THEY DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO make of him, this child that came from the woods of Novochepyevsk. The man that had brought him to Herzog Aleksandrov's was weathered, skittish as a newborn fowl under the scrutiny of the matron. He carried the scent of gun smoke and blood, red bleeding into the whites of his eyes and skin blistered from the frigid winter air.

The boy he brought him was small – smaller than the other children that lived in the Herzog's house. It was evident that the two bore no relation. Whereas the man was dark-haired and brown-eyed – a common trait amongst those of Kosirovian descent – the boy was a slight wisp of a thing. A pale complexion, with little colour in his cheeks despite the low, lazy winds of winter surrounding them. Little bones and small features, it was a wonder; the matron mused as she watched him explore the expanse of the foyer, that he had survived as long as he did. Winters in Kosirovo were never hospitable – they were long and dark months with little sunlight in between.

She considers the wayward curls of his hair, near silver in colouring and how he moved with the curiosity of an animal that had found its way inside a populace settlement.

"You say you found him in the woods," Yaroslava reiterates slowly, her expression firmly displaying her disbelief at that story the man – Viktor, he had introduced himself as – had given her. "You do not know his name, or where he came from."

"He does not have a name," the man, Viktor, says with a furrow between his brows. "He remembers nothing, I wager. Not his name, or where he came from." Or how he came to be in the Greatwoods.

"Is that true, pojke?" Yaroslava asked of the boy, the Vierzieuian word an unfamiliar weight on her tongue. It leaves her mouth in sharp pieces, and when the boy gives no indication of understanding its meaning, she assumes he was not from the northern country.

Though he bore a striking resemblance to the inhabitants of the country, when he turns his gaze from the portrait of Herzog Aleksandrov's onto her, Yaroslava cannot help but feel apprehension. Though he looked to be a child of nine years, in his eyes she found something staring back at her that was not entirely childlike. It was the idle gaze of something older and nedobrozhelatel'nyy – and just as quickly as she had sensed it, it is gone, and it leaves her peering into the near-golden irises of a young boy.

"Do you not have a name, rebenok?"

"No," came the immediate response, and she feels the tension that had settled into her bones going lax at the sound of a child's voice.

"Are you lying to me?"

"No."

Yaroslava considers him for a moment longer, and he offers her a curl of a smile, and she finds herself unable to deny that he was terribly pretty, this boy with silvery-platinum hair and golden eyes. Yet she still could not fully displace the unease that had taken root. It festers beneath the budding maternal instincts, cautioning her to be weary even as she turns to the man seated across from her.

Viktor had not taken his eyes off the boy once during the entire exchange, and she notes the tightness of his fist, the consternation that shapes the corners of his mouth downward.

"We will take him," she says, and Viktor's eyes jerk onto her weathered face with surprise, and to her apprehension, alarm. "We cannot pay you for bringing him to us, of course, but we will see to his education and ensure that he is cared for."

"You will take him," Viktor repeats, slow and uncertain.

"We will."

Viktor opens his mouth to say something – perhaps a word of warning or a delirious exclamation of jubilance now that they washed his hands of the boy; but whatever it was, it goes unsaid as the child comes to stand before him.

"Thank you for bringing me here, Viktor," says the boy, and though she strains her ears to hear the parting words he whispered to him, Yaroslava cannot make out what was said. She can only assume they were not words of gratitude, for the man pales further.

When one of the servant girls had seen Viktor out of the house and the heavy doors had closed behind him and howling winds, Yaroslava levels the boy with an inquisitive look.

"What did you say to him, rebenok?"

He glances at her fleetingly. "I told him to not go back to the Greatwoods. There's nothing there for him." There is a pause between them, as each weighs their words before the boy continues. "I am hungry, Matron Zaytsev."

Yaroslava blinks down at him, minutely taken aback by the forwardness of his statement and the casual dismission of his prior words. However, she does not pry further, though she suspects he was being less than honest with her.

Children lie, she thinks as she ushers him into the kitchen. Many people lie – for many reasons. As she watches him eat the cold soup from that night's dinner between mouthfuls of bread, she cannot help but compare him to a volka – wolf. He is ravenous in his hunger, as though it had been several years since he had last eaten.

"Slow, slow," she says to him, "if you continue to eat that quickly, you may choke."

"I am hungry, matron," he says between mouthfuls. "I am always hungry. No matter how much I eat, I feel as though I may never be full."

Troubling words from a troubling boy. She wonders about his past, about his parents, and about the peculiar nature of his. She did not know what to make of him, this boy with golden eyes and a pension for stirring unease in the pit of her belly.

