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missmarquin · 4 years

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Wild, Ch. 1

Yuri on Ice | Otabek/Yuri, Victor/Yuuri | Fantasy/Fairytale AU |

This is the story of a nomad and the unusual tiger that he meets, and how relationships can be built on something far more meaningful than just words.

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When the Wild Comes

It had been a bad idea.

His grandfather had warned him about hunting alone and Otabek was the kind of man to listen. Usually. So naturally, the one day that he didn’t, things would go to shit. Blessed be the Weaver, and her ill placed, bad sense humor.

He ran as fast as he could with a bow in his hand and a quiver on his back, but the bear led on with a mighty chase. Otabek rounded a worn trail, weaving to the left before he risked a glance back. No bear, though he knew that it was right behind him. He hooked sharply to the side and ducked underneath a craggy overhang. Otabek tried to slow his breathing, but it was hard with the adrenaline that pumped through him, setting his blood on fire.

This is why you never hunt alone-- so you don’t get caught between a rock and a hard place, literally. Were another man with him, they could have split their attack from two ends, and scared the creature off. The throw of his grandfather’s bone dice weren’t in his favor, not that they ever were.

A twig snapped to his right, and Otabek went rigid. He took his bow in hand and knocked an arrow, before he pulled the string half-taut. Not an ideal form, but it would do in a pinch. He’d take a pinch over nothing.

Heavy footsteps rose and fell, and he could hear the heavy breath and dripping saliva from the bear's mouth. The Rot , Otabek realized. The bear was sick with it, and that was likely why it’d strayed so far from the forest to the east. They don’t get bears around the Steppe often, and when they do, they were never quite right.

Paws dropped like heavy stones, closer and closer and then--

Otabek slung around the corner, pulling his bow string to its limit and let the arrow fly. It missed, flying past the bear’s head. Otabek cursed. His aim was always good, even under pressure, but he couldn’t help his sweaty palms and the sinking feel that he might not make it out of this unscathed. And that was assuming he’d live.

He knocked another arrow and let it fly. It missed again. The bear let out a mighty roar, agitated, the sound bouncing off the rocks around them, before lurching forward.

Otabek reached back to his quiver to grab another arrow, only to find none, hand clenching around air. He cursed. He cursed himself and he cursed the Weaver above, the Lady Mistress who created everything. But mostly himself.

The bear was wild and angry, saliva foaming at its mouth, eyes mad with anger and hunger. With Rot. Out of options, Otabek scrambled backward across the ground, sticks and stones scratching his hand, his muscles burning at the strain.

It wasn’t the bear’s fault, Otabek thought. It wasn’t its fault that it had no mind left, or anything that it could control. It fed only on its base instincts, and that was to hunt and eat and kill whatever was in its way. Otabek would be an unfortunate casualty.

His back hit a solid stone wall and he cursed again. This would be his end, at the hands of a diseased bear, lost to the back trails of his people. All because he was an obstinate man, who refused to listen to his grandfather.

Weaver above, his death stared right at him, snaggletoothed and with fetid breath.

Otabek uttered a short prayer, not that he was the religious sort, and snapped his eyes shut. He waited. Waited .

There was a loud thud, followed by snarling. Claws shrieked across stone, and then the bear let out a screech. Otabek heard fighting. Ripping and tearing; unearthly sounds from before him. And then they stopped. The bear was silent, but there was something else there. Something else breathing heavily. Feet pattering across the ground.

Otabek opened his eyes.

A giant cat with rippled muscles and long fangs, mouth bloodied as it feasted on the bear. Striped and white as the snow of winter. Tigers were orange, Otabek thought, not white, and they weren’t ever found here. Far to the east perhaps, closer to the jungle proper. Not the wide prairie land and hilled valleys of the Steppe.

And yet.

The tiger ate its fill, pulling and tearing at the bear with ease. Otabek shouldn’t risk a move. Tussling with a tiger would be twice as worse than with a bear. And so, Otabek sat and watched. Waited.

When the tiger finished, it didn’t leave. Instead, it sat on its haunches and began to lick its paws clean. Like there wasn’t a bear carcass less than a foot away. Or a human a few paces further, waiting for death.

It looked to Otabek.

Otabek didn’t move, didn’t think, didn’t breathe. The tiger watched him, brilliant green eyes staring back as it considered Otabek. Odd, Otabek thought. Inquisitive, even. It was like the tiger was trying to read him right back.

It went back to licking its paw, seemingly uninterested.

Either Otabek would die, or he wouldn’t. He chose to risk it. Otabek stood slowly, pulled the string of his bow taught and slipped the weapon over his shoulder and across his chest.

The tiger stopped once more, turning its large head to watch him.

Otabek stepped closer, hands out and placating. He turned to leave and then--

And then he remembered something else that his grandfather had instilled in him from a young age. How to honor the dead, and to thank them for their sacrifice. He hadn’t killed the bear, but he didn’t want its spirit to wander the Steppe restlessly either.

Otabek cursed lowly. He might not believe in the mighty Weaver that much, but he did believe in curses. He wasn’t willing to put his family at risk.

So he stepped closer to the tiger instead, watching carefully. The beast lifted its head in curiosity, watching back. Waiting.

Otabek pointed to the bear. It was probably dumb to think that the tiger would understand, but there were a lot of dumb things about this entire absurd situation. And really, it was more from Otabek himself, as he tried to keep his demeanor relaxed.

The tiger didn’t move, only watched, and so Otabek continued forward.

It was several feet to his right, sitting there coolly as it regarded him. Otabek kept his breathing controlled, though his palms sweated. He turned to the bear. Reaching into a pouch at his waist, he pulled out a handful of ashes kept for just this purpose, throwing them across the carcass.

“A prayer,” Otabek said quietly. The tiger leaned forward to listen. Or at least, it seemed that way. Otabek ignored the odd behavior. “Pass on in peace. You have done your job.”

It was simple vigil, but effective. He wiped his dusty hand on his pant leg, and then turned to leave. The tiger stood and Otabek paused. But the tiger didn’t pounce, it only watched him. Otabek took several steps and the tiger followed. Otabek walked to the end of the path. The tiger trotted alongside.

When Otabek stopped once more, the tiger did as well, falling to its haunches to lick at its paw.

“You’re an odd thing,” Otabek said to it. The tiger seemed to listen to him, blinking back through long, blonde lashes. “Where did you come from?”

The tiger of course, didn’t answer, and Otabek wondered if he was going mad due to his near death experience.

The tiger followed him the entire way home, before disappearing into the night at the sight of Otabek’s village.

His mother and father were not pleased that he didn’t come back with meat. His grandfather didn’t say anything; instead he sat at the table and threw his dice, lips tugging downwards at whatever it was that he saw. Otabek felt the disappointment radiate off of his grandfather in waves. It felt worse than anger would have, and Otabek winced every time he glanced his way.

Dinner was a meager affair. Spiced porridge and baked root vegetables. His mother complained about the lack of meat. He complained about how many arrows he’d lost. And his grandfather still said nothing, eating his fill with an insufferable silence.

“I found a bear,” Otabek finally said. Everyone around the table stared at him.

“In these parts?” his mother asked, tone hushed.

“It was wrong,” Otabek said. Everyone knew what he meant. “It was killed.” Otabek wasn’t a good liar, so he skirted the truth. There wasn’t any wisdom in worrying his family over a lone tiger in their midst, so he didn’t mention it.

As odd as it was, Otabek didn’t fear the creature. But his family would and then the village would, and then they would hunt it down. He didn’t want that, not after his life had been saved. He owed the tiger that much.

His parents seemed to believed him, turning back to their dinner. His sister stared at him through narrowed eyes, and his grandfather finally said something.

“I trust that you honored him?”

“Of course,” Otabek said. “Ashes and all.”

His grandfather nodded and dinner was finished in relative silence.

Later that night, Maya caught him outside of his yurt. “So,” she said, arms crossed over her chest and mouth tugged into a smirk. “You took down a bear all by yourself?”

“I’m capable,” Otabek said to her, but Maya wasn’t the kind of person to blindly trust what people told her.

“That’s not what I’m implying. I saw you when you left this morning. You only took a bow and a handful of arrows.”

Otabek stilled, looking back at her, and he didn’t like the triumphant smile that was slapped across her face. Otabek was capable, and she knew that-- provided he had full weaponry. His load had been light, because he hadn’t planned on going far enough to find anything more than a handful of rabbits.

“Maya--”

“The truth, brother.”

Otabek had never been a good liar, but it was worse with her. They weren’t just brother and sister, they had shared a womb. They were two halves of a whole. The one and the same. Maya could read him like the back of her hand.

“I nearly died,” he said to her. “A tiger killed the bear.”

“A-- A what?” Maya looked at him incredulously.

“A tiger. I was backed into a corner and I was about to die. It… it saved me.”

“And then you killed the tiger,” she assumed.

“No,” Otabek said.

He didn’t like the stare that she leveled him with. “You left a tiger to roam free? Around our village? Beka, it must be rotted itself, otherwise why would it be here?”

Otabek had considered it, but he also knew it not to be the case. “The tiger was of itself,” he said to her. “I performed the rites by its side and it did nothing; just sat there, licking his paw. Watching.” He paused. “It was an odd creature.”

If it were any other person, Maya wouldn’t believe him. But he was Otabek, and she believed every word that he said because she knew that he couldn’t lie to her. “Odd,” she repeated, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“It followed me here, and then it left. It seemed interested in me. It could have attacked, but it didn’t.”

Maya pursed her lips, gripping her chin as she thought. “What if it’s a test? From the Weaver herself?” Otabek gave her a look, and she sighed. “Right, right, you wouldn’t believe that. Not that I do either. Grandfather would though.”

“Don’t tell him, or our parents,” Otabek asked her. Maya looked at him seriously, about to answer, but he cut her off. “It saved my life, so I owe it its own.”

Maya sighed. “I don’t know why, but I believe you.”

And then she left him.

Otabek went on a proper hunt three days later, with proper gear. A bow strapped to his back and a short sword at his hip. A quiver full of newly fletched arrows and a tiny bottle of poison to dip them in. Just in case.

An hour away from the village, he crossed the well-worn path onto another, only to run into the tiger. It sat to the side of the path, laying across a wide and flat stone outcropping, belly up. Otabek stepped closer, twigs snapping underfoot. The tiger didn’t move much, only tilted its head to look at him.

Otabek looked back. “You… are sunbathing,” he said, eyes raking along the tiger’s body and then, “And male.”

The tiger yawned, fangs painting a scary image as his jaw widened. But Otabek wasn’t scared, only interested.

“I’m going for a hunt,” Otabek said. “I have a family to feed and they weren’t happy that I came back empty the other day.”

The tiger rolled over onto his belly, watching Otabek with shining green eyes. A calculated gaze, far too knowing for just any animal. He remembered Maya’s words. What if it’s a test? From the Weaver itself?

