Disclaimer: I don't own Anastasia or any of the characters therein. Feliks and Irina are mine, and I'm sure no one else would want them. :P
Chapter Three
Once again Dimitri found himself on his own. The winter wind seemed colder as he paced down the lane. He dragged his feet in the freshly fallen snow and ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the gilded box.
His thoughts were not in the present. He was thinking back—had it only been a day ago?—to the siege, to his brief contact with the princess. An image of her stayed at the forefront of his mind as he scanned the faces of those he passed. Every lock of reddish hair, every young girl, every pair of blue eyes drew his attention with keen interest. The moment he realized the features were not those of the girl he was searching for he would move onward. With each brief encounter his hopes rose higher and fell harder.
At the conclusion of the day he was exhausted, hungry, and trudging on with deflated optimism. As a part of him had feared, his search was entirely in vain. His arm emanated a dull ache and his stomach rumbled. His spirits were dampened further as he realized he had nowhere to sleep and no food to eat.
Further down the lane light marked the entrance to a tavern. For the briefest moment Dimitri hoped to get food there. His heart fell as he realized he had no money.
The boy found himself in a strange situation. His whole life food and lodging had been a given, something he'd taken for granted. Now that he had no access to those commodities he felt miserably alone and helpless.
He traipsed toward the tavern anyway, daring to hope some kindhearted passerby would take pity on him. After all, it had happened once before. Perhaps his luck was not yet spent.
Dimitri approached the inn's closed door. Within he heard a steady stream of mottled conversation, punctured by the occasional raucous laugh. Candles burned in the windows, but much to Dimitri's dismay their warmth did not spill into the alley in which he stood.
He did not dare to enter the tavern alone. The last time he had done so he had been thrown out. The incident had not been at this tavern, but the lesson had been learned. Local bars were reserved for men; children were forbidden.
The boy watched several men come and go. Each would give him a curious or irritated glance before continuing on their way. None offered even the slightest friendly gesture. Dimitri remained near the tavern door for over an hour. As the sun descended the temperature dropped sharply. The boy stood shivering when the door opened once more.
"What're you doing here?" a deep voice growled.
Dimitri spun around, his eyes wide. The question had come from a heavyset man with thick facial hair and dark, beady eyes. It was clear this was a man who was accustomed to wielding authority, even if that power only extended as far as the boundaries of his inn.
"I'm s-sorry if I of-f-fend, s-sir, I--" Talking was made difficult by his violently shaking frame. The other's next words made trying pointless.
"Shut up you wretch! I don't need any street rats lurking about my place. Now get outta here before I make you sorry you ever stopped by." The man pounded a clenched fist into his palm to accentuate his point.
"Please, s-sir, I just need a place to--"
Dimitri jumped aside, narrowly avoiding the fist thrown at him. Deciding not to press the matter, he turned and scampered down the street, slipping often in the fresh snow.
When he felt he was far enough away, he slowed his pace. He glanced over his shoulder, panting, and was relieved that the man was not pursuing. His brown eyes were troubled as he turned and continued on his way.
Hours later the boy was scarcely moving, taking one step where at a normal pace he could have accomplished four. His limbs were numb with cold and his flesh chapped by the wind. He could not help but think of, just a year past, the man who had wandered from the palace deep in his cups one evening and never returned. He had been found frozen to death the next day. Absently, Dimitri wondered if that would be his fate.
Then, he spotted a single lantern hanging from a building, a weak beacon fighting against the darkness. Dimitri forced himself onward, a feeble hope rising in his chest. He arrived at the building and, ignoring the front entrance, slunk around the back of the structure. He was searching for a way in to the place, his frozen fingers probing at every possible niche and handle. Finally he found doors embedded in the ground. With a tug he pried one open and slipped gratefully inside, closing the door behind him.
He was so fatigued that as soon as he was safely enclosed in the space he dropped to the floor and went to sleep.
..........
Feliks yawned and stretched. He had risen at an early hour. There was much work to be done in preparing for the coming day and in his old age it took him ever longer to get things ready. His wife, Irina, was readying to light the stove and had ordered him out into the elements to retrieve firewood.
He trudged through the thick layer of snow, his thin overcoat doing little to keep out the biting wind. Years of exposure to Russia's harsh climate had worn lines in his leather-like skin.
Feliks retrieved several chunks of wood from the pile at the rear of the inn. As he was heading back inside, he paused at the cellar doors. Tracks, not fresh, but mere indents in the snow, indicated that someone had been there before the snow had finished falling. Feliks knew that neither he nor his wife had visited the cellar from the outside: it was much more practical to access it from within.
The tracks led up to the cellar but did not depart. Feliks determined that whoever had been there was either adept at using his own tracks to retreat or still remained. The old man deposited his pile of wood with Irina and then went back outside. He grabbed the axe from the chopping block, carrying it lightly at his side.
Feliks flung the cellar doors open with ease. Snow sifted into the interior and landed on the curled up form of a young boy. Feliks dropped his axe instantly, struck by the astonishing resemblance this lad had to his own deceased son. With an agility that belied his age, the man leapt into the cellar and retrieved the child.
"Irina!" Feliks called, kicking the door leading from the cellar to the house open.
"For goodness sakes Feliks, lower your voice! I'm not deaf yet you know," was the irritable reply from the kitchen.
"But Irina--"
"What did I just say? I think you're the one getting hard of hearing!" Irina snapped as she tottered into the pantry where Feliks was calling from. "Good Lord Feliks, where did you find him?" The resemblance did not evade her notice. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw their son in her husband's arms. But that was impossible; Lazar had been dead for over a decade.
"He was in the cellar; must've snuck in late last night." Feliks stretched the boy's limp form toward his wife as if trying to pass off the responsibility.
Irina shook her head, her long grayish-white hair swinging from side to side with the motion. "Well put him out back. We don't have the time or money to take in a stray." Though her words were harsh, it was clear to Feliks that Irina wanted to keep the lad. How could she not? It was like recovering lost time with their beloved son.
"You know we can't do that. He would die."
"Are you sure he's not dead already? He certainly looks like it."
Feliks looked down at the boy in his arms. The child's skin had a faint bluish tint and his breath was a slow rasp. The fact that the boy was weakly shivering was at least encouraging. Over the years Feliks had heard that when a body stops shivering in the cold it has given up on life and is sure to die.
"You know quite well we can let him rest by the fire for awhile; that won't cost us a thing," Feliks protested.
Irina threw her hands in the air. "Do what you want Feliks. After all, I'm just your wife."
Feliks smiled to himself. His wife could be an annoyance at times, but he appreciated her subtle humor. He carried the boy upstairs and deposited him in a small side room. Pipes from the stove below carried heat to the upper level. Feliks tossed a few blankets over the boy and then headed downstairs to tend to his chores.
[A/N: Wow, original characters. Can you believe it? Hope they didn't muck up the story for you at all...]