns with palaces, gardens and towers, above them - flying birds, on the bottom - prowling animals.

In the morning frog woke prince up:

- It's time, prince Ivan, get up, take the bread to your father!

She's put the loaf onto the golden plate and Ivan went to the tsar.

Older brothers also came, brought their breads, but there were nothing to look at: boyar's daughter's bread for burnt, merchant's daughter's - undercooked and saggy.

At first tsar took the older brother's bread, looked at it and ordered to throw it to the dogs.

Took the one from the second son, looked at it and said:

- A bread like this one could eat only out of great hunger.

Ivan's turn came. Tsar took a bread from him and said:

- A bread like this can be served at the grand celebrations!

And immediately gave his sons another order:

- I want to know how good your wives at needlework. Take silk, gold and silver, and let them weave a carpet for me with their own hands overnight!

Older princes returned to their wives and gave them their father's order. Wives started to call their matrons and maids to help them weave carpets. Matrons and maids gathered and started weave and embroider - some with silver, some with gold, some with silk.

Prince Ivan returned home sad, unable to raise his eyes.

- Croak-croak, prince Ivan, - said the frog, - why are you so sad? Did your father tell you something hurtful?

- How can't I be sad! - answered prince Ivan, - father ordered to make him an embroidered carpet overnight!

- Don't worry, prince Ivan! You better go sleep, morning is wiser than evening.

Frog waited till he fell asleep, then took off her frog skin, turned into beautiful girl Vasilisa the Wise and started to weave the carpet. Pokes with a needle once - flower blooms, pokes another time - complicated patterns appear, pokes third - birds fly...

Sun was still asleep when carpet were finished.

Three brothers came to the tsar in the morning, each brought a carpet. Tsar took the first one and said:

- This carpet's only use to cover horses from the rain!

Took from the second brother, liked and said:

- This carpet's only place is under the gates!

Took from prince Ivan, looked and said:

- And this carpet should be layed in my chambers for big celebrations!

And immediately gave another order, for all three princes to come to his feast next day with their wives: he wants to see which princess is a better dancer.

Princes went to their wives.

Prince Ivan goes sad, thinking to himself: "How can I bring the frog to the royal feast?"

When he came home, frog asked;

- Why are you sad again, prince Ivan? What bothers you?

- How can't I be sad! - said prince Ivan, - father ordered me to bring you with me for the royal feast...

- Don't worry, prince Ivan! Go sleep, morning is wiser than evening!

Next day, when time came for the feast, frog said:

- Well, prince Ivan, go to the feast by yourself, and I will come after you. When you'll hear rumble and thunder - don't be scared, say: "It's my frog rides in her box".

Prince Ivan went to the tsar's feast alone.

And older brothers came with their wives dressed like queens, beautiful. They're standing and laughing at Ivan:

- Why did you, brother, come without your wife? Could've at least brought her in some napkin, let us all listen how she's croaking!

Suddenly loud rumble and thunder arose - whole castle started shaking. All the guests for scared, jumped off their seats. And prince Ivan said:

- Don't be afraid, dear guests! It's my frog coming in her box!

Everyone ran to the windows and saw: runners run, messengers galloping, and behind them a gilded carriage harnessed by three bay horses.

Carriage came right to the threshold and stepping out of it is Vasilisa the Wise - shining bright like the sun.

Everyone is looking at her, stunned by surprise and beauty, unable to say anything.

Vasilisa the Wise took Ivan by the hand and led him to the oak tables, to the embroidered tablecloths...

Guests started to eat, drink and have fun.

Vasilisa the Wise drinks from the goblet - doesn't drink all, spills the rest into her left sleeve. Eats roasted swan - puts bones into her right sleeve.

Older princes wives noticed that and started mimicking: what left from the drinks - into left sleeve, what food not finished - into the right one. But why, for what purpose - don't know themselves.

When guests got up from the tables, music started, dances began. Vasilisa the Wise went dancing with prince Ivan. Waved with her left sleeve - lake appeared, waved with right - white swans swimming in the lake. The tsar and all his guests were amazed. And when she's stopped dancing, all disappeared - both lake and swans.

Older princes' wives went dancing.

They waved with their left sleeves - and just spattered all the guests with wine, waved right sleeves - showered them with bones, one barely missed tsar's eye. Tsar got mad and ordered to kick them out of the ballroom.

Near the end of the feast prince Ivan found a minute and ran to his chambers. Found frog's skin and burned it with fire.

Vasilisa the Wise returned home, looks - there's no frog skin! She rushed to look for it. She's searched, searched, couldn't find and told prince Ivan:

- Ah, prince Ivan, what have you done! If you've waited for three more days, I would've been forever yours. And now - good bye, look for me far away from the lands, far away from the seas, in the land being the edge, in the sunless kingdom of Koshchey the Undying. As you wear out three pairs of iron boots, as you gnaw out three iron breads - only then you'll find me...

