DOTR: Yep! Another oneshot churned out too long. Sorry for these sudden onslaught of new stories (especially when I'm trying to finish requests, sorries), but when one listens to classical music and love songs and finds herself watching American history on YouTube then this will happen to an authoress.

Main ambient song for this story is: You're Still You by Josh Groban.

'When I had been lacking in inspiration they told me to go to the United States of America to find muse, sorrow, thirst, hunger, contempt, beauty, peace; everything that life was. They told me that the nation would have it.

The country did, and I found him.'

—Ivan Braginsky

Northern New York, USA. August of 1865

It was dark and rainy the day Ivan came to the home where he would be spending his time in the United States. The storm took away any care of detail of the home for the Russian. He wanted to be inside and out of the rain where it was warm and dry.

"Oh, the hour, Mr. Braginsky," the owner of the room and board home, Mrs. Thatcher, had a lantern in hand and was dressed in only her bed gown. She looked tired but more than ready to assist the newcomer with his belongings.

"Forgive me, but the ship was delayed a few days and didn't get into port until late noon. And I wouldn't want to see your eyes roll at the issue with the carriage," Ivan said with a chuckle while following the old woman up a few flights of stairs. The third floor was going to be his wing and the room with the best view of the scenery was what he requested.

"No, I wouldn't," the American woman admitted after unlocking the room and then handing the key to the foreigner. "But get a good night's sleep, Mr. Braginsky, only God knows what a sleep-deprived poet would write in his journal." Ivan offered her a smile. "Well, breakfast's at seven, brunch will be served on the patio at ten or if the weather permits then in the garden. Lunch is at two and dinner at eight."

"Spasibo. I will not forget the times," Ivan assured with an incline of his head.

The old woman rose her brow curiously. "What does that mean?"

Ivan smiled to himself and inwardly reprimanded himself for using is native language in a land that wasn't bi-lingual. "Apologies, it just means thank-you in Russian." The woman nodded before leaving Ivan to rest for the night.

The journey across the sea to the New World nation was exhausting and Ivan ended up sleeping in longer than he had planned. He raced down the stairs while trying to fix his coat. If he didn't hurry he'd miss the set time for breakfast.

And he did. Ivan Braginsky was horribly late. The maids were already clearing up the dishware atop the rows of tables. How sad.

"Late on the first day, Mr. Braginsky?" Ivan turned to see the Mrs. Thatcher. She was smiling at him, the gleam in her eyes more lively now that she had properly rested.

Ivan smiled bashfully. "Da—I mean, yes. Apologies."

The American woman was a nice old lady. She let out a sigh and turned, soon motioning Ivan to follow. "I'll dismiss you from the consequence of your late arrival for one day. Come on, I'll fix you something."

Mrs. Thatcher fixed Ivan some breakfast herself and made way a place for him to eat at the small table near the lounge area. She said it was best to eat in the new sunlight and Ivan enjoyed the illumination. He had to admit that American food was awfully fine, or perhaps simply Mrs. Thatcher's cooking divine. Braginsky hadn't had a nice meal since he left his motherland and to have his belly full and warm without it churning over in need to expel the digested contents was a pleasantry.

Ivan had been given a newspaper to read about the happenings in the country. He enjoyed the read while sipping craftily churned black coffee. It was such a nice morning that the rest of the day looked promising. Not a cloud in sight and a cool wind culling in from the ocean.

Ivan spied the maids jostling around, tying curtains just as they struggled to open the old rickety windows. The home felt much more fresh when the wind let in and in that moment Ivan decided he would spend the entire day in and around the home. He had considering heading into town to view the local place but he was content in his relaxed state.

His ears caught sound of small birds chirping, no doubt perched in Mrs. Thatcher's juniper trees fenced around the home. When his eyes went searching for the creatures to see the kind of bird they were his gaze halted. There, by the newly opened windows in the lounge room sat a man in a wheelchair.

