A boy named Ivan

War was lost. Snow, chest deep, and heavy, enveloped him like an ocean of infuriatingly viscious water, and in a way, it was one.

He had spent the last decade idling around eastern Europe, prodding the Ottoman Empire in the hopes of eliciting an interesting response. Unfortunately, the Sultan proved to be an incredibly patient man, and the people were complacent. He tried to create protest, and fan the flames of dissidence, as civil conflict was always his favourite kind. He looked at civil wars like terrariums in their isolation. One need only plant the seeds, and watch an ecosystem blossom. In this case, an ecosystem of assassinations, and budding casualties waiting to be plucked.

Alternatively, he looked at them like appetizers, enough to savour without eliminating the potential for further desire. If you think about this preference enough, it is entirely possible to deduce a whole host of War’s habits in the bedroom, but I digress.

He really tried to shake things up: attending meetings held by those with radical new political ideas, and reducing himself to screaming in the street about how the Sultan was secretly a sodomite (A fact, which War believed to be an outrageous lie at the time). Unfortunately, those meetings turned out to be nothing more than passionate book clubs, and the people believed his ravings to be some experimental new comedy act, going on to throw coins in his direction for the performance. Eventually word arrived at the Sultan himself about the entertaining foreigner. He responded by throwing a feast in War’s honour, requesting he perform his ‘act.’

War decided he would dabble in diplomacy, or rather anti-diplomacy, attempting to take advantage of the connections he had made to the elite in this new jester-esque role within the palace. He quickly learned, through the servant grapevine, and hours of egregious gossiping that the Sultan’s second in command, the Grand Vizier was the one who made the decisions that truly held weight.

War wrote new ravings for dinner entertainment, accusing the Sultan of many other moral indignities as he continued his stay, but none stuck quite like the accusations of homosexuality. Later, War would fondly remember those two years of his life as ’That time the Sultan employed me to call him my dirty little slut,” and it wasn’t in vain, either. He listened at these dinners and learned much about the inner workings of the empire, including the fact that the Vizier wanted to build a new Canal, but couldn’t get the Russians to agree to the use of their territory.

War spent several months, slipping into adjacent hallways, and ‘running into’ the Vizier by ‘chance.’ On such occasions, he planted ideas of the empire’s military might, and snide judgement of Russia’s recent defeats into the Vizier’s mind. Eventually, this paid off in a skirmish between the two countries over one of Russia’s southern cities, but the flame was quickly smothered by Ivan the Terrible’s proposed treaty, and War was left with nothing but his dick in his hand, or a dick, anyway, as he had payed the Sultan a warm visit before departing.

He decided, if the Ottomans wouldn’t make a move, he would instead try his luck with the leader known most for his cruelty. “If the appetizer is cold, just ask for the main course,” were his parting words as he slipped from his window, and began his walk north, cursing himself for spending his meager salary on ale rather than a horse, “if that’s cold too, kill the waiter, and castrate the chef.”

And so, War found himself tiptoeing across barren fields of snow, trying his best not to sink in. An outsider watching him from afar may have likened him to the clumsiest ballet dancer on the planet, and the outsider that was watching from afar thought exactly this. The bystander pulled his sleigh up beside War, who looked up to see a grizzled old man. He had wild eyes, but tailored clothes.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

War laughed, “You must be wondering how I’ve survived out here in the snow wearing only these torn rags!” he boasted.

“No,” the man growled, “You’re on my property.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to leave?”

“Probably not.”

“Well in that case, my wife made too much soup for the two of us. If you’re going to trespass on my land, you ought to at least help me rid myself of her terrible cooking.”

War groaned as he climbed aboard the sleigh, this wasn’t exactly the manifestation of terrible he was seeking, but it was something. He tried to make conversation a few times to distract himself from the wind whipping against his bare flesh, but the old guy wasn’t giving him anything to work with.

Eventually, the sleigh pulled off the open land, and into a small wood whereupon a large estate was found. They pulled up front, and the man handed the reigns to an emaciated servant. “This way,” he grumbled. Through the large doors, where an array of expensive furnishings welcomed them. War was impressed, for a private home it was surprisingly royal, it rivaled even the palace from which he had just come.

“A house like this, you must have maids to make your soup for you,” War observed.

“Yes, but my wife insists on cooking, anyway. It’s something of a hobby, to my misfortune, and I suppose, yours as well.” The strange man sat War down at a grand table tucked beneath a gawdy chandelier. Even war looked up at it with a slight grimace, the idea of subtlety settling into (and quickly drifting from) his mind for the first time.