She said so, turned into a white swan and flew out of the window.

Prince Ivan was mortified. He equipped himself, took his bow and arrows, put on iron boots, put three iron breads into his shoulderbag and went to look for his wife, Vasilisa the Wise.

He was walking for long or for short, far or close - tale told fast, life is not, - two pairs of iron boots worn out, two iron breads gnawed, started the third one. And then he's meet an old man.

- Hello, grandpa! - said prince Ivan.

- Hello, good fellow! What are you looking for, where are you going?

Prince Ivan told him about his grief.

- Oh, prince Ivan! - said the old man, - Why did you burn the frog skin? You didn't put it on, you didn't have to take it off! Vasilisa the Wise was born more cunning and wise than her father, Koshchey the Undying, he's got angry and ordered her to live as a frog for three years! Well, there's nothing to do, words can't fix the trouble. Here's a ball for you: where it rolls, you go there.

Prince Ivan thanked the old man and went after the ball.

The ball rolls through the high mountains, told through dark forests, told through the green meadows, told through the swampy mires, rolls through the abandoned places, and prince Ivan goes on and on after it - he won't stop even for an hour of rest.

He went on and on, worn out the third pair of iron boots, gnawed the third iron bread, and came to the dense coniferous forest. A bear comes across him.

"Let me kill the bear! - thinks prince Ivan, - I don't have any food left".

He took aim but the bear suddenly told him in a human voice:

- Don't kill me, prince Ivan! You'll need me someday.

Prince Ivan didn't shoot the bear and went on.

He went through an open field and noticed a large drake flying over him.

Prince Ivan drew his bow and was about to shoot a sharp arrow at the drake, but the drake spoke to him in a human voice:

- Don't kill me, prince Ivan! The time will come - you'll need me.

Prince Ivan listened to the drake and didn't shoot him, went on hungry.

Suddenly a hare find towards him.

"I'll kill this hare! - thinks the prince, - I'm very hungry..."

He drew his tight bow, began to aim, and the hare said in a human voice:

- Don't kill me, prince Ivan! The time will come - you'll need me.

And the prince pitied him too and went on.

He came to the blue sea and saw: on the shore, on the yellow sand, lies a pike. Prince Ivan said:

- Well, now I'll eat this pike! I can't hold on any longer, I'm so hungry!

- Ah, prince Ivan! - said the pike, - Have mercy, do not eat me, but rather throw me back into the blue sea!

Prince Ivan pitied the pike, threw out into the sea and went on form the shore after his ball.

He was walking for long or for short, the ball rolls to the forest, to the hut. The hut standing on it's chicken legs, turning around itself.

Prince Ivan said:

- Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest, turn your front to me!

As he said, the hut turned its back to the forest and it's going to him. Prince Ivan entered the hut and saw: on the furnace lays Baba Yaga - bone leg. She saw the price and said:

- Why did you come to me, good fellow? By your will or by force?

- Ah, Baba Yaga, bone leg, why won't you feed me first, give me some water, site me the steam-bath, then ask questions?

- True, - answered Baba Yaga.

She fed prince Ivan, have him water and showed him the steam-bath, and then prince told her that he's looking for his wife, Vasilisa the Wise.

- I know, I know! - said Baba Yaga, - She's now with the evil Koshchey the Undying. It'll be difficult to get her, it don't be easy to deal with Koshchey: you can't kill him with an arrow or a sword. That's why he's not afraid of anyone.

- Is his death hidden somewhere?

- His death is on the end of a needle, that needle is in an egg, that egg is in a duck, duck in a hare, hare is in an iron casket, and that casket is on the top of an old oak. And that oak is in the dense forest, and Koshchey guards in like his own eye.

Baba Yaga told Ivan how to find the oak. Prince thanked her and went away. He was walking through the dense forests and swamps, and finally reached the oak. He looks at it and doesn't know what to do,how to get the chest. He's tried to shake the oak or climb it but nothing worked.

Suddenly bear showed up and uprooted the oak, the chest fell from the top and broke into pieces. Hare jumped out of it and took to its heels.

Look - another hare already running after it, catching up. He caught it and tore in pieces.

Duck flew out of the hate and rose high into the skies. But the drake chased it and hit it so hard the egg fell out and dropped right into the blue sea. Seeing this prince Ivan sat on the shore and started crying.

But then the pike swims to him holding the egg in her teeth.

Prince took the egg and went to the Koshchey's castle. As soon as Koshchey saw the egg in Ivan's hands, he's started shaking. And prince Ivan was throwing the egg from hand to hand, playing. He's throwing and Koshchey is panicking. But whatever needs tried to do, when Ivan broke the egg and broke off the tip of the needle, Koshchey the Undying turned to dust.

Then Ivan went to Koshchey's chambers, let Vasilisa the Wise out and they've returned to his kingdom and since lived together happily in love and harmony.