Nonsense. But still, there was something odd about the tiger. Not bad, but odd. Enough to be interested. Enough to want to find out more.

“You’re welcome to come,” Otabek said. He wasn’t sure why he offered it, but he did. Then he turned and began his trek further into the back trails of the steps.

The tiger yawned once more, then decided to follow.

They build a rapport, Otabek and the tiger.

There was a routine. Otabek would dress himself in soft leather pants and a linen shirt. He would then check and adorn his weaponry. He would walk the familiar path south of his village to where it ended and the back-trails began, and the tiger would wait for him there.

Otabek hunted and the tiger watched. Or helped. Really, it depended on his mood, but the creature was likely the laziest thing that Otabek had ever seen. He preferred to lay in the shade under an outcropping, watching Otabek do all the hard work. But occasionally, he’d join the hunt, provided Otabek share a portion of the meat.

Otabek didn’t mind.

It took Otabek a week to name him.

They were sitting in the shade, Otabek’s back against a rock. The tiger sat next to him, watching Otabek eat salted jerky and a hard piece of bread.

“Jolbaris,” Otabek said to him, around a mouthful of meat. “It means tiger.” Then he paused. “No, that’s too long. Jolba. Would you like that?”

The tiger cocked his head to the side, like he was confused. Otabek had long since realized that he understood way more than he should. He had stopped questioning it. Otabek didn’t really have any friends, so the silent, solid companionship was… nice.

“For a name,” Otabek said. “You deserve one. Jolba.”

The tiger watched him for a long time and then yawned. He didn’t answer and Otabek didn’t really expect him to. But then, the creature shifted closer, dropping his head onto Otabek’s thigh. Otabek paused and looked down, a piece of jerky locked tight in his fingers. He hesitated, and then he dropped his free hand into the warm scruff at the tiger’s neck.

He purred in response, eyes slipping closed as he started to doze.

“Jolba, it is,” Otabek said.

A month passed.

Otabek and Jolba spend their days hunting. Otabek’s family make the observation that he has been more productive than ever before. There was plenty to eat and they sold the extra to friends and neighbors.

And then another month.

Otabek and Jolba still hunt, but Otabek preferred to spend his afternoons lazing about with the tiger lying alongside him. He didn’t make friends easily, but it came naturally with Jolba. He told him about his life, his family and everything in between. The fact that Jolba couldn’t talk back, probably helped.

The third and the fourth flew by, and the weather started to cool. Otabek started to wear longer sleeves, and if he didn’t know any better, he would think it made Jolba depressed.

With the fifth month, the northerners came to his village.

They swept in on well-trained and war-hardened horses, carefully plated armor and long swords. And then there was the largest horse yet, trimmed in gold finery and with it, a prince. He was as silver tongued, as he was silver-haired, and Otabek didn’t trust him from the moment that he spoke.

“I’ve come seeking help,” the prince said, from atop his mount. He spoke their language well enough, despite tripped syllables and a mispronounced word.

The villagers were wary though. They hung back in the entrances of their yurts, eyes full of distrust and hands on readied weapons. So, Otabek stepped forward.

“With what?” he asked, hand resting gently on his short sword. Not a threat, just out of habit. And to be ready. The prince’s eyes flickered down to his waist and narrowed slightly, but he didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he said, “I am Victor Nikifovrov of Rus, and I’ve come looking for a friend.” The way that he said friend, implied that the man he was looking for was anything but. “I was gifted a pet, you see, a tiger. Rare in form and color. He has escaped my palace. I’ve tracked him south and his trail goes cold here.”

Otabek stiffened, hand tightening on the hilt of his aldaspan. But he said nothing.

Victor’s blue eyes watched him carefully. “Have you seen such a creature?”

“Tigers are not known in these parts,” Otabek said to him. “You would find them to the east, closer to the jungle.”

“This tiger wouldn’t stray that far from home, I would think,” Victor said.

“But if he was gifted to you, then he comes from elsewhere. Would he not want to find his way home?”

Victor cocked his head to the side, and though he smiled, it had a dangerous curve to it. “My pet is an odd one, that is all. And he doesn’t know what he wants. All I want is for him to be safe.” Then Victor sighed dramatically. “I will leave you be, then, and continue my hunt. If you find my Yuri , our camp is just to the north. I would ask that you don’t kill him.”

Victor bowed to Otabek as a taunt, but Otabek did not bow back. Victor’s mouth tugged into a frown, a tiny little thing, but he was displeased. “Good day then, sir,” he said, and then he tugged the reins of his horse to turn around and left the village.

Otabek watched until their horses were out of sight.

The village went back to their normal hustle and bustle, almost as if the strange northerners had never even come, but Otabek remained standing there for a long time.

“You know where he is,” Maya said from his right, pressing a gentle hand against his shoulder.

Otabek hadn’t told her that he’d kept company with the tiger, and he didn’t want to now. So he turned to her, looked her in the eye and said, “No, I don’t.” There was a sick feeling that settled in his stomach, but he’d made his choice. He held her gaze resolutely.

Maya said nothing, only blinked at him. Then, she frowned.

But she didn’t call him out on his lie.

The grass of the Steppe started to turn brown and Otabek knew that snow would soon follow.

Victor and his men had stayed in the area, desperate to find his pet tiger, seemingly determined to ignore to Otabek’s assurance that he wasn’t there . Even if he was.

Otabek and Jolba still met, but carefully and at night. They didn’t hunt, but rather, ambled aimlessly in each other’s presence. Otabek had warned him that he was being hunted, but Jolba had only scoffed, seemingly offended. He preened in his ability to defend himself. Otabek had no doubt that he could, but, Victor had brought a cadre of highly trained men.

It had only been luck that he hadn’t yet been seen.

The first day of snow came and Otabek felt relieved. It was hard to hide against the brown Steppe, but with the snow, Jolba would blend in easily. Victor’s men remained vigilant and determined, but the weather would be a thorn in their side.

That night, after shooting down a few rabbits, Jolba followed Otabek to his village. And instead of turning around just out of sight, he kept following.

Otabek paused, hesitating. “Jolba,” he said, “it isn’t safe.” If a tiger could pout, he would venture to think it’d look like that, just a little crinkle across his furred brow. “For you, I mean,” Otabek continued. “My people will not be kind. If they see you, they will call for Victor.”

Jolba’s demeanor changed at the name, hackles raising and mouth hissing. Otabek blinked, realizing he’d never mentioned who had been hunting the tiger before, but--

“Jolba,” he said, “Calm down.”

Jolba did, but it wasn’t without tension. Otabek slung the rabbits over one shoulder and reached out, pressing his free hand to the tiger’s neck. He squeezed it softly, scratching through the thick fur, and Jolba settled.

“Tonight only,” Otabek said. “I’ll lead you around the back way and sneak you into my yurt. And you will stay there, understand?” He gripped at the scruff, holding it tight.

Jolba huffed, but he seemed to. Otabek let go and pointed east. “Around that way. Come on.”

Otabek led the tiger around the eastern edge of his village. The fall of nighttime and the white glow of the snow under the full moon helped hide his coat, and Jolba stalked with natural quietness.

Otabek’s yurt was decorated with the bare minimum, but it suited him. There was a pile of pillows and furs to the western side of the space, and a small fire pit in the center, directly between the two center poles and under the top opening. A few assorted rugs and thick quilts, and a work table tucked into the eastern side. Everything arranged as the Mother Weaver wanted, as far as men were concerned.

Jolba padded around the room, sniffing and rubbing himself along Otabek’s things. Staking territory. Otabek chuckled, before dropping his weaponry to the ground. His heavy coat and shirt came next, and then his pants. Once in his under things, he filled a wash basin with a pitcher of water, and scrubbed down, then he dressed in a pair of loose pants.

By the time he was done, the tiger had settled into his cot, kneading at the furs with his large paws. Otabek hadn’t known many cats in his life, but he found it entertaining that Jolba wasn’t much different in the grand scheme of things.

The air was cold, so he lit a small fire to warm the space, before settling into his bed. Jolba laid against the pillows, eyes half slit with contentment, as he watched Otabek tuck in.

Otabek turned to him, watching his whiskers twitch. “Victor,” he said, and Jolba hissed, though not as agitated as the first time. “He came here looking for you. Said that you were a pet.”

Jolba bared his teeth dangerously, but Otabek knew that it wasn’t at him.

“You escaped though,” Otabek said. “You got away.” He held his hand out and Jolba nuzzled against it.

“He called you Yuri.” The tiger paused under his hand, looking back at Otabek, green eyes practically shimmering in the darkness. They watched each other for a long moment, as Otabek contemplated the tiger; a creature with a distinct personality, who understood him implicitly, who hissed and snarled at the name of his owner.

Who knew his own name.

“Yuri,” Otabek repeated, opening his arm wide and patting the furs next to him. It was already cold, but it would only get worse as the night wore on, and eventually the fire would go out. The tiger was warm and soft. It would make sense to sleep next to each other.

The tiger watched him for a long moment, thinking, and then slid closer, settling himself next to Otabek. Tucked into his side, coarse fur not nearly as scratchy was Otabek would have assumed.

“Yuri,” Otabek said one last time.

Yuri purred against him.

“I need a deer today,” Otabek said to Yuri. “It’s already a cold winter, and it will only get worse. I need to bring something back that can be cured and stored for the season.”

A thick layer of snow blanketed the land, and the season had barely begun. He stood at the end of the familiar worn trail an hour from his village, clad in a heavy winter coat and his bow. Yuri was by his side, powerful shoulders rippling with energy as sat on his haunches. Waiting. Excited.

“We’ll have to go further than usual,” Otabek said. “I know you’ve roamed these parts. Victor’s camp has moved and I don’t know where they have gone, so we’ll have to be careful.”

Yuri shifted his head toward Otabek, and while he couldn’t answer him, there was a glimmer in his green eyes. Yuri understood. Otabek didn’t know how, but he just knew . He had stopped questioning it long ago.

Yuri had against all odds, become a friend. Otabek chatted with him and told him secrets-- things that he’d never told anyone else-- and Yuri would purr quietly beside him. It was a relationship without words, but Otabek had no doubt that he could trust his life with the tiger.

Otabek felt honored, because Yuri had escaped captivity at the hands of the prince, and instead of roaming the lands like the king he was, he’d chosen to settle with him. For the time being.

“He seems determined to take you back,” Otabek said to him.

Yuri seemed contemplative that day, without his usual ire at the mention of the prince’s name. He was still on his haunches, still watching the frozen landscape, still thinking . About what, Otabek couldn’t pretend to know.

Otabek reached out and pressed his fingers into his scruff, scratching at the fur in a comforting motion. “I won’t let him,” Otabek said.

Yuri shifted then, leaning against his leg, a solid and warm weight against Otabek. They stood like that for a moment, and then Otabek said, “Alright. Into the Steppe. We shouldn’t waste daylight.”