Ivan was surprised he hadn't seen him before. He hadn't known when he had gotten there and the Russian briefly wondered if he had just overlooked him. But there he was, seated and quiet.

Ivan would have paid him no mind save for the fact that this man was all by himself. Alone, just looking out of the windows. Really there wasn't much of a view from where he sat, a large pine tree covered with vines shot up in front of the window and offered a poor view of the full estate. It would be best to move for a more eye-pleasing position, but the man stayed put . . . looking out at nothing.

For a moment Ivan believed him to be mad, but he knew that any unfit mind would be sent to a proper home and not a respected home and board like this. The mad would scare away customers and artists, and Mrs. Thatcher couldn't have that, no businessman—or woman—would.

Ivan really shouldn't have let his curiosity fly because now he was examining the man more. Taking in the color of his hair, the texture of his skin, and the posture of his position. It was hard to see anything more from how he sat. His back was mostly toward Ivan and anything else was hidden from sight.

"That's Alfred."

Ivan blinked and turned his head to see Mrs. Thatcher standing near to him. He hadn't even noticed the woman approach him. Had he been that indulged in observation?

"Don't you mind him," he said. Her pale blue eyes looked at Ivan like a mother would their child before letting them off into the classroom. Her gaze softened when her eyes turned toward the man so named as Alfred. "He's here at his parents own expense. Thought some mountains would help ease his soul." But the hopeless sigh let Ivan know just what the woman thought of this man's "treatment." "I'm afraid nothing's seemed to help him. After all he's lost a lot more than any human being on the planet should."

Ivan might have inquired the woman on more information but he didn't want to pry. It wasn't polite and he was not sent an ocean away at the suggestion of his family just to examine that of a man in depression. The old country offers plenty enough of that.

But when the old woman approached the man named Alfred, Ivan observed from afar. She was kneeling down, speaking to him, asking if he'd like to return to his room.

"You can't just wait around here until lunch, that's quite rude," Mrs. Thatcher spoke to him. Alfred didn't return her conversation which paved the way for Ivan's mind to think this person truly mad. The elderly woman simply housed this incapable for the money of his generous parents. "Do you wish to go out onto the patio?" The woman asked and it was then Ivan caught the sight of a slight shake of his head. Was the man communicating through gestures? Perhaps he was mute. How sad. "How about the parlor?" Again another small shake of the head. "No? Then is it to your room again?"

There wasn't a reaction at first but then there was a slight nod. Mrs. Thatcher sighed, her eyes glanced back toward where Ivan was seated, knowing he was watching. She paid the Russian no mind, however, and instead maneuvered around Alfred and took hold of the handles on the back of his wheelchair. Such a sweet old woman to personally push him herself.

When she turned the man to the side Ivan came to understand the meaning behind previous phrases. He had indeed lost much more than many humans alive today. Both of his legs . . . they were gone.

The sight shocked Ivan. His lips parted and a quiet gasp nearly resounded, but he was quick to catch himself and remain quiet out of respect, however, he could not avert his eyes. He held the man's form while Mrs. Thatcher pushed him away into the halls. One thing that struck Ivan the most was how young this man was . . . he wasn't even a man, but a mere boy!

That face. It was Alfred's downcast face that had fooled Ivan of its age. The frown, the near-emptiness in those frame-colored eyes, it aged the boy horribly. But surely this Alfred could be no more than twenty.

Interesting enough, right before this Alfred was pushed out of sight, the moment he passed by the arc of the dining area Ivan was seated in those dull blue eyes moved. Surprisingly the gaze turned to look at Ivan. The Russian hadn't expected that and their eyes met, though, Ivan was certain Alfred really hadn't "looked" at him. He clearly was not in that state of mind to concentrate on anything except the demons inside his head.

The demons inside his head . . .

Ivan shouldn't have pried, but he was curious. He drew close to Mrs. Thatcher who was a polite woman herself who helped the hired hands with chores around the house and if Ivan wanted to inquire any information from her then he would best suit himself to accompany her on errands in town or around the home making himself useful with his presence.