#fairy tales #russian fairy tales #fairy tale #Slavic #slavic fairy tales #slavic folklore #slavic paganism #slavic culture #russian folklore #Princess-Frog #Frog Princess #illustrations #old illustrations #Bilibin

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grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales · 2 years

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for fandom blorbo asks, do russian fairytales count as a fandom?

Oh, how could they not, when so much of my life has beeen consumed by them? Thank you so much for this ask, really amde my day, hope you won't be bored by my rambling:

blorbo: Predictably I know, but... who else but Baba Yaga? She is so ambigious and complex, and there are so many interpretations of her. She wants everybody to leave her alone in her woods, and knows everything; she mistreats her servants, and will help lost stranger because they were polite; she is pushed in oven so many times, and she is immortal. She is child eater and pseudo-mother figure; she is the threshold gaurdian who sets lethal tasks and donor who provides advice and mcguffins. She has no past and no background, and she has three sisters; she is the archetypal wicked witch, and such unique and recognizable character; the one and only, and her name is often not even written with capitals as if it was title or species. She stands at boundaries, and belongs nowhere; she is teacher of moral and personal lessons, and foreign being of wilderness. She is Devil's grandmother, and she is demonized pagan goddess of nature/death/initiation/snakes/winter/earth/ whatever theory you are trying to sell us now. Its fascinating how such a fairy tale character inspires people to read so much in her yet still remains undefinable.

(I think it obvious my favourite, and very biased and not very fulproof interpretation is ''What if God was omnipotent, omniscient and without beginning and end; and also grumpy mean grandmother with aching back who has grudge against everything around her and just wants to argue with her cat and spin in peace.'')

scrunkly: Ivan The Tsarevich. People in my opinion don't appreciate him enough, which fair I understand, we are all little fed up with third son who is stupid but lucky, and Ivan is sometimes jerk, but still! I admit, I am biased, because my view of him is '' a pretty and naive twink who only wants to be trophy husband of much smarter and powerful woman and tend to animals, and good for him!!!'' Also I love Vasilisa the Beautiful, yes girl, go play with your doll and be kind and good woman who becoems tsaritsa because her clothing is SO good, and also burn your stepfamily to ashes.

scrimblo bimblo: This is gonna be weird answer, but, Marya Morevna. I know, I know, Deathless came out and it is probably most famous retelling, at least in Western sphere, but though good book I would love if people realized source-Marya Morevna was brutal warlord empress who regularly slaughtered battlefields, conquered kingdoms day-to-day, and unfairly got shoved in passive role because she didn't tell her trophy house husband about evil wizard she kept locked up in basement without food or water. I also love all Vasilisas the Wise, especially her as The Sea Tsar's daughter. I am sorry, smart magical water women are my weakness. Oh! And Alyoshka from Alyoshka and the Robbers, maybe? Has anybody translated that tale in English or do I gotta do it myself?

glup shitto: Baba Yaga's cat. I love animals and I love cats and I love animals that help fairy tale ehro because of kindness and I love snark, and this thing has it all. I want kids' horror tv series about this cat's adventures as aide to heroes.

poor little meow meow: What is problematic in these tales? Hmm, can't be Koschei Deathless ( i love him as withered old man who uses black magic to remain immortal and preys on princesses but gets betrayed by animals and is also treated as another annoying little kid by Baba Yaga, not sexy dark god, sorry haha, but it's good book really). I love Grey Wolf, even if he is dastardly trickster? Also any and all dragons and rusalkas and such creatures.

horse plinko: Poor Ivan probably, haha, but I also love putting his elder brotehrs though tortures haha.

eeby deeby: Hmmm... Not sure. All those mean greedy elderly emperors, I suppose?

Anyway, thanks a lot for this, and sorry for rambling!

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laurasimonsdaughter · 4 years

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I really love the idea of Baba Yaga: an old witch who lives in a house with chicken legs. Are there any Baba Yaga stories you know of where Baba Yaga isn't evil? If not, what are your ideas on a friendly Baba Yaga

Oh I agree, Baba Yaga is a great character! She features in broader Slavic folklore, but I know her mostly from Russian fairy tales. There she mainly shows up in three forms: helpful Baba Yaga, cannibal Baba Yaga and… let’s call her maybe-murderous Baba Yaga:

The helpful type gives heroes good advice and useful gifts. (E.g. The Three Kingdoms, The Maiden Tsar, King Bear, The Sea King and Vasila the Wise, Go I Know Not Wither, Bring Back I Know Not What, Ilya Muromets and the Dragon.)

The cannibal type wants to trap people to cook in her stove and eat. (E.g. “Baba Yaga”, Baba Yaga and the Brave Youth, The Prince Danila Govorila.)

The maybe-murderous type is only helpful when the hero performs the right kind of behaviour. (E.g. “Baba Yaga”, Maria Morevna, Vasilisa the Beautiful, and Ilya Muromets and the Dragon, again.)

In some stories there is more than one Baba Yaga, in which case they are sisters.