They came across two deer at separate times of the day, but they were both useless. Foaming at the mouth and stuttering with madness. Otabek heaved a heavy sigh as he shot one down, and then then the other later on. Animals such as these didn’t often find their way near the village, but further out in the Steppe?

They weren’t common, but they weren’t uncommon either.

Like the bear, he gave them rites. Yuri sat there, watching. Waiting. Always waiting for Otabek, it seemed. Patient and comforting. Otabek’s fingers slipped into his scruff, as he watched the second deer lay dead.

When midday came, they broke for Otabek to eat lunch. They were nestled against an outcropping to cut the bitter winter wind. Yuri lounged alongside him, licking at his paw in a desperate effort to clean himself.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Otabek said to him, around a mouth full of jerky. “Animals crazed and unusable. When I was a child, my grandfather would bring me out here to hunt, and we had the pick of many. We would bring back enough meat to last weeks. The Steppe were plentiful.”

Yuri had stopped licking his paw, watching Otabek with interest, so he continued. “They say this land is cursed now. My village is the only one left, but only because we’re too stubborn to leave. Everyone else moved on and followed the food. We stay.” He paused. “I don’t like it, but I understand it. This is our home.”

Then Otabek sighed, rubbing at his face. “Something is poisoning the life here. My parents think that it's the Weaver, angry and vengeful. I don’t. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Eventually we’ll have to leave.”

Otabek chewed at his meal in silence after that, and Yuri watched him. He watched him for a long time.

Eventually, Otabek finished and drained part of his water skin. “Would you come?” Otabek mused. “If I were to leave this place, would you follow?”

Yuri didn’t answer, only looked at him with a calculated and cool gaze. And then he nuzzled his thigh.

Of course, Otabek thought. Why had he bothered to question it? Otabek had already known the answer before he ever asked.

One night in Otabek’s yurt turned into two.

And then three.

And then a week.

It wasn’t easy sneaking Yuri into the village, but they created a process. They would skirt around the Eastern side, covering their tracks. Yuri would dip low into the snow cover and wait for Otabek to tend to a chore or two, say his evening thoughts and then retire for the night. He had crafted a slit in the back of his yurt that Yuri would slip into, and by the time was started to turn for bed, the tiger would be dozing among his furs and pillows.

Otabek had gotten used to his warm and solid presence in the bitter cold, and he wasn’t sure that he could sleep well, without the comforting purr at his back.

And then one morning, Otabek awoke to a scream.

Instantly he was up, hand around the grip of the dagger he kept hidden in his sheets, eyes wide and alert as he looked around--

Only to find Maya tumbled across the rugs of his yurt, bread loaves and basket thrown askew. She wasn’t staring at Otabek, her eyes were trained on Yuri, who was alert as well, teeth bared in a dangerous hiss.

“Yuri,” Otabek said softly, reaching out to press his hand into his scruff. Yuri immediately quieted, falling back into the pillows with a huff. Haughty even. Annoyed. What a mood for a tiger.

Maya breathed heavily, but her eyes hardened once she regained her composure, and Otabek winced for what was about to come. “I knew it,” she snapped. “I knew that you had lied to me. How long have you and this thing been--”

“Yuri isn’t a thing,” Otabek said to her with a frown. He snapped his dagger back into its sheath, before shoving it under his pillow.

“Beka, he’s a tiger,” Maya said, like it actually meant something.

“Obviously,” Otabek said, his tone rather dry and sarcastic.

“He’s a wild animal.”

“He’s not wild,” Otabek said, obstinately. Maya stared at him like he was insane. “He’s…” But then he trailed off, because how could he possibly explain what Yuri was him?

“Mom and Dad will kill you,” Maya said to him. “And our grandfather! Beka, there are people looking for him. A prince--”

“I know, Maya.”

“What if they come here looking for him? Beka, you’ve put us all in danger--”

“I know!” Otabek snapped. Maya’s mouth clamped shut at his outburst. He rarely lost his temper, and he never yelled. He rubbed at his brow. “He saved my life. I’m only trying to do the same for him.”

Maya was silent for a long moment, watching him carefully before she said, “You’ve been hunting with him, haven’t you. Do you spend all day with him? He’s sleeping with you, like a pet--”

Yuri finally reacted, sitting up straight, hackles raised. He growled at her, teeth bared, stance tense. But then Otabek reached out and caught him by the scruff, fingers slipping into the coarse, white fur.

“Yuri isn’t a pet,” Otabek said. “He’s a friend.” Yuri calmed under his soft touch. Otabek could tell that he wasn’t happy about it, but he settled back into the pillows, eyes trained on Maya was he eyed her warily.

She eyed him back, lips tugged into a frown. “I suppose that you’ll want me to keep quiet.”

Otabek sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “For now. Yuri only stays the night with me. We don’t spend our days here.”

“And so what? He stays here forever?” Maya finally stood, picking up her spilled basket of breads.

“He won’t hurt anyone.”

“You don’t know that,” Maya said.

“I do,” Otabek said firmly.

Maya stood there for a long moment, basket on her hip as she watched the two of them. Then she sighed. “I won’t tell them, but Grandfather will find out. He finds out everything.” She took a loaf and shook it at Otabek, before dropping it onto his work table. Then she left his yurt.

Otabek let out a long breath. “I’m not afraid of my grandfather,” he told Yuri, who had leaned in closer to nuzzle his hand. “I’m afraid of her. I think you passed her first test, so congratulations.”

Otabek could have sworn that the tiger smiled back at him.

Otabek had been taught that the Mother Weaver had created all. She had woven together the night sky, and then she had pieced together the earth. And then came plants, and then life. And just as she could weave life together, she could also weave death.

“Shit,” he murmured, ducking low into the snowbank. Yuri followed suit.

The Rot.

He had never seen anything like it, such desiccation. It wasn’t a diseased or rabid animal; there was an entire patch of the Steppe, completely blackened, festering with decay. It smelled like death and Otabek covered his nose.

Yuri remained silent, watching carefully from his side.

“What is this?” Otabek asked. “I’ve never…” He reached out to press a hand into Yuri’s fur, trying to ground himself. “We should go back,” he said. “I need to tell my grandfather.”

Yuri led the way.

Later that night, while sharing dinner with his family, Otabek broached the topic with his family.

“I saw something while hunting today. The Rot has spread to the Earth.”

And to his aggravation, his parents didn’t seem surprised. His father looked away uncomfortably, while his mother stared into her bowl. Only his grandfather looked at him, his weathered face tired and weary. He didn’t throw his dice.

“You went north, then,” his grandfather said. “Farther than you should have while alone.” Otabek wouldn’t tell him that he hadn’t been alone. It would only make things worse. So he nodded and his grandfather sighed.

“This is not a surprise to you,” Otabek said.

“No,” his grandfather replied.

“You knew about this?”

His grandfather didn’t answer immediately, his mouth twisting downward into a small frown. And then, “I’ve always told you, never to hunt alone, and to never go that far north.”

Suddenly, everything his grandfather had ever told him, seemed suspect. Otabek narrowed his eyes and said, “Explain then.”

“Otabek--”

“Do you think me a child? I’m a man.”

He was; nearly twenty-seven name days. His mother reminded him frequently, before proposing the name of a woman to marry. The idea curdled Otabek’s blood.

“It was only to keep you safe,” his grandfather said.

“And I am safe, so explain.”

“Later, after dinner. We’ll share some kumis .” His grandfather turned back to his meal, a definitive show that the conversation was over.

They finished in silence.

They sat at the edge of the village, just outside of Otabek’s yurt. His grandfather was bundled in a mountain of leather and fur to fight off the bitter cold, hunched over on a little wooden stool. Otabek sat next to him. The bottle of kumis had been chilling in the snow for nearly an hour. Otabek removed the stopper and poured out a small amount into a palm-sized, wide and shallow dish, before holding it out to his grandfather. Then he poured one out for himself.

And then Otabek waited, watching his grandfather sip from his cup.

“You were too young to remember the first time they came from the North,” his grandfather finally said. “The Rot had taken root there, before moving southward. They were trying to stop it.”

The Northerners from Rus, he assumed. “They failed,” Otabek said.

“We told them that Mother Weaver would show her will, regardless of what they tried. They do not believe.” Otabek frowned at that, but said nothing. “Death is part of life.”

“This isn’t death, it’s--”

“The Weaver has a plan.”

Otabek downed the kumis, his mouth setting into a firm line. There was a sour burn down his throat, but his blood warmed at the drink. “This is why everyone else left,” he finally said.

His grandfather didn’t answer immediately, only gazed out at the snowy landscape showered in soft moon glow. “They were cowards.” He sipped at his kumis. “What is fact though, is that the North never brings good. The last time the brought The Rot, so what is it they bring now?”

“He’s looking for his pet,” Otabek said.

Finally, his grandfather turned to look at Otabek, a long and sweeping gaze along his form. And then he said, “It is never only one thing.”

Silence fell over them once more, as they watched the snow drift. Otabek finished his kumis and poured out more. His grandfather requested a refill in silence, simply holding the cup out to him.

“You haven’t seen the tiger with all the hunting you have done?” his grandfather had asked.

“Once,” Otabek said. Half-truths worked better than lies. He tried to spin a tale that was maybe believable. “Maybe. I’m not sure. It could have been the sun shining off of the snow.”

His grandfather hummed at that. Then he shifted, shoving a bony hand into his pocket. Otabek watched as he pulled out his blasted bone dice, shaking them in his palm lightly. There was a crate to the side. He threw the dice onto it and leaned over to read.

But said nothing, only hummed again, before draining the rest of his drink.

If there was one thing that Otabek had learned over his life, it was that his grandfather had too types of silence-- the one where there was nothing that needed to be said, and the one where there was too much.

This was the latter.

“We aren’t safe here,” Otabek said, trying to steer the conversation away.

“No,” his grandfather agreed, “but it is our home. It is where we belong.” Then he stood, handing his cup back to Otabek. He reached out, pressing his fingers into Otabek’s thick, curly hair. “Next time, let’s share a drink with your tiger, hm? I would like to meet him.”

Otabek watched his grandfather amble away with his uneven gait.

Your tiger. Not the prince’s, but his.

Otabek downed the rest of his drink, before capping the bottle of kumis and leaving it in the snow.

Later that night, he slipped into his furs after dressing down for sleep, mind slightly muddled with the buzz of alcohol. He wasn’t too far off; just a soft, calm state that would allow sleep to easily come. Immediately, Yuri shuffled closer, tucking into his side. Soft against Otabek, he purred sleepily. Contently. Otabek scratched at Yuri’s scruff idly as he thought.

His.

It felt right.

