The Name
Genre: Suspense, Drama. A little slice of historical pie that focuses on the relationships between Russia and some of his lesser-known rulers.
Chapter One: Schlisselberg
Ingria, Russia
1763
She had said they were going to see a prisoner: a prisoner without a name. Who and where-what-for were not his to question. 'Why' was a precious commodity and not to be idly squandered.
The prison, called Schlisselburg, sat on an island at the head of the Neva, that broad, icy blue river through which cargo ships went lazily sailing. From afar, the fortress held a peculiar beauty, but it appeared more and more sinister the nearer the little ferryboat drew.
Russia was solemn, winding his mottled old scarf round his hands like a game played by children, winding and unwinding the cream-colored fabric unthinkingly. The long journey had found him very much in need of entertainment, even of an entirely mundane and juvenile sort.
Catherine, his Empress, sat in the small boat beside him, looking grave and professional. The chill April wind scoured them both.
The boat docked without very much ceremony. The passengers disembarked. There was a man waiting for them on the dock, who removed his hat and swept into a low bow before Catherine. "Tsaritsa," he murmured respectively. To Russia he gave a military salute. "Sir Braginsky."
Russia repeated the motion without really thinking. "Good day, Commandant Berednikov." This was a name he had been told in advance.
Berednikov nodded and motioned for the Empress and her nation to follow him through the wide, heavy doors, which closed behind them with something akin to a sigh.
It was so dark in this place. Russia blinked; once and again, until all the little lights had settled into the background and he could see. But even so, it was incredibly dim. The walls of the dungeon, he saw, curved upward like the inside of a cathedral, or an overturned teacup of gray, faded stone.
Catherine joined the gaoler at the head of their little procession and Russia fell in behind them. Their footsteps went damp and unnoticed in the myriad hallways. Elsewhere, Russia heard voices- or thought he heard voices- mumbling unintelligibly out of the cracks in the brickwork; voices low in prayer to mother and God, the voices of dreamers and of the demented: voices which were no longer entirely human, wailing in far-away subterranean cells. Or perhaps that was only the wind working its way through the mortar. Perhaps he wasn't really hearing anything at all.
"Tell me," the Empress remarked to the gaoler. "What of this prisoner? Is he so dangerous as to merit all this?"
The gaoler worked his tongue in his mouth pensively. The two of them seemed to have forgotten that Russia was listening. By now he had become accustomed to situations like this. "No, the man is not dangerous. It is what he represents to certain... dissident factions of your majesty's empire that make him a danger, as you are no doubt aware. But in and of himself he is quite harmless, my lady. Rest assured the wardens at Schlisselberg that we will permit no harm to come to their beloved sovereign."
"How thoughtful of you," Catherine whispered, having picked up on the tone of cloying subservience. A pause. Then; "He has been informed of my appointment to see him?"
They had stopped in front of a door. Berednikov produced a ring of skeleton keys from his belt, through which he flipped with a leisurely expression. "He has been informed, Tsaritsa. Whether or not he has the capacity to understand what that means is... known only to himself and our Savior." He selected a key and fitted it to the lock, where it gave a satisfying click.
Berednikov looked up once again at the Empress. "I shall wait outside the door," he said, his voice suddenly hushed. "But, if your majesty requires any more guards, we have the wardens on duty; perhaps Chekin or-"
"Thank you," Catherine intoned in her lush, charming drawl. "But I've brought my own." Both of them turned to look at Russia, who smiled almost shyly, twisting the ends of his scarf. The gaoler, acknowledging this, tugged the door halfway open and nodded.
"Come along, Braginsky." said Catherine. Russia took a step forward, and another. Being tall he bent a bit lower, and spoke quietly- not so much out of secrecy, but out of embarassment at always being the last one to know everything. "Madam," Russia whispered. "Who is this man we are going to see?"
Catherine was expressionless, staring at the door handle upon which she now rested his hand. "A complete lunatic, I hope. Or some other trifle that can be easily forgotten the day after the next."
With a rush of stale air, the wooden door opened and just like that, it seemed, it closed right behind them.
The cell was not much lighter than the rest of the dungeon. It was small, certainly, and the crooked, worm-eaten furniture therein made itself immediately apparent; there was a small table and a singular chair; unoccupied.
Their prisoner sat in a far corner that was probably less than ten meters away from them, hugging his legs. He stirred very faintly when he heard the door close, but did not look up.
The Tsaritsa eyed him warily. There was a long silence between them, in which words were considered, omitted, and finally used: "Boy, can you hear me?" Catherine asked just loudly enough to merit a response. The prisoner quivered once more, and looked up. That was the first thing Russia found that was startling- how young the prisoner was. Convicts, in his mind, were supposed to be middle aged, if not older, rotting, rheumatoid-arthritic detainees of the state. This boy didn't look much older than twenty. Didn't look much older than him.
Framed by filthy blonde hair as long as a woman's, his face had the wan, doughy look of one who has seen little sunlight. His eyes were very wide, but his stare was phlegmatic as it skimmed over Catherine, then turned towards Russia, where much to Russia's discomfort, it lingered.
Catherine had moved away from the door now, though heaven knew why. She herself did not seem to know. But she tried again to speak, mustering greater authority in her voice. "Do you know who I am?"
The prisoner did not look at her but his head lolled in what looked like a yes.
"And you-" Catherine said slowly. "Do you know who you are?"
The boy rose, wavering slightly on his thin legs. The Tsaritsa took a step back, instinctively it would seem, but the prisoner did not approach her. He wandered towards Russia, stopping less than two feet away from him, rocking back and forth on his heels. His eyes seemed to be everywhere, aimlessly scanning the same filthy ceiling that had been his sky for God knows how many years. He uttered a noise that did not seem entirely human, a few broken syllables that did not seem to relate to one another, and even those with great difficulty. "Ih... Ch... Ih-van."
Russia froze.
"I-van. Iv-an-chik... Ivanchik... Ih..."
"Madame?" he tried to take a step back, and found only the firm dungeon wall. He looked over at Catherine, no longer sure what to say. But his empress did not look as panic-stricken as he might have felt.
She stared at the boy prisoner without any expression at all. "Yes. That was your name, Ivan. You were Tsar Ivan Antonovich once. But that was a very long time ago."
A/N: Part one of four or five total. Chapter two is currently undergoing renovations and should be up soon. I'd be glad to hear any thoughts you have on the story so far.