She is sometimes called “Baba Yaga the Bone-Legged”, in whatever form she takes. The dangerous Baba Yaga’s often fly around in a mortar, wielding the pestle as a magic rudder. The cannibal and maybe-murderous types often have a fence around their house made from human bones or decorated with skulls.

The iconic little hut on chicken feet is usually the first thing a hero ever sees of Baba Yaga and multiple stories state you must greet the house thus: “Little hut, little hut, turn your back to the forest and your front to me.” That way you can go in.

I will make a separate post to tell you some more about specific stories where Baba Yaga is friendly!

#baba yaga #russian folklore #slavic folklore #the-importance-of-being-wilde #ask #laura babbles

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avilionea · 1 year

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NAME: Ivan Tsarevich / Ivan Nikolayevich SPECIES: Human ORIENTATION: ??? GENDER: male BIRTH DATE: ???

APPEARANCE

He is a boy turned man, a hero of hero’s tales and yet he know not of this. his head has been kissed by the sun and his eyes are like the sea. he i broad shouldered, as much a prince as peasant, as much a fighting man as a pacifiist.

face claim: Nikolay Machulskiy

RELATIONSHIPS

FAMILY: Nastasya the Golden Braid (Mother); Nikolay Tsarevich ( Father); two brothers

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Yelena the Beautiful (Wife, deceased); Vasilisa the Wise ( lover) ; Marya Morevna ( lover)

CHILDREN: Verse dependent

PERSONALITY

He is the best of men in valor and strength. He is quiet and somber, yet loud and joyful. he is dedicated and hardworking, if at heart a little naïve. Time has molded him, shifted him, he knows he will never find peace at rest so he is always restless.

NEED TO KNOWS

Yelena gifted him a shepherd/wolf mix as a wedding gift. The dogs name is Alexei and it goes everywhere with him. In deathless verses, this dog is a variant of the wolf from the tale of the firebird .

He is skilled in sword, knife skills, and the bow, he is a trained soldier, in deathless verses is an excellent marksman.

in his spare time ( to keep from smoking) he plays the flute.

During his escape from the Sea Tsar’s realm he took the Tsar’s twelfth daughter, Vasilisa, with him. The only way to take her out of that realm and into Russian was to not look back to her as she was part of that realm, finding a loophole in holding her hand as they ran. The Sea Tsar pursued them three times and on the third Ivan lost hold of her hand and looked back to make sure she was still there. He met her eyes, forgot all memory of her and his time in that realm and was exiled into Russia. he is subject to the Sea Tsar’s curse, and because of this will never remember who Vasilisa is and what his relationship with her was. She’s tried on multiple occasions to get to him and to make him remember to no avail. You can talk to him about her, but by the end of the conversation he will have no recollection of her at all. there is no breaking this curse.

VERSES

Folklore Deathless

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

To the edge of days (Prologue, pt. 2)

To the edge of days Masterlist

Pairing: Hvitserk/Reader

Summary: A fairytale retelling of the story of the Sea Tsar and Vasilisa the Wise, with some elements of the Swan Maiden myths and folklore.

Word Count: 4.5k (sorry!)

Warnings: Fantasy/Magic!AU, canon-typical mentions or descriptions of violence and injuries, and ✨magic✨ (and shapeshifter!Reader and OCs, but if you don’t like that sort of stuff rest assured that both the swan maiden/shapeshifting and the magic only have relevance on the prologue and 1st chapter, then it’s just basically canon universe rules in an AU with a few mentioned fantasy elements -well that was a needlessly complicated description-).

A/N: Second and final part of the prologue, hope this is alright! Thank you for reading!

I’m sorry it took me this long to post this part. I’m probably going to go with an update every two weeks instead of one like I did for the other series bc I’m currently writing very slowly and I have countless other stuff I need to focus on and post. Thank you for understanding!

Under your feet you could feel the vibrations of a battle, you could feel in a way neither of your sisters were ever able to the way the blood of Živa’s victims wets the hard earth of these lands; but now you cannot.

Now the quiet that reigns in the forests around you is not that unnatural quiet of the land holding its breath as a beast prowls in its hunt, but the quiet accompanied by the breeze flowing between the high trees and the birds chirping away as if calling for spring to rush its approach.

You realize only then, only in that quiet, that your sisters’ hunt has ended, that blood has been spilled and repaid.

Only then you realize you’ve been entertaining your foolishly soft heart with the company of this man for half a day.

And you know that at the reminder you should make yourself pull away, but you have no desire to do so.

He has offered tales of his land -Kattegat, he called it, and you learned that his voice sounds more his own when he says it, just as when he says words in his own language, unsure on what the translation to the tongue of the Rus is- and of his family -he has told you of the father he barely knew but keeps being told he should remember and the mother he tells himself he shouldn’t remember as not to miss her-; and in exchange you foolishly give away tales of your own, of your land and your family.