#Yuri on ice #yuri on ice fanfiction #otayuri #otabek and yuri #OtabekAltin/YuriPlisetsky #fanfic #fanfiction #Otabek Altin #Yuri Plisetsky #yurionice

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missmarquin · 4 years

Text

Wild, Interlude: Tiger

Yuri on Ice | Otabek/Yuri, Victor/Yuuri | Fantasy/Fairytale AU |

This is the story of a nomad and the unusual tiger that he meets, and how relationships can be built on something far more meaningful than just words.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

This is the second part to Wild, my current Otayuri Fairytale!

Read on AO3 for better formatting! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter! :D

# # # #

Interlude: Tiger

Nikolai Plisesky wasn’t the kind of man to go down without a fight. The chase had been long and arduous, but satisfying in a way. His old bones ached, but he felt more alive than he had in decades, his entire being brimming with energy. He teetered at the edge of that power, blood on fire and hands tingling, ready to explode. Magic was like that sometimes. Wholly consuming, itching to be released.

“Think you’ve won, have you?” Nikolai yelled, chest heaving as his breath puffed out in clouds before him. Winter was bitter cold in Rus, even when you were used to it. “Do you think that this is the end just because you’ve backed me into a corner? Ha!”

“That’s it, old man,” said a voice from behind. Willful. Cocky. Young and inexperienced. Really, the child had no idea who it was that he dealt with. Part of Nikolai pitied him, for it wasn’t his fault that the Crown had sent him to meet his end.

Nikolai finally turned to meet the other sorcerer face to face, throwing his hands up in a motion of peace. And to be prepared, just in case he had to weave a quick spell. “You’ve found me,” he said.

The younger man was typical really, with wild, unkempt hair and dark eyes just the wrong side of mad. Black sorcerers, Nikolai mused with a grimace. Nasty bunch. “It was a good hunt,” the man said to him. “I thank you for not entirely wasting my time.”

“Get it over with, then,” Nikolai said back. They stepped closer to each other in tandem, closing the distance between them. “Put me out of my misery.”

“Oh you have it all wrong,” the other man said. At that, Nikolai paused, eyes slowly narrowing. He hesitated. “I’m not here to get rid of you,” the black sorcerer continued, “I’m here to bring you back.”

“I won’t do it anymore,” Nikolai said. “Forty years of doing their bidding and I’ve done a lot of questionable things. I’ve grown weary of hurting others and I draw the line at outright murder.”

“You know too much.”

“Which is how I know that they would never ask me to work for them again. So do it then, put an old man out of his misery,” Nikolai said.

The man looked cocky, mouth spread wide into a shit eating grin. Nikolai hated it; to be hunted down and ended by such a brat. It was an unbecoming end for a man as powerful as he.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the sorcerer asked him. “Where’s the satisfaction? No, I like my plan far better. You’ll live on as they curse your name. All you’ll be able to do is relive those memories as you are paraded around like a pet.” His fingers crackled with energy as he took his stance.

A well-recognized spell. “That’s it, boy?” Nikolai asked him with a booming laugh. “That’s all that you have? What will you turn me into?”

“You underestimate me,” the boy replied. “This isn’t a curse upon just you, but also every generation that will come henceforth. You are nothing but a beast, and so a beast you shall be. Shackled and paraded around, as will your kin to follow for the rest of time.”

“Or until the curse is broken,” Nikolai said. “There’s always a work around.” But still, Nikolai worried; a curse on a family line was high level magic.

“It’s too late, Nikolai,” the man said. “You can’t escape this time. The Crown considers this a mercy, really. You should be thankful.”

Nikolai watched him for a long moment and then he sighed. Nikolai was old and tired-- too tired to keep pushing back against the Crown of Rus. Too tired to push back against anything. He hoped that his daughter would forgive him for his next action. He hoped that his bloodline to come would understand. When he dropped his hands, the sorcerer smiled wide in triumph, as if he’d won.

But then, Nikolai spoke, powerful words that would change the future of the Kingdom and its Crown for a long time to come. Power surged through him as he called upon a counterspell. He felt it well up within him, magic thrumming through his bones. Nikolai didn’t need to fling it with his hands, no, his words held the power alone, as he spoke clearly and concisely.

“I accept your curse, because I am an old and feeble man, but heed my words. I curse the Crown back,” Nikolai said, lips quirking into a smirk as he watched the man pause in his own spell. “I curse this land to fester and rot, and the longer it rots, the further it will spread. I curse for my hatred and anger to sink deep into the soil, leaving in its wake petrified crops and fetid game.

“The Rot can be undone, but only by the hands of my line. You wait and see; Rus will crumble before your eyes and before long, you’ll come crawling back to a Plisetsky to fix it.”

The man’s gaze hardened as he finished his own spell, but Nikolai didn’t care anymore because what was done, was done.

Nikolai laughed and laughed, even as he felt his bones shift and break into something anew, the opposing spell burning through his veins as--

Yuri pulled back like he had been burned, eyes wide and chest heaving.

Seeing was an easy task and one of the first things that a sorcerer learned, but it could leave one tired and chilled to the bone.

“Shh,” Yuri’s mother crooned. Her hands were cool against his forehead, as she smoothed his bangs back. Yuri reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, trying to find enough purchase to ground himself. “Relax,” she said, leaning over to press her forehead against his. “That’s it, little one.”

Then she pulled back, moving to grasp Yuri’s face gently between her hands. “You are young, but old enough to learn,” she said to him. “Old enough to try and understand why we are here, and why we have to stay.”

They lived in the harem at the palace Rus, but his mother wasn’t one of the ladies, she was a servant. Low of station, low of rank. Quietly forgotten, despite her heritage and abilities. Despite their proud bloodline. It was meant to be an insult. The women housed there had always been kind though-- sympathetic even-- and they doted on Yuri as well, even if he didn’t get along with the other children.

He preferred to be alone.

And then there was his grandfather. The Pet.

Yuri turned to where his grandfather sat next to them. He wasn’t scared, not like the ladies of the harem. Even though Yuri had never known him as a man, he knew him. His mother had made it known that the lion wasn’t actually a lion at all, but holder of their name and magic. The man who had taught his mother everything that she knew, and in turn Yuri. His family.

Growing up, Yuri had accepted it, but never truly understood. Now he did, eyes burning as rage welled up within him. Young enough to have child-like innocence, but old enough to be told. Old enough to learn.

Old enough to feel the pain.

“Yurochka,” his mother said, and he looked back to her. “Do you understand?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“And you understand that this is my fate as well, yes?”

“Yes,” Yuri said.

She paused before saying, “As will it be yours, in time.”

Yuri’s eyes darkened in anger. His mother didn’t judge him though, she only pressed a hand to his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the soft skin there.

“I’ll stop it,” he said to her.

His mother smiled at him then, patting his cheek. She didn’t believe him, Yuri realized. She wanted to, and maybe she had said the same thing when she was young, only to be thrown into the harem as a servant instead. She had never gotten the chance and she didn’t think that Yuri would either.

Yuri was determined though; he was determined to end this, to right the wrongs that had been done to them. He turned to his grandfather once more, who was sitting on his haunches next to him, russet fur gleaming in the low lamplight. Honey-colored eyes look back at him, burning softly like soul-fire.

Yuri reached out, sweeping his fingers along the lion’s powerful jawline. Then he pressed his forehead against his grandfather’s, fingers moving to slip into his mane. “I’ll fix it, Grandpa,” he said, tugging at the fur gently, before combing through it. “I’ll end it, I promise.”

There was a low rumble in Nikolai’s throat, as moved his snout, nuzzling the side of Yuri’s face. Acknowledgement and agreement. Maybe annoyance or disappointment; it was hard to tell.

Yuri sank into the earthen scent of the lion, not really caring what his grandfather thought in the end.

He’d made a promise and he always held those true.

When Yuri was fourteen, his grandfather died.

Like every day before, they had said their good nights. Nikolai then nestled into the soft pad of pillows that he’d been allotted, chained to the far corner. Yuri slid into a cot with his mother. It was cramped, but Rus had bitter winters, the kind that killed with their cold. And even if a bit embarrassing, it was easier, tucked next to her, radiating heat as they tried to sleep through the frigid night.

When Yuri woke the next morning, he was warmer than usual, cuddled against something soft. His nose was tickled by musky smelling fur, but it was so warm that he just wanted to sink into the comfort of it--

He opened his eyes blearily, because something was wrong.

Yuri was tucked in next to an unusual cat, its body stretched out lithely beside him. It had soft red-brown fur, speckled with black spots. Dread settled deep as Yuri pushed it away, before he shot upright in the cot. There was an angry yowling sound, but then it cut off.

The creature paused, looking around, before dropping its gaze to its paws. It shifted from side to side, like it was testing its gait, stumbling slightly like a newborn kitten. Its ears stood tall, pointed tips ending in soft tufts. They twitched, as the cat’s face screwed up slightly, shaking its head, whiskers fluttering as it tried to gain its bearings.

The pit in Yuri’s stomach just fell deeper and deeper. Then the cat looked at him, eyes green like the rolling grasslands, but sad and knowing because--

His grandfather was dead, and his mother had fallen to the curse.

There was a commotion as one the concubines came into space, screaming at the sight of the unknown animal. Yuri’s mother hissed at the sound, darting to the side wildly. She was uncoordinated, not used to her low stature or walking on four legs instead of two.

But then there was a gasp, as the woman’s eyes roamed the room, before falling to the corner where the lion lay dead. A hush fell across everything as Yuri’s mother padded across unsteadily, stopping just before the long chain across the ground. She leaned over and butted at Nikolai’s face, but the lion didn’t budge. Or breathe.

His mother made a pitiful sound and the concubine covered her mouth in horror as she realized exactly what had happened.

Nikolai Plisetsky wasn’t a secret within the palace. His fate had never been explicitly stated, but everyone knew. Why else would you chain up a lion and call it Izmennik?

Eventually, guards came to take his grandfather away. His mother shrieked at them, hissing as they began to haul him off. Yuri just watched silently, quietly, hands folded in his lap as he sat on the cot.

The death of his grandfather hurt, but as much as Yuri had loved him, he hadn’t truly known the man, not like Anya Plisetsky.

It hurt more to see what had been done to his mother.

Barely a day had passed when Yuri was shuffled out of the harem by a palace guard.

He didn’t want to go quietly, but he also knew what would happen if he fought back. So he walked alongside quietly, head held high and fists clenched tightly at his side. He wouldn’t show weakness, no matter how tired he was, or how red-rimmed his eyes were.

Yuri was led into an opulent sitting room, trimmed with the finest of furs and silken furniture. Gold gilded the ornate crown moldings and granite floors were polished with such perfection, that Yuri could see his face in a clear reflection.

When the crown prince of Rus swept in, Yuri realized exactly where it was that he stood. This was the parlor of Victor Nikiforov himself. Yuri had seen the king more times than he could count, half-drunk and stumbling through the harem rooms in various states of dress, but this was his first time ever meeting his son properly. Victor didn’t peruse the harem to Yuri’s knowledge.