When he had eaten the last of the bread and soup, she sent him off with one of her servant girls to be put to bed with the other children. And because she could not find a word that describes what he was, she called him Vasily. It was not a common name in Kosirovo – least of all for boys, but because he was beautiful and strange, she gave him a name she best thought suited him; and just like a wolf, he guards it greedily.

* * *

THE SUMMERS IN YEASNOVY differed from what he had become accustomed to. Whereas Novochepyevsk was closer to the capital city of Tuaylovka, and thus bordered closer to the Dead Sea, resulting in warm summers and long days, Yeasnovy was further north. The weather itself was not uncomfortable, per say, but still he wore a coat lined with furs to stave off the cold from the sharp winds that bellowed around him.

The narrow streets of the market district were sparse that afternoon – not all together unusual. War had brought less commerce to the city, leaving many to execute petty thefts. Those who ventured beyond the city walls in hopes of trades would return, if fortunate, in relative peace and pockets lined with coins for their troubles. Or they never returned at all.

When he had come to Yeasnovy some year ago, it had been to work under the instructions of a church matron – medicinal workers were highly sought after, and those who did not faint at sight of disembodiment preferred. It had been matron Zaytsev that had offered him to the Saints of Voskoboyniko for work, and he had gone without complaint as the other boys before him had.

"It will be good practice," she had said to him the day before he was set to leave. "For when you are drafted into the war. Tell them you are practiced in the field, and they will find you a favourable position."

Thinking of it now as he makes his way through the winding alleyways towards the church, he wonders if she had done the same for the other boys that had come of age.

"You are nearly late, Aleksandrov," says a voice to his left, drawing Vasily from his musings to level the man before him with a wholly unimpressed expression.

"And you are still sulking the corners like a dog," he responds in kind.

The man beside him laughs, a boisterous sound that earns them curious glances from those passing by. Dressed as he was in his military uniform, his presence was a cause of unease amongst the natives of the city. Soldiers rarely left their stationed bunkers throughout the country and bordering northern mountains.

"Why are you here?" Vasily asked of the dark-haired man once his laughter had subsided.

"Business," came the brief response, and when no further elaboration is offered, Vasily pursed his lips and asked:

"Will you be staying long?"

Komandr Yankovsky bared his teeth in a smile that Vasily associated with an impending and unwanted, lecherous advance. "Have you missed my company, dorogoy?"

"I cannot miss what I never wanted to begin with," Vasily says with a long-suffering sigh. They turn into manicured street. Like the market, it too was sparse in patrons. "It is unusual, that is all. You only return to the city when something is amiss."

"How intuitive of you," Ilya says. He gives Vasily a considerate look before continuing. "It is simply a matter of wayward soldiers."

"Deserters?"

Ilya snorts. "If only," he said, combing a hand through his tousled hair. "They have not yet even been trained."

"So, you are here to collect those did not answer the draft notice," Vasily summarised. "I am surprised they assign you to it."

"And miss the opportunity to gaze upon your lovely visage – never."

Vasily offers the cerulean-eyed man a flat expression. "Will you never grow tired of my rejection also?"

"I am a patient man. One has to be in the time of war."

"I do not find you interesting, Yankovsky," Vasily says, exasperated by the continuity of the latter's behavior.

"You will."

When they came upon the steps of the church, the Komandr walked him to the door, much to Vasily's annoyance, and they part ways.

Just as Yankovsky had stated earlier, Vasily was nearly late – a rarity for him and the head physician expressed this sharply.

"You have responsibilities, Aleksandrov," says Aseev. A weathered a man of nearly fifty years, his face lined deeply by folds of skin that made his brown eyes smaller and sunken in. In that regard, he was not an unpleasant man to be around, strict as he was.

"My apologies, Komandr Yankovsky delayed me."

"Do not let it happen again."

You cannot avoid a plague, Vasily thinks as he inclines his head in understanding before allowing himself to be led into the garden of the church. There had been a time when it was full of floras, of perfumed aromas, an area set aside from leisure strolls and conversations. It had been several years ago, of course – war had seen to the church, and many like it, being used to house the sick and grow herbs for healing.

He works alongside Aseev throughout most of evening, tending to the fevered and delirious, changing bandages, or coaxing a tonic down the unwilling throats of children. When the horizon darkens over the marble walls of the church and he carries the stench of sickness and blood sits beneath his nails, Aseev dismisses him.

The walk home – no, it was no more his home than Herzog Aleksandrov's manor was – was a quiet one. With night came a biting wind that tears through his hair and brushes over his face.

It was as he was turning into the main street that the lilted voice of a young woman calls out to him.

"Moya lyubov, will you not even look my way?"

He smiles, for he knows that voice as intimately as he knows the person it belongs to – and as well as he knew himself. He looks over his shoulder to where she is lounging against the steps of a brothel; her smile sharp and eyes dark.

"Tatiana, it is good to see you again."