Shamefully almost, you realize your tales of your land are limited to these forests, to the distant and stolen Kiev, while his are of travels to warm lands with his eldest half-brother, and battles and conquests in lands of fog and rain with his other three brothers; and your family is this greedily-kept secret of your two sisters and the ghosts only Morana remembers enough to grieve for, while he has a glorious father the world will always remember and a mother that awaits them in their Kattegat, and four brothers that have stretched their fame all over their world and have explored greatly, married princesses, or made themselves lords of vast lands.

But he seems honest in his curiosity for you, it feels like he is as awed by your tales as you are by his, and it fills you with a warmth you know you should be spurning.

He tells you that after they avenged their father he and his brothers went on their own paths, the eldest returning to warm and sunny lands, while the second eldest -Ubbe, he told you, and you are still amazed by how easily he gives away their names, but much more so by how his voice changes when he speaks of home- earned himself lands to farm and form a family in, the last one having married a princess of some faraway lands.

He tells you that he and his youngest brother went in search of conquests and battle and found themselves in Oleg’s grasp, only now finding the allies and resources needed to turn their back to Oleg and retreat to Novgorod.

Only that it was today he was supposed to reach Dir’s city with his brother, and here he is, lost in some forest the Kievans speak of in fear, talking with you.

“I don’t understand,” You breathe out, realizing only after you have done it that you have leant closer to him. A part of you, skittish and distrusting, wants to move back, but pride keeps you from retreating. Eyes searching his and telling yourself the desire to not show weakness is the only reason you don’t pull away, you ask, “Do you not wish to be with your brother?”

A small smile, and he confesses, “The Fates will always bring Ivar and me back together. I do not know much, but I know this.”

“Trusting Fate to act in your place is not going to lead you in a good path.”

“It has so far.”

“You were in Kiev.” You tell him slowly, expecting him to realize it hasn’t been a very good path if it ended or even passed through Oleg’s city.

He chuckles at your words, but doesn’t quite acquiesce, instead arguing, “With my brother. And we made it out.”

“You haven’t, not yet.”

“I will,” He reassures without missing a beat. Your eyes narrow a you consider him, and after a while he prompts, “Unless your sisters plan on stopping me again.”

“Again?”

“We were separated, I told you.”

“You think we had anything to do with it?”

His gaze pointedly travels to the cloak over your shoulders, a nonchalant downward curve of his mouth as he shrugs, “Call it a hunch.”

The words stumble past your lips before you can remind yourself to have tact, “They have probably done more than stopping him, then.”

“You haven’t met Ivar.” He says without hesitation, and it is not a threat, but a promise.

He holds a certainty towards his brother’s strength that you are almost surprised by. A part of you considers that perhaps it is not at his brother’s strength, but at his stubbornness. A life beside Živa has taught you that it is more often the latter and not the former that more often lets people persevere.

“And you haven’t met my sister,” You correct. At his silence, you narrow your eyes, lips curving into a smile as you add, “If you expect me to give you her name, you will wait for a long time.”

His expression flickers to an almost affronted kind of curiosity for a moment, but as easily as you can read that on his face, you can read that he chooses to let go of it.

With a deep breath, “Would it help if I told you my name?”

“You would give it freely?”

A name might not mean to them as much as it means to you, but you truly are curious to see whether he would give it away regardless. You are not Morana, you are not one to have a hold over death and health, you can barely do anything with a man’s name; but he doesn’t know that.

He has been a witness to your magic, willingly gave away his weapons and offered only awe when you turned iron to dust, he has sat here and talked with you giving away truths as if you were a human just like him, and now you cannot help but wonder if he will trust you with his name as well.

You are tempted to call this instinct to trust others carelessness, or foolishness.

His warm gaze searches yours, and you know it is not carelessness because of the way he is hesitating to give his name away, you know it is not foolishness because of the way only in his hesitation he gives away knowing how important this choice might be.

It is not carelessness, it is not foolishness. It is something else, something you can’t quite understand.

“My name is Hvitserk.”

“Hvitserk,” You repeat, tasting the word on your tongue. You notice the way his smile widens, softens, at the sound of his name on your lips, and your heart does a strange thing in your chest at the sight. Scrambling to speak of something that isn’t that foolish warmth in your chest, or the way he’s looking at you, you prompt, “You truly did not intend to come here, then?”

“I don’t know exactly where here is.”

“Half a day on horseback from Kiev’s eastern forward camp,” You reply easily, shrugging your shoulders when he looks at you questioningly. At his silence, you motion with your head to his horse, “So you ought to make haste if you want to get there before nightfall.”

He doesn’t answer for a few breaths, the ghost of a smile curving at his lips that seems to be there without his permission to. That foolish thought makes your mouth almost curve to meet that smile, but you catch yourself before it betrays you.

“Yes, I, uh, I was told creatures lurk in these forests at night.”

This time you do not bother holding back a smile, and you walk closer, a skip in your step as you tilt your head to look at him.