Victor was talking to a personal guard, a man of relatively slight build and feathery black hair. The guard was flustered, glasses slipping down his face slightly before he moved to adjust them, but he nodded along as Victor spoke a furlong a minute.

Victor paused when he caught sight of Yuri, cocking his head to the side.

“Why are you standing?” he asked, visibly confused. “Sit, sit! There’s a seat for a reason.”

Yuri didn’t at first, staring awkwardly at the armchair next to him. Victor sighed, running a hand through his silvery hair as he fell into the one opposite him.

“Please, have a seat,” Victor said, a polite and formal request this time.

This time, Yuri did as he was told.

The guardsman flanked Victor, moving to stand behind him. A servant brought over a samovar and tea cups, arranged neatly on a tray. Yuri eyed it warily, but Victor paid him no mind, motioning for the servant to pour them each a cup. Yuri watched as milk was added before the cup was handed to him. He took it carefully between his hands, because the gilded porcelain was likely worth more than his pathetic life.

“I understand that you are hurting,” Victor said to him.

Yuri knew the rules and stared at the liquid swirling around in his cup instead of looking up. He could feel Victor’s gaze on him, running the length of his figure. Then the prince sighed again, not out of annoyance, but out of exhaustion.

Yuri was surprised by that.

Victor decided to try another tactic. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Yuri,” he said clearly, and probably with more diction than the prince would expect. A dumb thought, because the Plisestky’s were educated and once even renowned. Their fall hadn’t affected that one bit, not with his mother’s insistence of learning to read and write, and speak like a person worth something.

“Yuri,” Victor said. “Please look at me.”

Yuri did. Victor sat across from him in all of his princely finery, fingers curled gently around his own little teacup. His face was finely made, with high cheek bones and a well-cut jawline. His hair sparkled like silver moonlight.

But his face was sad. He regarded Yuri with genuine sympathy and for a fleeting moment, Yuri thought that maybe the some within the Nikiforov line weren’t as bad as he’d been led to believe. But that couldn’t be. It had to be wrong. His grandfather wouldn't have lied to him.

The things that he had seen had been true.

Still, Victor cut an odd picture as a whole and it put Yuri on edge.

Always watch for the kind ones, Yurochka. Sometimes they are the nastiest of them all.

For once in his damn life, Yuri decided to listen to his mother’s advice.

“Things will change in the harem,” Victor said. “With your…” The prince trailed off, before he settled on, “Your mother’s primary function was to protect the women of the harem.”

Yuri cocked his head to the side at that and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “My mother was a servant.”

Victor let out a small laugh. “Yes, well, that is true. But she was also a carefully trained and highly skilled sorceress. Despite your grandfather’s indiscretions, your mother hadn’t done anything wrong. We offered her the honor of at least redeeming part of the Plisetsky name.”

They hadn’t offered her anything. The crown had forced her into servitude, but Yuri wasn’t dumb enough to accuse them of that outright. He took a sip of his tea instead, fingers so tight around the handle of his cup that his knuckles were white.

Victor watched him carefully and then said, “Which brings me to why I’ve brought you here. I understand that you are grieving and I wish that I could have waited, but--” He paused, leaning over to serve himself more tea.

Yuri wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the fact that he did it himself or that he handed the cup off to his guard. The quaint man behind him accepted it quietly. Sharing his teacup with an underling, how absurd.

But Victor didn’t look remotely phased, folding his hands across his lap as he looked to Yuri again.

“Your mother was the primary bodyguard of the harem,” Victor said to him. “We both know that that isn’t the case anymore, regrettably.” Victor didn’t seem regretful about it, not really. Only that his grandfather had passed away and that Yuri was grieving. “Which is where you come in.”

“Me?” Yuri asked, a little bit indelicately.

“Yes. Surely she was teaching you?”

Yuri hesitated. His mother had and even his grandfather to an extent, showing him what he could with sight. Yuri was good, fantastic even, well beyond decent and mediocre. He was a force to be reckoned with.

That being said, it wasn’t like they were public with these little lessons. The women in the harem weren’t known for being quiet, but they’d treated his mother kind and often turned a blind eye. Now it made sense. They protected their protector, even if it was only in a small and quiet sort of way.

Yuri had newfound affection for the concubines that occupied the harem.

“Yes,” Yuri finally said, knowing that there was no point in lying.

“Good,” Victor said with a nod. “Then you will assume her position.”

Yuri blanched at that, because that meant only one thing. “Aren’t men who work in the harem-- um--”

Victor blinked and thought for an excruciatingly long moment, baffled. Yuri could feel himself turn bright red, as he motioned vaguely to his crotch with supreme embarrassment. Ridiculous, Yuri thought, that it would be his main concern.

“Oh!” Victor said, mouth popping open into a small little circle. “Oh. Well, yes, usually.” Yuri felt himself squirm at the word usually, and Victor must have seen it because he immediately continued with, “But not in your case, I would think. You’re still young.”

“And virile,” Yuri said testily, unable to help himself.

The guard behind Victor still held his cup, but stood alert at the casual comment. The prince waved it off with a small laugh. “I have no doubt, Yuri.” And then Victor leaned forward in his chair, a shadow falling over his face as his expression changed just the slightest bit. “Surely, you know what the punishment for sleeping with a member of the harem is, yes?”

The crown prince didn’t look like an awkward goofball anymore; Victor looked like a wolf carefully stalking its prey, entirely at ease with slipping into the role quickly and efficiently.

Yuri swallowed. Yes, he knew the punishment. He’d seen it carried out in person. “Death,” he said.

Victor’s mouth curved into a cruel looking smile. “Yes, death. You would be no exception to that, do you understand?”

“I have no interest,” Yuri finally said. It was true. Even at fourteen, there’d never really been the desire to seek out one of the ladies and fall into her arms. In fact, Yuri had never posed much interest in anyone for that matter. Not the luscious curves of the concubines, or even the taut and hardened muscles of the men that stood outside the Pavilion entrance.

Victor looked at him, really looked at him, eyes sweeping over his form as he searched for a lie. Then he leaned back again, goofy little smile plastered across his mouth again as his more cheerful persona returned.

“I believe you,” Victor told him. “Your mother has served our ladies well. I trust that you will do the same.”

“Of course,” Yuri said, “but there’s a condition.”

Everyone in the room paused and Yuri cursed his stupid, dumb mouth for its impulsiveness. The man behind Victor held his cup in one hand, the other already on his sword, thumbing the hilt from its sheath in a maneuver so quick, that Yuri wondered where the bumbling fool with glasses slipping down his nose had gone.

Victor put his hand up. The guard paused, his almond shaped eyes narrowing slightly. “No, I’m curious,” he said. “Go on Yuri, speak freely.”

Well then. The prince had given him a rare opportunity to speak his mind, so Yuri took it for all that it was worth.

“Promise me that I’ll never have to see your naked ass streaking through the Pavilion. His Royal Majesty is bad enough and I could live an entire life without seeing you as well.”

Victor’s lips curled into an amused smile. “You won’t have to worry about that, I think.”

Yuri didn’t quite understand, but the prince didn’t seem annoyed one bit. It seemed more that found the mere thought of it funny.

“Yuuri will escort you back to the Pavillion,” Victor then said, waving towards the guard. For a moment Yuri was confused, because that wasn’t how his name was pronounced and the inflection was all wrong. He knew that he wouldn’t ever be allowed to go anywhere within the palace alone.

But then the guard let out a soft sigh from behind Victor. He rounded the chair, placed the teacup by the samovar carefully and then turned to Yuri.

“After you,” he said quietly as he motioned to the door. Yuri had known that the man was a foreigner, but his accent wasn’t something he’d ever fathomed. His mouth curled around Russian with elegance, everything carefully pronounced.

Not very guard like and more like an educated nobleman.

Yuri stood from the chair and placed his cup down as well, but then paused. “Actually, I do have a serious request, if you’d allow it.” Victor motioned for him to continue. “Can I get a zoology book or something? Whatever my mother turned into… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Victor was surprised by the request, blinking slowly as he considered then. Then he said, “I think I can manage that. Yuuri, if you please?”

Yuuri nodded slightly and they both looked to Yuri. Waiting. Right. Yuri bowed with an exaggerated flourish, because he had the distinct feeling that it would probably piss off Victor. And Yuri, being an admitted brat, just couldn’t help himself.

Victor huffed out a little laugh, but Yuuri’s mouth tightened the tiniest bit. There it was again, that tiny little crack in his shy, nervous demeanor. Yuri didn’t know how, but he could tell that Yuuri was the kind of man one shouldn’t cross, which was probably why he had been handpicked as the personal guard for the prince.

Yuri shot the guard an insufferable grin. “After you,” he said, motioning to the door.

Yuuri regarded him coolly, before he pressed a hand against the hilt of his sword casually.

Right. Yuri shouldn’t piss the man off. He left the room first, Yuuri close on his heels.

“Are the women tucked away?” Yuri asked.

Georgi’s mouth tugged into a frown, like he was offended that Yuri had even bothered to grace his presence. Yuri shot him a nasty glare right back, because even if Georgi was part of the prince’s guard, Yuri technically held a position higher than him. If you squinted.

But he was also a Plisetsky, so it didn’t fucking matter.

Eventually, Georgi answered, looking down at him from atop his horse. “Yes, they are.”

Yuri huffed in annoyance, but bit back a retort. There wasn’t a point in fighting with the man. “Alright then,” Yuri said, grabbing the reins of his own Bashkir. He pulled himself up elegantly, knowing that it would piss of Georgi.

Once rabble, always rabble, was the man’s generously used motto, and it didn’t matter that Victor expected him to behave. Georgi did, he just did so with complaint.

“I’ll fall back,” Yuri said. “Ride alongside the carriage. You stay up here. As long as we’re alert, we should be fine. Especially with that idiot up there.”

“Watch your mouth,” Georgi snapped. “That’s His Royal Highness.”

Yuri smiled back at the man, amused and not caring one bit. Of course it was Victor; The crown prince insisted on overseeing even the most innocuous missions personally, to his detriment even. He was a never ending annoyance for his royal guard, and it was the one thing that Yuri liked about the man.

Yuri also knew that despite Georgi’s threats, he wouldn’t actually do anything. The curse of the Plisetsky name came with nasty sneers and name-calling, but it also with a weird brand of protection. There wasn’t any point in harming him. Eventually the curse would get him. And because of Rus’ fucked up sense of revenge, that meant more.

So, Yuri pushed the limits when he was in the mood. Georgi’s dour demeanor never failed to put him there.

Finally, Georgi let out a long sigh. “Do what you will,” he said. “But heed your own words and keep alert. I know it’s been years since you’ve left the palace proper, so don’t get distracted by the grandeur of Rus.”

“Grandeur,” Yuri repeated. “Right.”

The thing about it was there was no grandeur in their homeland, not anymore. Not since his grandfather had cursed the land to rot away until their name was redeemed. Yuri had never seen the worst of it, but there were little signs.

