you're too young & eager to love

Katerina and Grisha. Working on their backstory.

It just ends, because I can never seem to create an ending point. That's extremely frustrating, mind you, and something I intend to eventually work on. But not tonight.

The horse breeds mentioned are, of course, Russian breeds. The term golubushka means "dove" and is specifically used to/for a female.




Her lips are cold. The language she uses is too savage to warm them; the sharp sounds as isolated and as heavy as her heart. Hers is a world accustomed to plunging depths, built of icicle men and cigar-rough voices. He is not so different, appearing in her life with the scent of polished leather and hands large enough to span her waist. He comes with the stallions, rare and expensive like the beasts, purchased with her father’s money. He keeps quarters with the horses, staining himself with the moist smell of timber and wilderness.
The dogs take to him immediately. They are Russian wolfhounds, docile next to roaring hearths yet fierce during the hunt. Katerina has three, all male and standing tall, athletic, with the capacity for loyalty. They bound to the stranger though, unencumbered by the snow, and he welcomes them with a sincerity she finds appalling.
“You were bought for the horses, not my dogs.” The first words she says and they are half consumed by the wind. This season’s winter is hard, not fit for travel, and she has done little besides keeping to her furs and books. The man, however, navigates through the weather seemingly freely. Once he is in front of her, seeking entrance into the estate and a seat by the fire, he is tall and foreboding. The grin on his face is full of dissatisfaction. She realizes that his mouth is large, though not unbecoming. She thinks of the forest bears, the mammoth creatures capable of surviving and flourishing in these isolated climates.
“Katerina.” Her father, staunch and heavy, breaks the tension upon his approach. “Move aside, girl.”
As she turns, the men shake hands.



There is a servant Katerina favors. She is young and wheat-haired with skin the color of lace. She learns the shadows, the way the walls whisper. Katerina practices her sketching while the girl talks, working on the length of her small, calloused fingers and the sharpness of her ribs. The room is not well lit, but it does not matter. For the moment, positions have been traded. Katerina sits on the floor, her skirts heavy about her legs, her hair dark, and hands stained with grey. The servant lounges, as though used to privileged wealth, within her lady’s bed. Her shoulders are bare and very white.
“Your father will disapprove, if he finds out.” From the bed, her voice is tinier and quieter than usual. She is nervous. This position she holds keeps her warm at night and her stomach full. Katerina’s father pays well for allegiance.
“Do not move your head when your mouth opens, golubushka.”
There is only a moment of silence before the servant speaks again, her voice more confident this time. “Come to bed. It is too cold on the ground. You shall catch a fever.”
The artist’s mouth curls up in amusement but her silence is stern, determined. It is punctuated by the rustling of her papers and the continuous scratch of graphite. Outside, the dusk threatens to spill the last blood orange light upon the horizon.
“… One of those new horses is a Budyonny.”
“Yes.”
“The trainer wants your father to give it to you. Once it’s been broken.”
Katerina laughs, but it is less amusement and more dangerous. A slow burn from her long neck. “And this is the talk in the kitchens and stables, is it? I would rather take the Don.”
“The battle horse?”
She makes an approving sound, moving aside her sketches abruptly. Her dress, when she stands, rustles a warning. She has undone her Orion’s hair or it has come free on its own. Beneath her weight the bed’s moleskin blankets dip and arch. It is the same subservient motion the girl soon makes.



Three days later, he tells her that there is no such thing as straight ahead and hands her the reigns to the Don.
His name is Grisha, the type of name that gets stuck in the back of the throat and wrestles against teeth.
The Don is not as tall as the Budyonny but more broad. Its legs like gunmetal. For all her expertise, Katerina can hardly mount it. But her hands are steady, deliciously warm inside leather gloves. She sits and rides like a man, though the layers of dress make this difficult. Her coat is a necessary burden, the inside made of wolf fur – a pack that once, some time ago, had haunted the Vasil’ev lands. She keeps the hood drawn close to her, the skin of her face covered in cloth, only the pear colored slits of her eyes visible. (By the time they return, her mouth will be red and sore, attacked by the frost in the wind.)
They run.
The horses breathe in flaring bursts, their muscles straining.



Nearly half a century ago, Napoleon invaded. The terrain lived up to its expectations – inhospitable and ragged. Soldiers slit the bellies of their horses and crawled inside for warmth, ate the meat afterwards. The climate turned their skin black, useless. The Russians burned their homes to aid their czar; they did not suffer the turmoil of the enemy French and spit on Bonaparte’s name. Their land, they alone survived the frost.
Little has changed, except there are rumors of the abolishment of serfs and the possibility of rebellion. A history drenched in blood.
Katerina eats her bread sweetened with honey, and Grisha shuffles the playing cards. Stoic souls, unconcerned by the whisper of trouble circling the wind and moon. It is not their battle, and Grisha looks as though he would be more suited for forest myths than wielding a bayonet. They play poker and dominoes to pass the time, to avoid discussing what could be. The stallions have all been broken, but he does not leave. Instead, he adapts to the estate, growing inside of it as heartily as the outdoor vines grow against the walls.
She cannot tell what he thinks. If he kisses her because he cannot stand to see her mouth move without yielding to his own, or if his design is a plot darker and greedier. He unravels her hair in shadows, churns cravings against her skin. The things he does not promise is precisely what she takes.