“And do you believe that?”

“Should I?”

“Why are you asking me? Can’t you make up your own mind?”

“More often than not, no,” He chuckles despite himself, offering a nonchalant gesture as if to say he cannot help it. Licking his lips, the man considers you again, warm eyes roaming over you in a way that doesn’t feel abrasive, or unkind. It seems…curious, awed, and it catches your heart by surprise. “Is it true? They say women live in these forests, daughters of…Gods.”

Your nose furrows as you sigh, “Gods, kings. The centuries make those words mean the same thing entirely too often.”

“You haven’t answered, I still don’t know what you are.”

You wonder if you should, for that instant. A breath, and you almost tell him that your father’s name was in a tongue not even the echoes remember, that the gold of Kiev’s gates once was thread with which your mother wove, that your and your sister’s seclusion in these forests was nothing if not banishment.

“I’ll lead you to Kiev,” You tell him instead, walking towards the horse and daring a caress of its mane as you challenge his rider, “If you can keep up.”

His almost-startled laugh makes you turn around, and you find him with eyebrows raised, pointedly looking down at your bare feet before meeting your eyes.

“Is that a challenge?” He prompts, to which you shrug. Hvitserk walks closer, and holding his gaze, you silently offer him the reins of the horse with a teasing tilt of your head. “What will I get when I win?”

“If. What is it you want?”

He licks his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth, and your treacherous breath catches in your throat. You refuse to give anything away, and you patiently wait for his answer.

“A kiss?” He dares, smile widening just slightly as the words leave his lips. You could swear he almost leans closer, but stops himself.

Regardless, you take a step back, and nod your head once in assent.

Once he settles comfortably on his horse and gives you a gesture of his head that he is ready, you reach for that tether that always lingers in the back of your mind, a string tying you to this world that sometimes comforts you and sometimes chokes you.

The transformation is seamless, and taking to the darkening skies feels like emerging from cold waters and taking grateful gulps of air for the first time in entirely too long.

Perching yourself on a nearby branch, you feel the man’s eyes on you and give one shrill vocalization before you take off.

You hear the almost-hidden chuckle that leaves Hvitserk’s lips as he tries urging the horse to be faster, you hear the animal’s huffs and quickened heartbeat, you hear the wind rushing past you as you breach the tree line and face the almost barren vastness of land before you.

In the back of your mind, you hear the song of your home calling you back, warning you not to get too far. It sounds like Živa’s burst of boastful laughter as she lands a good shot during a hunt, and Morana’s quiet voice as she shares stories of the world before the Kievans in the dead of night; and it gets louder and louder as you approach the stolen city.

But you can ignore it, you can focus instead of the rhythm of a horse’s hooves on the cold ground, you can focus on the wind against your wings; and before long you reach the forward camp, or as close to it as you will allow yourself to go.

Of course, you get there before Hvitserk. You can see him grinning even as he approaches you, and your own lips curve into a smile as well.

He jumps down from the horse, eyes locked on you, and the way he looks at you, as if he is seeing you for the first time even if you are back in your true form, makes a strange pang of something flow through you.

“Word of advice: never bet against me.”

He chuckles, looks down at the ground with an expression that lingers somewhere near bashfulness, and your heart skips a beat.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” He promises almost absently, before admitting, “I-…for a moment, I thought you wanted to lose.”

“Oh?” You draw back, eyebrows raised. You know the answer, but you still have to ask, “And why did you think I would I want to?”

He doesn’t have much of a silver tongue when you put him on the spot, and that is entirely too endearing.

Clearing his throat, Hvitserk instead asks, “What will you ask for, since you won?”

They say giving someone your name gives them power over you, and in the refuge of your and your sisters’ world you never thought much of such a thing; but now the old warning comes unbidden to your mind.

Because it is a certainty that you can only attribute to magic -attributing it to something other would be possible but you do not want to consider that to blame there might be something softer, something more foolish- that lets you confidently step towards him, crossing the distance between you until you are tilting your head back to look into his warm eyes.

“We are more alike than I thought,” You admit, lips quirking into a smile and heart speeding up when his eyes follow the movement, drawn to the curve of your mouth. “I ask for the same prize you did.”

He hesitates, only a moment, gaze dragged back to your own and something soft swimming in the warmth of his eyes, before he takes that small step forward, hand daring rest on the side of your waist.

“You didn’t have to win the race to get a kiss from me.” He murmurs, voice low as his head bows down, brow almost pressed against yours.

Your breath hitches, and you lift a trembling hand to rest against his chest, thrill and excitement making your blood sing, your smile widen, your heart flutter.

Your voice is a whisper as you tilt your head, up lips a breath away from his own, “Neither did you.”

That same smile you have seen a few times today, that smile that almost startles you in its softness, in its warmth, is a smile you can now feel pressed against your own foolish smile, as Hvitserk crosses the small distance that separates you and finally captures your mouth.