A tree, pitted with black rot and decay. Festering patches of bare prairie, where grass refused to grow. Occasional game, walking stilted and stuttered and foaming at the mouth, until a bowman shot it dead.

Grandeur.

Yuri drove his horse around, doubling back to trot alongside the carriage. Concubines didn’t usually leave the Pavilion, but Victor was travelling west to settle a dispute with the neighboring Khaganate. Yuri didn’t like the idea of bargaining with the lives of women, but he had no say in the matter.

And so, the three most beautiful had been picked, dressed in finery and loaded into a carriage to head West. To head to their doom. Or grace. Yuri didn’t pretend to know anything about the Khan, or the kind of man that he was aside from the knowledge that he liked women and alcohol. Yuri flashed a look at the second carriage, chock full of their finest vodka.

Three days on the bumpy road, and Yuri hoped that it wouldn’t be for naught. His ass was sore from the saddle, he hadn’t slept well and he was exhausted. And there was still a week left, if everything went their way.

A horse parted from the front of their group, winding back. Victor’s personal guard, whom he irritably, shared a name with. Yuri was still annoyed by that, even a few years later.

“Boy,” Yuuri said. Boy. He said it softly, lips curling around the accented word. It was condescending as hell, but Yuri knew better than to comment on it. Of all the men in Victor’s cadre, Yuuri was by far the most deadly. His calm and unassuming demeanor belied his carefully honed skill, and Yuri had learned a long time ago that it wasn’t worth poking the hornet’s nest with a stick.

Yuri looked at him but didn’t bother answering. Yuuri looked tired, dark shadows under his thin rimmed glasses, but he held himself straight and relatively alert.

“His Royal Highness is concerned about bandits,” Yuuri said. “Will you send her to scout ahead?”

“He has the power to command her himself,” Yuri said to him, sounding only a little bit bitter.

Yuuri blinked slowly, before straightening in his saddle, hand slipping to his sword hilt casually. It wasn’t a threat; it was something Yuuri did when he was annoyed. Yuri being cross with him was always at the top of the list.

“You know as well as I do that she won’t listen to him.” A pause and the downturn of his lips. “Even if is expected.” The because he’s the crown prince was unspoken, but Yuuri leveled him with a heavy stare.

Yuri was the one to eventually back down, waving his hand. “Fine, fine, I’ll send her ahead. But next time, he rides his ass back here to tell me himself.”

“Boy,” Yuuri warned. There was the tiniest crack in his carefully crafted shell, and Yuri wondered if he’d finally pushed just a little too far. But Yuuri didn’t say anything else.

“Pah, whatever.”

Yuuri’s hand left his sword, but he watched him for an uncomfortable length of time, calculated and pondering. Just as Yuri was about to say something, the guard turned away, leading his horse back to the front.

Yuuri was a mystery. He was from the east, could read, write and speak Russian with impressive ease, and Yuri wasn’t sure that his shy and demure attitude wasn’t entirely an act. At the same time, he was a highly trained soldier with skill unlike Yuri had ever seen.

Being a Plisetsky was likely the only reason that Yuuri hadn’t killed him yet, with as much as he willfully disrespected Victor. There wasn’t any point in dwelling on it.

Yuri left out a loud whistle. A moment passed before a lynx came running from the underbrush to the east. Short in stature, but fast and quick, with thick and powerful legs of russet fur and black spots. The lynx moved to walk along side the company as they moved on, stretching its legs out.

He looked down and said, “Mom.”

Her large ears twitched as she regarded him, green eyes expressive and aware. Yuri sighed at the sight because he hated seeing her like this, reduced to such a thing, as magnificent a creature she was.

“His Royal Pain in the Ass is worried about trouble. Will you scout ahead and see if you can sniff anything out?”

His mother let out an amused huff at the nickname and then with one last little shake of her hind paw, she shot back into the brush.

Yuri stared after her, before turning his attention back to the slow crawl of their company. The carriage rolled alongside him noisely. Soldiers joked from behind, and if he squinted, Yuri could see Victor far ahead atop his horse, Yuuri just a hairsbreadth away.

Yuri let out a long and tired sigh, settling in the rest of the day.

Yuri was yanked awake. His mother hissed by his head, his sleeve ripping slightly as she pulled harshly at it. Yuri was still half-asleep, batting at her blindly. His mother let go of him to hiss properly, before biting at his shoulder.

“Okay!” he snapped, sitting up, trying to rub away the sleep in his eyes. “Okay, I’m--”

Their camp was in chaos. Yuri could hear the slide of cold steel as soldiers barked orders around them. And then more yells in a rural dialect, clearly not their men.

“Shit,” Yuri hissed, throwing his blanket back and jumping to his feet. His mother bit at his heels, trying to urge him to move on. “I know,” he snapped. She wouldn’t like it, but he would would deal with it later. Yuri had one job and one job only, and it was to help prevent exactly this kind of thing.

Despite the din around them and the camp alight with fighting, the carriage seemed unharmed when he reached it. Victor’s guards were mostly meatheads, but they had proven themselves somewhat worthy, as whoever had attacked their company hadn’t made it far into the camp.

Yuri threw the door open to double check. The three women cowered together in the corner, but were unharmed. “Stay here,” he told them. “Do not leave, no matter what you hear out there. Do you understand?” One nodded, the older one with pretty red hair, and all three stayed wisely quiet. Yuri let out a sigh, before pulling back and closing the door to the carriage.

He turned to come face to face with Yuuri, whose face was dark with a dangerous look, hand clasped tightly around a sword.

“Victor has disappeared,” he said to him, and Yuri barely processed that Yuuri had called the prince by his first name, not his title. His mouth parted, but Yuuri cut in. “Boy! Have you seen him?”

“No!” Yuri snapped. “I just woke and I checked on the women. I have no idea where the prince is--”

“We have to find him,” Yuuri said. “Leave the women for now; he’s the priority.”

“He’s not my responsibility,” Yuri said smartly. “In case you forgot, I owe nothing to the crown.”

Yuuri looked at him, eyes narrowed to tiny little slits, lips pulled into a thin line. He looked dangerous, treacherous even, and Yuri wasn’t stupid. Yuri knew that his head could be gone with a simple movement, rolling across the pavement as Yuuri slid his blade back into the sheath at his side.

But then, there was something that cracked there, a slip in that perilous facade. “I don’t ask for the crown, I ask for myself. Help me find Victor, please.”

Yuri blinked at that. He’d never heard Yuuri say please, let alone speak in such a pleading tone but--

“Fine,” Yuri said, and he hoped to high hell that Yuuri wouldn’t forget it. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Yuuri surprised him by reaching out and grabbing his wrist gently between his cold fingers. “A favor,” he said to him. “I’ll owe you a favor. Anything within reason.”

Yuri stared at him for a beat, before yanking his hand away. “Whatever. Bandits, I presume?” Yuuri nodded, hand falling back to his side. “You go that way and I’ll head the opposite. Maybe Victor hasn’t been dumb enough to pick a fight.”

Judging by Yuuri’s pinched expression, it was more likely than not. Suddenly, Yuuri’s constant attention and close handedness made since; if he didn’t play babysitter so well, the prince would have died years ago with all the trouble he found himself in.

Yuri darted to the left, already conjuring a spell just in case. Energy crackled at his fingertips, ready for a moment’s notice. He told himself that he didn’t actually care about Victor. He didn’t. The prince was an insufferable man, prone awkward bouts of childlike innocence, but Yuri knew better.

Victor was heavily underestimated, incredibly manipulative and freakishly smart. People called him charming, irresistible and loyal. Yuri called him insufferable.

But, despite everything the Plisetsky’s were known for, he’s treated them with an odd brand of dignity that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the court. They had to find Victor soon, because if he wound up dead, who knew what would happen then?

Or what Yuuri would do in retaliation, and honestly, that was a far more terrifying thought.

Yuri skirted the the camp. Their company wasn’t big and it seemed like the bandits weren’t numerous either. Ther camp was chaos, but only because they’d been caught unaware in the middle of the night, not because they were outnumbered.

“Well looksie here,” a man said, just a little too loudly in a rough, rural dialect. Yuri’s head snapped to the side and he ducked, crawling closer. “We thought you were just some merchants, but it looks like we’ve pulled a noble from his bed.”

Shit.

Yuri can just see Victor from his position where he was hidden. The prince was half dressed, but at least armed, holding a decorative sword that was worth more money than the cost of a house. Wisely, Victor didn’t correct the man’s assumption, only held out his blade.

“If you just leave, I won’t kill you,” Victor said. “I’ll even let your men go with you.”

The bandit was an older man, oily hair tied back and his thin body swallowed by threadbare clothing. “Nah, I don’t like that deal. I’d rather off you and steal the goods.”

Vitor sighed and held his sword out, taking a simple form, and Yuri was surprised to find that he seemed to know what he was doing. “Last chance,” Victor said to him. “I really don’t like to hurt people.”

The bandit spat at him and lunged forward. Victor met him in the middle, swords shrieking off of each other before he deflected the blow to the side. Victor was good, practiced even, and he wondered if he sparred with Yuuri. The bandit seemed just as surprised by his skill.

Yuri crept closer, prepping a spell, fingers jittering with energy. It wouldn’t do any good to jump into the fray unprepared and ill timed, so he waited for the right moment. And waited some more. Victor kept pushing the man back, blow by blow, and Yuri crept inching closer and closer.

And then Victor slipped, his boot sliding along a rotted piece of ground, slick with putrid soil and grass. He stumbled and the bandit smiled, raising his sword to take advantage of the moment.

There was no way that Yuri would be fast enough, even with his spell at the ready. The bandit was already closing in, blade parallel as he cut into Victor’s side.

A large blur jumped into the fray, yowling and hissing as it launched into the bandit. Yuri blanched, watching as his mother sunk her fangs deep into the man’s arm. The bandit cursed, trying to shake her off. She eventually lost her grip, dropping to the ground between him and Victor.

Yuri clambered over to the prince as his mother stalked between them and the bandit. They both hesitated, pacing opposite each other.

“I’m fine,” Victor grit out when Yuri reached his side, pale faced and holding a hand to his wound. It bled badly.

“I told Yuuri that I’d make sure you’d get back to him,” Yuri snapped, pulling at his hand, trying to get a better look.

There was something in Victor's expression that softened a bit, something that made Yuri want to pause, but it wasn’t the time for that. “It’s not that bad,” Victor said. “Go help her--”

Yuri was already turning, already prepping a counter spell, about to throw out bolts of lightening to help, but--

They were on the ground, tussling. The bandit had dropped his sword and swapped it for a hunting dagger; a better choice for close combat. His mother had lost the advantage and despite being more powerful, the bandit managed to slip the knife deep between her ribs.

“No!” Yuri yelled.