"I knew that boy since he was a little swaddling in a cradle," Mrs. Thatcher said while she hung up laundry to dry on the lines in the work field near the shed and barn. Ivan was with her, holding the basket full of linen sheets. "I knew his sister too. He didn't come into this world alone like the rest of us." She smiled after pining the sheet she was handling and shaking it in the wind. "He was a twin. He and sister were such sweet little things. Amelia was her name. She used to play with my daughter Lisa." Mrs. Thatcher paused, her smile fading when she snatched up another sheet to hang. "Until a fever took her one night," she informed.

Ivan nodded to himself. A sibling losing their brother or sister was hard. He was lucky enough to grow with both his sisters. His eldest had a scare when they were younger, but she healed and is such a sturdy woman to this day.

"Alfred had a fiery spirit in him," Mrs. Thatcher continued. Her smile had returned. "Always the optimist, that boy. When Lisa lost her playmate he stepped in for her and now it was almost like he had a sister again and my daughter a brother." The old woman shook the sheet in her hand again with a heavy sigh. "Until the fever took my daughter as well."

Setback after setback Ivan learned of this boy's childhood, and yet he was still so young. Mrs. Thatcher informed him he had just turned the age of nineteen back in July and so many of these happenings had only been a few years back for the youth. But no matter the trials he faced in his rearing it was the past half-decade that had tested his resolve—that had finally broken his spirit.

"The boy dun run off and joined the army at the tender age of fifteen," Mrs. Thatcher informed. There were no more sheets to hang. Both she and Ivan were seated on a small wooden bench for the weary worker to relax on when worked taxed them. "His parents were so upset with him that he didn't have the nerve to write to them. But he wrote to me." Mrs. Thatcher smiled with her chuckle. "He wrote to me so much that his commander thought I was his mother, so I was the one who received news of his devastating injury."

Ivan would not have pressed for detail. Just seeing Alfred was enough to let the imagination run, and no doubt the endeavors of the mind came close to the truth. Horrific was horrific.

But the old woman told Ivan. Mrs. Thatcher looked at the Russian and told him just how Alfred had lost his legs. "A cannon fire blew his horse right out from underneath him. The shrapnel tore into his legs while the dead weight of the animal crushed his bones into sawdust. There was no saving the limbs and the army don't have any place for a soldier with no legs to stand on."

Anyone with a weak heart would have fainted at Mrs. Thatcher's account of what happened, but Ivan was a romanticist and could find amazement in anything. It was a sad thing, what had happened to the boy. Tragic really. But tragedy did fuel inspiration.

"When did this happen?" Ivan questioned.

"Back in April," Mrs. Thatcher informed. "He struggled just to heal, but even when the lacerations sealed right up we all knew he hadn't fully recovered." She looked at Ivan then, her face quite haunting. "I'm afraid you'll find many a man like Alfred in this country, Mr. Braginsky. War is a terrible thing and even when it's over the scars remain. It's just such a shame really . . . to have as high of spirits as his cut like that."

A shame indeed. But Mrs. Thatcher was right; that was what war created. Ivan was certain he could find much more tragic sadness down in the southern states of the country and the failed rise of a country not meant to be, but this Alfred did very much depict the epitome of it all, at least in Ivan's eyes.

One would think it would be quite rude to draw inspiration from the sorrows and suffering of another, but such was the way of a poet. Ivan began to write during his stay in Mrs. Thatcher's room and board home where he mingled with the other tenants and ever observed the sole Civil War veteran. Soon enough he became just as isolated as Alfred, speaking little, keeping to his books and pen and paper, staying in the dining area to watch the way Alfred gazed out of the windows in the lounge room.

His eyes were on the boy wishing to capture his pity, his disdain, and emptiness, yet when the Russian looked down at the words on his paper he found himself astonished. Such words did not captivate those of a spiritually wounded soldier, but of a secretly awe-struck admirer. Oh my, when had this happened?