He kisses you deeply, slowly, as if you both have all the time in the world to introduce your bodies to one another. Bringing you closer with his hands -gentle, impossibly so, and you think absently that might shatter because of that reckless gentleness- on either side of your waist, his tongue ventures past the seam of your lips, and in the maddening and intoxicating feel of his kiss you can almost pretend alongside him that there is nothing more urgent or more important than the taste of his kiss, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his name.

But eventually you have to part, and put your feet back on the ground, realize it isn’t possible to keep to the skies forever. Your hands on his chest serve both as a way to push yourself away and a barrier to keep him from claiming your mouth again as the elan of his body towards yours told you he intended to.

The warmth in his gaze swims alongside something darker, something that makes a pang of heat go through you.

Hvitserk licks his lips absently, as if chasing the taste of you, and you have to close your hand into a fist to keep yourself from reaching up with careless fingers and tracing the shape of his lips.

Instead of any such foolish thing, you step back, unable still to turn your back but content with being strong enough to pull away. You hold his gaze, you wouldn’t dare not to, even if your resolve almost falters when he seems to hesitate, arm stretching towards you as if to stop you from putting too much distance between you before he catches himself.

“Farewell, Hvitserk.” You tell him, taking another step back. Your body still refuses to obey and turn around, turn your back to him, and you are thankful for it, for you realize one last thing about this stranger.

You noticed before that his voice changes, his posture changes, his whole demeanor changes, when he speaks of his home, when he utters even a single word in his tongue or a name from his world. You notice now that his name on your lips evokes in him the same, bringing forth that inviting warmth, that captivating openness; and ensnaring you all the more.

With one last bow of your head as goodbye, you change back and take to the skies silently. You pretend not to feel his gaze on you as you fly towards the refuge of your lands, you pretend not to feel a strange dull ache in your chest as you leave him behind.

____

You never will stop being amazed by Morana’s ability to find you and Živa wherever it is you are, ever the eldest sister, and your eyes follow the path of the raven and the for-once slower hawk as they descend further away from the tree line with a small smile starting to curve at your lips.

Past the distance, you hear them arguing long before you can see them approach.

“Well, forgive me for thinking my sister would have my back!”

“I told you not t-…”

An angry huff interrupts Morana’s calm words soon enough.

“What is the matter?” You ask, and try as you might you cannot keep the smile that starts curving your lips at the petulant anger that darkens Živa’s voice.

“Morana tried to have me killed.”

Both your sisters make their way to you, and you see the mark of battle on both of them, but they are -as always- thankfully alive and well.

“Why would I try? That Kievan almost succeeded on his own.” Morana retorts, laughing as she dodges Živa’s half-hearted kick. Only when the latter moves you notice the stain of red on her side, thick blood that slithers down from her ribs.

If the pain is too much to bear, she doesn’t show it, instead arguing, “At least I didn’t run away.”

“No, you stayed and almost died. Brilliant strategy, truly.”

She huffs, petulant, “You are duller than I thought if you believe a man can kill me.”

Morana sighs, and though her attention lingers on the conversation, you notice the way she looks back, presses her lips together at the few drops of blood Živa is leaving as a trail. It is not often that you or one of your sisters bleeds, and though you saw no battle today it still unsettles to be a witness to the aftermath, so you can imagine Morana is more affected by Živa’s injuries that she lets on.

Regardless, she teases, a cold quirk of her lips, “I would think needing me to save you again would humble you.”

“You should know better.” You quip, earning a smile from the eldest.

But, of course, Živa argues, “Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t save me. Besides, it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“You can fly, and that Kievan couldn’t walk properly. How much more in your favor do you want it to be?”

Živa furrows her lips to hide a pout, and all she answers with at the end is a petulant, “Hmph.”

“I have to ask how It happened, Živa.” You prompt, but she doesn’t answer, stubbornly remaining silent as she summons a small whisper of spring to come to her, thawing snow from a nearby fallen tree before she sits down on it.

Morana takes advantage of that silence without hesitation, “‘The fastest sister’ cannot dodge an arrow, it seems. Nicked her on the side, right under her wing, and took her down. She was off balance after that, couldn’t fight well.”

It is not every day a man, a human, is able to take one of you from the skies. In all the years you have waged your secret and already-lost war against the Kievans, no one has ever taken Živa down, few of the scars she bears have a man as the reason; and though in the back of your mind grows the worry that it might happen again and she might not be lucky or strong enough to survive such a mistake again, you still start turning towards her with an expression that gives away your intention to tease her long before you open your mouth.

“Whatever it is, save it,” Živa is groaning before you even finish turning your head to her. Eyes wide and smile mocking, you approach her, ignoring her glare and the way she puffs up like an irked bird, “Vasilisa…”

“Don’t call me that,” You dismiss quickly, but you do not let up, “You let a Kievan win against you?”

Živa only offers a curse in a language you are too young to remember, dark eyes narrowed but still following your movements as you motion for her to move her arm to let you see the wound.