She didn’t go down without a fight though. With renewed vigor, she jumped high, clamping her jaw around the bandit’s neck, yanking. His shriek was cut off as he fell back to the ground, thrashing and gurgling.

Anya backed off and they all watched the man choke on his blood. Then she swayed slightly, falling to her side. Yuri found his footing just enough to run to her. She breathed shallow and rattling breaths, blood pooling from her mouth.

“No,” Yuri cried, pressing his fingers into her scruff. Her green eyes were clouded with pain as she looked to him and she let out a pitiful sound. Then her eyes slipped closed. “No, no, no,” Yuri said, shaking her. “Wake up. Mom, you can’t, you can’t--”

She was already gone, her chest still. Yuri felt tears slip from his eyes, but he refused to sob, wiping at his face angrily. He was a man grown, and men didn’t cry, they didn’t, they didn’t.

If he had only been a little quicker, a little faster, more prepared; then he might have been able to save her.

Yuuri burst into the scene, sword aloft and ready, immediately startling at the sight of Victor on the ground, pale and bleeding. Then his gaze fell across Yuri, who leaned over his mother, fingers stroking through her blood soaked fur.

And then, something struck through Yuri, a peculiar sort of sensation. Suddenly, he was hyper aware, pushing away from his mother’s body. He turned to Yuuri, who was leaning over Victor. He had pulled open his shirt to take a look at the damage and judging by the look on his face, it was worse than Victor had let on.

“How bad?” Yuri asked, standing back up and hobbling over to them.

“It’s not--”

“Not good,” Yuuri cut in, pressing his hand harshly against Victor’s side. The prince yelped. “It’s a bleeder and it won’t stop. There isn’t enough time for stitches--”

“Move,” Yuri said to him. Yuuri shot him a look, the one where his face took on a threatening edge.

“Do you want him to die? Move,” Yuri said.

“Boy--”

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Yuri cut in. He could feel it, the curse taking root. His skin prickled and it was like there was a slow-burning fire building in his core. “If you want me to help, I have to hurry.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have a lot of time?” Yuuri asked, resisting when Yuri tried to push past him.

“My mother is dead, which means--” Yuri broke off, annoyed. “Look, I can feel the curse transferring. Let me see, otherwise I won’t be able to help at all.”

Yuuri seemed to finally grasp what he meant and shuffled to the side. Victor was considerably paler than before, sweat beading along his brow. “It’s not that bad,” he said, and Yuri frowned at his instance.

“Stop talking, you idiot. You’ll tire yourself out.”

“That’s Royal idiot, to you,” Victor said, a bit delirious. The cut was fairly deep, but clean. It wouldn’t be hard to fix, but Yuri would have to work fast, because he could feel the magic welling up in him as the curse started to take root.

Victor’s head dipped suddenly and Yuuri caught him.

“Keep him awake,” Yuri said. “I need to focus on this.”

Yuuri shifted to pull him halfway into his lap, leaning over to brush the Victor’s sweaty bangs from his forehead. “Vitya,” he said softly, tapping his cheek lightly. Yuri paused only for a moment, flashing a glance at the two.

Victor mumbled softly, eyes creaking open and Yuuri smiled at him, murmuring something in his native language. Yuri felt like he was intruding, so he turned back to his work, calling forth a spell. He’d always been good at healing, so fixing the wound while a delicate process, wasn’t hard. He just needed to concentrate.

“Yuuri,” Victor sighed, and Yuuri brushed his fingers through his silvery hair, his voice murmuring low in that musical language of his.

The burning underneath Yuri’s skin spread to an itching frenzy. He was almost done, nearly there, just a little bit more. Sweat beaded along his brow as he focused on the delicate work, but it was hard to concentrate with the fire spreading through his veins.

He yelped, surprising Yuuri who flashed him a look of worry. “It’s nothing,” Yuri snapped, but it was everything, it was almost the only thing that he could focus on. Victor’s skin closed over, smooth and pale. He would need water and rest, but he would be fine.

Yuri sat back, grabbing at his arms, nails raking at his skin. “Shit,” he said. “Shit, it burns.”

“Boy--” Yuuri started, but Yuri screamed.

He screamed and screamed and screamed, as the fire consumed him.

It had taken several hours to pile up and burn the men who had attacked them.

Yuri had never felt so useless in his entire life.

It was an odd thing, walking on four legs. His entire center of gravity had shifted and the way that his limbs bent was unfamiliar. The first few steps he had taken, Yuri had fallen right over, tumbling to his side on uneven feet. Yuuri had tried to help right him, but he’d hissed in return, mouth moving awkwardly around a mouthful of fangs that he wasn’t used to.

Fur was hot, but also cool, and it was a strange sensation to try and get used to. And the smells. Yuri had never realized how terrible some things smelled, and how overwhelming other things were. Victor still smelled like blood even though he had changed into clean clothes hours ago, and was now resting quietly on a cot in his tent.

Yuri sat on his haunches by his mother, leg twitching awkwardly as he tried to figure out the best position. She was dead on the ground, body ice cold and lifeless. He stared. His eyesight was amazingly good in the dark, and he marveled at just how far he could see-- but she was the only thing that he could focus on.

Boots fell heavily behind him, crunching twigs and leaves along the rotted soil. Yuri smelled him before he saw him, the scent of warm honey and steel. Not what he would have expected, but then again, nothing was expected anymore. The world seemed utterly different now, the colors more intense and sharper. Smells rich and thick, and almost overwhelming.

All of it without his mother.

Yuuri stood next to him for a long moment and then did something unexpected-- he dropped to sit beside him, knees pulled close to his chest and slightly spread, as he rested his arms across them.

He didn’t say anything immediately, the silence companionable. Yuri realized then, that there was so much that he didn’t know about the guardsman. Despite his annoyance at his half demure, half dangerous personality, he didn’t dislike the man. But the extent of his knowledge was that he’d been brought to the court as a child, and that he was incredibly dangerous. That was it.

And now, he couldn’t ask him. He’d never be able to.

Yuri would never ask a person anything ever again.

It was dumb to think that Yuri had wasted his time, maybe, but it was something that weighed heavy on him. He’d gained so much in his transformation, but he’d lost the things that had made him human. As a child, he’d thought the curse would be fun; having the ability to be different, exploring things that you never would otherwise. Napping in pillows the entire day.

But now it felt like torture.

“I will never forget what she did for him,” Yuuri finally said. His voice was quiet and soothing, like soft river water that smoothed over stones. “For Victor. Or you, for that matter. The both of you saved him. So for that, I will never forget.”

Yuri was still figuring out how to express himself in his new form. He shifted slightly next to Yuuri, paws shuffling against the ground. Staring at his mother unblinking. Yuuri did the same.

Then, Yuuri stood and pulled the belt from his waist. He unsheathed his sword, dropping the blade to the ground. Yuuri then held the scabbard vertical and chucked it into the soil, using his foot to dig it in. He leveraged the thing, breaking into the hard earth that wasn’t yet rotted, trying to till it.

Yuuri wasn’t wearing his full uniform anymore. He’d pulled the jacket off and wore only the linen undershirt, half tucked into his pants. He was quiet as he worked at the ground, and Yuri watched in confusion. Then Yuuri dropped to his knees, dragging the sheath forward as he began scooping the earth away.

He was digging a grave, Yuri realized.

Yuri pulled up on unsteady feet and ambled over next to him, using his thick paws and sharp claws to help. The motion was awkward, but he eventually settled into it, and they worked side-by-side to dig a spot big enough to bury his mother.

Yuuri couldn’t lift her easily, but he managed, settling her into the grave gently. He said nothing as they covered her.

Then they stared at the mound in silence. Yuri couldn’t cry. It didn’t matter how much it hurt, tears wouldn’t come. So he just sat there forlornly. Yuuri reached out and pressed a dirty, soiled hand into his scruff, rubbing at it gently.

“Yuri,” he said to him, the first time he’d ever called him by his proper name. It’d always been you or boy. “I’m sorry. For everything. It isn’t fair. Not to her, and not to you.”

Yuri knew that he meant it. Yuuri was the kind of man that didn’t mince his words; everything that he said, was said with intent. In that moment, Yuri didn’t hate him and he saw why the prince was particularly close to this man.

They sat there and watched her grave until the sun rose.

Yuri was bored, he was always bored, but it never seemed like he was aimlessly doing anything. He watched the servants mill about in Victor’s rooms. He watched advisors come and go, and he listened in on their conversations, tail swishing behind him.

Sometimes Yuuri pet him as he knelt beside him, hands combing through his soft fur. Not out of pity, but out of genuine affection.

Loathe he was to admit it, Yuuri had grown on him. It turned out that his quiet demeanor wasn’t an act and he truly was an empathetic man. Just one that could slice a head from a man’s body with barely the flick of his wrist.

Yuri was even more annoyed by the fact that he didn’t hate Victor. He didn’t like him, he barely tolerated him really-- but he didn’t hate him.

And honestly, being chained up in the prince’s personal parlor was better than the harem, despite some setbacks. Like Victor’s intensely passionate relationship with Yuuri. It had come as a shock, but it shouldn’t have, not with how the guard had reacted to Victor nearly dying.

Or the way that he had treated Yuri in the aftermath of saving his life.

Yuuri helped Victor dress that morning. Victor stood half dressed, his jacket still open and chest bared. Yuuri slipped his hand along his side, fingers trailing the pink scar that the bandit had left. Yuri watched in boredom, rolled his eyes as much as a tiger could manage, and then let out a huff.

Both men glanced his way, and Victor laughed. “Alright, alright,” he said, as Yuuri went to button the garment up.

It wasn’t casual, what they had, and it hadn’t been for a long time. They were careful enough, and the servants kept their mouths shut. Victor’s advisors didn’t understand why he wouldn’t take a wife or claim an heir through the harem, but it was only a matter of time until something happened.

The idea didn’t sit well with Yuri. They had worked to hard to keep what they had and while Yuri told himself that his concern was only as someone who didn’t want to deal with Victor in the midst of massive heartbreak-- that wasn’t it. Yuri cared for them, even if it was the tiniest sliver of care that he would never admit to. Ever.

“There, there, Yurio,” Victor said, glancing in his mirror. “All dressed now.”

Yuri hissed at the dumb nickname, but sank into the soft touch of Yuuri’s hand. He knew exactly where to scratch, right behind his ear, and Yuri’s eyes sank half-lidded as he purred lowly. “Let Victor be,” Yuuri said softly. “Let him have that.”

It’s what he always said, so Yuri begrudgingly hadn’t bitten Victor’s hand off yet.

But, as the days wore on, Yuri learned that time flowed differently when you were a tiger.

Servants came and went, as did fashion trends. Victor no longer dressed in blues and silvers, it was now reds and golds, and tassels and chains. Yuri watched the prince dance around a prospective marriage proposal. And then another. And another.

Then one day, he realized that there were silver strands in Yuuri’s soft black hair, and that Victor had soft laugh lines around the corners of his mouth.