Ivan had examined his words for days, trying to make sense of them all, trying to figure out where and how they were written. In the end he smiled after realizing he had let himself go and opened his soul to the poetry residing in the surrounding atmosphere. It was a beautiful piece and so he felt the need to share it with the one who rightly inspired it.

"Mr. Jones?"

This was the first time Ivan ever made an effort to approach the boy. Being up so much closer opened the poet's eyes to more detail about the American and his hand itched to take up his pen and jot down his feelings, but now was inopportune, he had a duty to see to right now.

Of course the American didn't respond to him. It was expected. Ivan simply smiled and leaned down beside him to see eye-to-eye, if he'd look at him that is. "My name is Ivan Braginsky. I come from Russia and am visiting this nation for inspiration you see. I am a writer of poems. Do you like poetry, Alfred?" If Ivan wouldn't have known the boy's background then he might have felt a little perturbed that he wouldn't respond to him. "Perhaps you would like to listen to some of mine? I had originally written it in Russian and forgive me if the translation is lacking, but I believe I've made some effort for it to sound pleasant to the ears and mind."

Ivan held up the paper he had written the poem down on. He was overjoyed to read it to the one who figuratively wrote the words. It was always a way of payment for a poet to return the gratitude.

"The light is shining through the sill

Its rays dost catch upon beauty still

It brings with it its friend the breeze

To touch, to caress, to glide o'er thee

Together would you inhale their gift

Presented before you, full length and width

Should they press closer to brush thy lips

A smile they seek, no more than this

To brighten eyes, and lighten souls

To show this world a beauty behold

Oh, fainted one, look up to them

Hued round eyes of sapphire gem

And golden strands of wheat so bounteous

Reflection of this land; blessed prosperous

With light so bright and breeze so e'er

Wouldst thy countenance redeem to fair

Erasing the years of yester-month

But first it is time to inhale and stand up."

It was a pretty little poem and Ivan hadn't revised a thing. He didn't feel it needed touched up at all. It would be nice to receive any sort of review from the one who so inspired the words, but when Ivan looked toward Alfred he had been caught off guard.

Ivan hadn't expected the American to be looking at him. Hardly an expression revealed any emotion on Alfred's face. There was no gleam in his eyes, Ivan knew they were focusing on him and that the boy was looking right at him, but other than that Alfred's mind did not account any importance in the situation.

"That . . . was the worst." Ivan hadn't expected Alfred to react in any way; to move, to look at him, or to speak for that matter. But he did, and what came out of his mouth was disheartening, not for the writer of the light rhyme but for the critique.

Ivan's eyes widened at Alfred's reaction and when he spoke and he heard him for the first time his jaw loosened, pale lips partings perhaps to speak or perhaps to gap in awed amazement. Ivan hadn't expected Alfred's tone to be as deep, it did not fit his features but the grounder sound was expected for one who spoke perhaps once a week.

It must be because Alfred was so young why Ivan felt the way he did. He's seen his fair share of wounded soldiers, but Alfred seemed different to him and he didn't know why. His heart clenched just at watching Alfred turn his face away from him, setting his gaze out of the window to stare blankly once more. His words following were depressing.

"Full of misconceptions and falsities," Alfred whispered before growing silent once more. Tuning the world out, and Ivan.

To question a writer's source of inspiration was one thing, but to out rightly cut it down when it was declared to be written from the observation of oneself was . . . very sad. Ivan really didn't know what to think of it. He hadn't expected a response to his read poem and therefore could think of nothing in retort.

For days he thought about what had happened and he became troubled. Not for himself, but for the young de-spirited soldier. He sounded as if he lost all hope, all hope in himself. And that just wouldn't do with Ivan.

DOTR: On a note, forgive me for poor poetry (it's not my best forte). On another note, hope you guys enjoyed and are liking the idea of a story like this. This fic shouldn't be too long. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!