It is worrying, it always is when any of your sisters gets harmed, but she will be fine. Though, you worry how much harder flying will prove for her as she heals, and how your stubborn sister will refuse to let her body heal if it means she has to keep herself from doing as she pleases.

After a moment of silence, in a mumble that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is, she pouts, “He didn’t win.”

“Yes, he did.” Morana quips without missing a beat.

“Oi, whose side are you on!?”

She shrugs, “Yours, but you must allow me this, it is not every day I see you defeated,” You both ignore Živa’s petulant huff of defeated as if the very meaning of the word is strange to her, and diverting her attention to you and putting an end to the previous conversation, Morana presses, “Can you follow their trail? I think they were headed for Novgorod, but we should make sure they are past our borders.”

Calling your and your sisters’ strained attempts at keeping control of the forests that make the stretch of wilderness between the main cities of the Rus any semblance of a border is laughable and frankly more than generous; but she is right to speak of the woods that surround you, the wilderness no Rus would venture into in fear of the creatures -shapeshifters in some tongues, demons in others, and even ghosts according to some- that inhabit them, as yours.

And because they are yours, because your name speaks of your bond to these lands and your sisters’ of their influence on it, you know you must protect it.

You know you must make sure the foreigners have departed.

But you cannot help yourself when you once again look beyond the tree line into the distant vastness that somewhere in it holds the great city of Kiev. You cannot help but hesitate.

“I will take flight before dawn, I can catch up,” You offer a smile and turn to Živa, “We all know I am the fastest, after all.”

Her eyes narrow at your taunt, but she insists, “And what reasons might you have to not go now?”

“I, uh, there was a man here. He was watching me while I was in the river.”

Morana steps forward, furrowed brows and eyes cold, “Did he hurt you?”

“If he had tried to, his corpse would be keeping me company.” You reassure her, to which your sister only smiles, falling back into silence as she sits down on one of the cold rocks in front of you.

“Why are you here alone, then?”

“I am curious,” You venture, looking back at the barren landscape past the edge of the forest where you three sit. You can almost see the distant lights of Kiev in the distance, and make out the shapes of its palace. “He isn’t from here, and didn’t speak kindly of Oleg. He said he was leaving Kiev soon, that he was to leave today but got lost.”

“We forced them to split their forces, when we attacked earlier,” Morana states, “Many were lost in the chaos, I made sure the snow kept no tracks.”

Živa acquiesces with a gesture of her head before she says, explaining to you, “They had their course marked for Novgorod, they wouldn’t have taken a route through our forests otherwise.”

“And they didn’t have the numbers of an army that would go there to try and reinstate Oleg’s influence on the city,” Morana confirms, nodding her head. “Whoever those people were, they were not allies of Oleg. Perhaps th-…why are you smiling like that?”

Jutting her chin forward, Živa boasts, “I wasn’t bested by a Kievan after all.”

“You have no certainty that they were all foreigners.”

But she is unwavering now, arrogant tilt of her head as she insists, “Oh, but I do. No Rus can defeat me.”

Your eyebrows raise, and you tease, “So you were defeated after all?”

“It was a draw.”

Around a chuckle, Morana says, “I would argue against that.”

“And you would be wrong, as you usually are,” She dismisses easily, leaning back where she sits and expertly hiding a wince at what the sudden movement does to her wounded side. Attention once again on you, she asks, “Are you here to see if that man was lying?”

“She’s here to protect him,” Morana states before you can answer. You turn your gaze to your sister, wide eyes looking into the endless darkness of hers and finding nothing but that serene calmness that even you sometimes find eerie. She betrays a smile -cold, but they always are- as she murmurs, a curse and a law all in one, “The powerful do not cross Kiev’s gates.”

“And the powerless hang from its walls,” Živa finishes, realization dawning on her as she too turns to look over at the kingdom in the distant horizon. “Whoever he was, he isn’t going to leave these lands alive, is he?”

“Not without help,” You quip, pointedly avoiding looking at them when Morana turns her head to you, eyes narrowed. Trying and failing to hide a smile, you turn to your sisters and gesture with your arm, “Are you coming or not?”

Živa huffs an angry breath, and even as she stands back up, securing the cloak back over her shoulders, she complains, “Your soft heart will get us killed one day, you know.”

Your laughter blends into the call of an owl as you take to the dark skies, with your sisters in tow.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this!

Btw, I made lil aesthetic boards for the Reader and the sisters, idk if I should post them bc it’s a reader insert after all, but if you’ve read my work you know that even for reader inserts I have a faceclaim to imagine the mannerisms and stuff (I make no descriptions in the story of her or her sisters bc I still want it to be as inclusive as I can, it’s just for myself), so idk, if you wanna see them lemme know.

To the edge of days taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @solinarimoon @adrille88 @whenimaunicorn

#hvitserk x reader #hvitserk imagine #Hvitserk #to the edge of days masterlist

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