Yuri had no idea how much time had passed and it disturbed him greatly.

One night, Victor and Yuuri were having dinner together as they did every night. Yuri was chained up next to them, watching as they laughed and ate. Yuri had been given a meal as well, but he didn’t feel like eating.

He never felt like doing anything lately, it felt like.

Yuuri was the first to notice.

Later, as Victor was dressing down for a bath, Yuuri took the moment to come over to him. Yuri was laying limp, head cradled by his paws as he watched the room with little interest.

“Boy?” Yuuri asked him, nudging Yuri’s side with a slippered foot. When he didn’t answer, Yuuri knelt down to look at him directly. “Yuri?” he asked, the first time he’d used his name proper since Yuri’s mother had died.

Yuri let out a frustrated huff and Yuuri frowned, but didn’t ask what was wrong. It’s not like Yuri could answer him anyhow, not in a traditional sense. Instead, Yuuri just reached out, pressing his fingers into his warm scruff and scratched there for a long moment.

“I wish that I could say that it will get better,” Yuuri finally said to him, “but I don’t like to lie. But know this Yuri; Victor and I care for you.”

Yuri didn’t doubt it. Even as much as they annoyed them with their love-dovey sappiness, or Victor’s childish whining, or Yuuri’s quiet platitudes. Yuri didn’t doubt it one bit, because they didn’t have to treat him the way that they did.

He knew that it wasn’t only because they felt like they owed him something. Over time, things had changed.

Eventually, Victor peeked around the corner, wearing only a robe. When his face fell on them, it fell slightly, lips tugged into a soft little frown as he just watched, Yuuri’s fingers moving through Yuri’s fur with careful intent.

Yuri couldn’t help it, the soft feeling of the touch lulling him slightly. His eyes dipped halfway closed and Yuuri offered him a soft and rare smile.

“That’s it, Yuri. Get some rest.”

He would. Yuuri’s fingers left him as he stood. He heard the hushed murmurs between him and Victor, something something Vitya.

More time passed, weeks melting into each other as Yuri wasted the days away. One afternoon, the advisors of Rus held a small meeting with Victor in his parlor. Yuri lounged along his pillows, sprawled out and belly up as he stretched his back. He only half listened, until certain words caught his ear.

Yuri rolled over onto his stomach as his ears twitched, suddenly more alert.

That day, he learned that seven years had passed.

“Curses!”

Yuri opened an eye groggily, his sight quickly adjusting in the dark room. There was a servant near him, a basket of laundry tucked underneath her arm. She cursed again, trying to make her way through the pitch black parlor.

It was odd, Yuri thought. Usually a few oil lamps remained lit for such a reason.

The woman was young and cute, hair tucked into a neat little braided bun at the base of her neck. Not a new servant, but a kind one who would sneak him extra meat when she brought him his meals. She was trying to find her footing, but Victor wasn’t known for keeping his work tidy. Books and stacks of paper were strewn about with the express demand for them to be left alone.

“Chaos makes the brain work harder,” Victor had once told Yuuri. Yuuri had only sighed in return.

“Oh bother,” the girl sighed, but managed to pick her away across the room. She didn’t even pause to blink in his direction. There had been a time where the servants treated him with apprehension, but over the years he’d gained a reputation for being a lazy pet.

Years. Pet. Yuri hated the mere idea of it.

But then the girl tripped again, ankle curled into his chain as she went down entirely. The chain was pulled taut and Yuri along with it, slightly choked. She wiggled around, trying to free her leg, and the chain tugged a little bit more.

Yuri sat up, trying to move with the chain as she worked herself free.

And then there was a creaking of metal as his collar undid itself. It clattered to the ground, rolling slightly, the chain falling slack. They both paused.

“Oh,” the servant breathed, her eyes snapping to him, like she was suddenly afraid that he might attack her now that he was free.

But Yuri was more concerned with how weightless he suddenly felt, no longer chained down by a heavy metal cuff and lead. They usually checked the collar every once in awhile, but Victor had waved the thought away the last time it was brought up. It must have loosed and the girl tripping over it had pulled it apart entirely.

He stood properly, stretching his long body. She remained frozen to her spot on the floor, eyes as wide as saucers.

Yuri had been given a chance. He could escape into the wild, leave this place and never return. He could be free, instead of chained to the wall, suffering through monotonous routine as he watched everyone else live their lives.

He took a step forward and her voice hitched. She hadn’t meant to, but he was grateful to her. Yuri bent forward and pressed his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes and just felt, trying to show her his thanks.

Her fingers reached up into his fur. “You should go,” she said. “You should get out of here and never come back.”

Yuri pulled away and gave her one last look, before he quietly stalked through the parlor, leaving the girl behind. Everything was quiet in the dead of the night, as Yuri padded through the rooms.

Then he paused at a door, half open, lamplight flickering low beyond it. Hushed voices and murmurs, and Yuuri sighing a soft Vitya. Victor’s quiet laughter in response.

For a brief moment, Yuri wondered if he would miss them. Victor’s dumb antics, but quiet intelligence. Yuuri’s kind words and scritches, well placed when he needed them. Yuuri had once told him that they cared for him together. As a unit.

It wasn’t that it didn’t mean a lot, it was just that his freedom meant more.

Yuri watched the door for a long moment and then turned to the porch. Like most nights, the doors were thrown wide open to let the cool air. Curtains blew gently with a breeze. Yuri’s heart beat heavily as he neared them. Before he could change his mind, counted one, two, three and leapt.

It wasn’t a far jump to the ground.

Yuri was not prepared for the true devastation of The Rot as he made his way south.

Rus wouldn’t be safe for him. Victor wasn’t an unkind man, but he wouldn’t let Yuri roam free either. He’d allowed him freedom to listen in, whenever he held chambers in his private quarters, likely because he had never thought he’d escape.

Yuri was privy to a lot of private things and not above blackmail, even if he cared for them. The knowledge of Yuuri and Victor’s relationship alone was enough to get the guardsman executed with little thought.

Yuri didn’t want to, but he hold those cards close to his chest. Just in case.

The Rot was the worst near the palace at the center of Rus. The earth was dry and craggy, blackened with fetid soil. There weren’t any crops. The game left was insane with madness, tottering around on weakened limbs and foaming at the mouth.

Yuri had heard of the drain on resources, having to import food and crops from elsewhere, but he hadn’t expected this.

The people were worse. Children skinny and thin boned, and tired parents with dry-cracked hands as they tried to till soil that wouldn’t bloom anything.

Yuri knew how to reverse it, but as a tiger he was utterly useless when it came to casting magic. The Plisetsky line would end with him and Rus would tumble down alongside. Yuri wondered if it had been worth it, cursing his grandfather, and he wondered if they regretted it.

He didn’t linger. He pushed further and further south, days bleeding together with the distance that he put between himself and his home. The Rot lessened, patches of decay here and there, but it never disappeared outright.

Eventually, he reached the Steppe, rolling grasslands against a mountainous backdrop.

The Rot was here too, stretching into land that had nothing to do with a vengeful crown and a sorcerer who decided to fight back. For the first time in his life, Yuri was angry at his grandfather, and he pitied Victor.

He had known that the prince had tried to stop it. Victor was also obstinate though, and he already ruffled enough feathers among his court by not marrying or siring an heir. Even with the chance, he wouldn’t have asked Yuri for help.

Yuri sighed, a long breath that ended in a snort.

He would keep going, he decided. He would go further and further until The Rot was no more. It wasn’t his problem.

Yuri was free.

And then he came across a fetid bear and the dumbest nomad alive.

Yuri watched from afar, lazing about atop a stone outcropping as the man tried to reach for another arrow. There wasn’t one, his hand grasping around air. The man cursed before resigning himself to the end of his life.

Really, who hunted this far out with no help? Yuri couldn’t smell another human for miles, so the nomad’s home wasn’t near. He was alone. The bear ambled closer and Yuri sighed, raising up on tired and weary legs.

He was hungry anyway.

The bear was easy prey for a beast like himself, and The Rot only eased it further. Yuri tackled the bear down, claws dipping into his warm body as they raked across it. It’s throat tore easily underneath his mouth. It tasted sick, just slightly foul, but Yuri wouldn’t waste meat.

The bear wasn’t rotted enough to do him any harm, so he ate, tearing at muscle and sinew. Allowing for the nomad to run away and save his sorry hide.

But the nomad didn’t. Instead, he sat and waited. Watched.

When Yuri was done, he sat on his haunches and went about cleaning his paws. He didn’t like the way that blood crusted his fur, so the sooner the better. The nomad finally moved, slinging his bow across his wide shoulders.

Yuri finally looked at him. He was impressive, despite being short, his body broad with well honed muscles. He wore leathers and an embroidered tunic, typical of the clans in these parts. His hair was long on top and tied back with a simple cord, the sides of his head closely shaved. Well cut jawline and a slightly crooked nose, like it hadn’t healed properly after being broken.

Not unappealing. Handsome even.

The nomad turned to leave, but then paused and shot a wary glance to the bear. Yuri followed his gaze. Surely the man wasn’t that stupid, to think that the bear was worth taking with him. Yuri could stomach the fetid meat, but only barely. It wasn’t worth the risk.

The nomad raised his hands, before stepping closer to the bear, and Gods above, Yuri would have to resort to scaring him off. But he didn’t. Not immediately. He only watched.

The nomad then pressed a hand into the pouch at his side and said something. The dialect wasn’t the high class Russian that he’d been taught, but it was similar enough that Yuri understood. A prayer.

Yuri leaned forward in interest, curious as to what the man would do.

He threw the handful of ashes over the bear and thanked it for doing it’s job. Yuri knew that the tribes of the Steppe were a superstitious lot, but the action made him think of something else. A dark and pitiful night long ago, where Yuuri dug a grave for a woman that he didn’t even know, all so she could be laid to peace respectfully.

Suddenly, the nomad was far more interesting than before, if still the dumbest man he’d ever met.

Yuri followed him and the man let him, only noting that he was an odd thing. The nomad didn’t question him, he only accepted the fact that Yuri was quite the unusual tiger. Perhaps he was just as interested in learning about him in return.

So Yuri gave him the honor of his company.

As time wore on, he learned that the nomad wasn’t dumb at all. His name was Otabek and he was kind, patient and intelligent. He didn’t treat Yuri as something to fear, he treated him like a friend. Like a companion.

As an equal.

“Yuri?” Otabek asked, and Yuri was pulled from his thoughts. He’d done a lot of thinking, as of late. Otabek’s hand was already in his scruff, an automatic and practiced motion, as his honey brown eyes regarded him fondly. “We’ll have to go a little bit further today.”

Yuri didn’t know what he hated more-- the slow heat that built in his heart, or the ache that killed it when he remembered that he would forever be a tiger.

Still, Yuri purred under the touch, tail swishing behind him, before he followed Otabek into the snow.

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