A bowl of soup was set across from War, who, even being famished from months without food, found it difficult to stomach. He looked over to the man, who was now lighting a fire in one of the many fireplaces strewn throughout the house. “Thanks,” He mumbled with a full mouth, almost relinquishing his soup to the whims of gravity, “may I ask the name of my most gracious host?”

The man stroked his beard for a moment, “Hmm so it is true then.”

“What is?”

“That you are a foreigner.”

“Why do you say that?” War was perplexed by this assertion. He knew that his Russian was perfect, he was present when it was invented.

“Everyone in this nation knows my face, young man. For they have seen the statues in the cities, and the imprints on their coins.”

“Oh,” was all War could muster without revealing his excitement.

“I am the first Tsar of all of Russia, Ivan… what suffix is it they use in your homeland? Is it ‘the terrible’, or perhaps ‘the great’? I have even heard the ‘the fearsome.’” The look on his face betrayed that the Tsar was not so fond of these titles.

“Vasilyevich.” War responded coolly.

Ivan chuckled at that. “Not many of my own people, let alone foreigners, know of my surname. For that, I will allow you to rest in my home for the night, and when it is light, I will grant you use of a sleigh and a servant to accompany you to your destination.”

War yawned at the word ‘rest.’ He was not predisposed to operating well on anything less than an obscene amount of beauty sleep.

“Tsarevich!” Ivan called. The sound of footsteps was quickly followed by another poorly fed boy. He appeared as if years of neglect had brought his skeleton outward from his body.

“I’m sure I can find my room without use of a servant,” War assured him, holding his hand out.

This comment was followed by the loud slam of Ivan’s fist on the table, “Learn your place, peasant, this is my son, and you will respect him as such. If I say you will be escorted by the boy, you will be escorted. Is this clear?”

War tried his best to imitate fear, “Yes, sir.”

“Sorry about my father,” the boy said as he led the way up some winding stairs. “He is unpredictable. I was listening to your conversation, and I can sense you want something from him. But I warn you, those names that have been given to him. They are not without merit.”

“Thank you for the advice,” War responded, dismissively, “It doesn’t seem you can handle him very well yourself,” he said, and motioned to the boy’s battered appearance.

“I fear I will not live to see many of life’s pleasures, or for much longer at all” He conceded, “This is your room. My father says you aren’t permitted to leave it until dawn.

Please don’t get caught disobeying him, or it will mean the end of both of us.”

War shut the door, and kept his hand on the handle until he heard the boy’s footsteps fade, upon which he reopened it immediately. He needed to know more about the Tsar if he had any chance of influencing him. When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he saw two shadows cast from the neighbouring room, and listened to their conversation.

“You let a stranger into our home?” A woman’s voice echoed throughout the house.

“Only to keep him here until I’ve decided what to do,” Ivan replied.

“This is simply your paranoia, again. I thought coming to this house away from the city would help you clear your head, but you’ve only worsened.”

“Wrong,” the Tsar’s voice was angry now, “He knows of me, but not my face. He was wandering around my property without reason. He finished all of the soup I gave him. That is very suspicious behaviour.” This statement was followed by the sound of a sharp slap, and War stifled a chuckle.

After some shuffling, the conversation continued, “You think he is a spy? Ottoman, perhaps?”

“No, his Russian is too good. I suspect he is from Siberia, sent to relinquish me of any invasion plans I may be keeping. I will kill him in the night to be safe.”

“Please, Ivan,” their voices were reduced to mere whispers at this point, “Let one of the guards do it. You have seen too much blood.”

“No. I do not trust any of them. Not one. I will do it myself.” The shadows began to move then, and War decided it would be best to retreat back upstairs. He was having a very bad decade. It would be impossible to convince the Tsar of anything if he was suspected of being a spy, and if Ivan tried to kill him that would only complicate things further. He decided it was time to bounce, and he looked to his old pal, the window.

Pressing his hands against the glass, he shivered, feeling the frozen wasteland outside seep in. Not again. He dashed through the hallways until he found the most ornate door, which he burst through without a second thought, Proceeding to the closet, he removed his rags, and set them, folded, on the Pillow of Ivan’s bed.

“One of Ivan the Terrible’s fur coats,” War grinned as he pulled the last item of his new outfit on, “Not a bad souvenir.” He then departed before anyone could notify him that it was in fact the coat of Ivan’s wife.

By the time War arrived back in western Europe, Ivan the Terrible had grown furious at the ‘Siberian spy,’ and declared that he would conquer Siberia in retaliation. This conquest was successful, and resulted in an outrageous amount of deaths, to the chagrin of Death himself, and the delight of War who claimed this to be the plan all along.

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War eventually did return to Russia, bursting in on the Tsar and a colleague playing chess. News had reached him that Ivan had finally snapped and murdered his son. Ivan’s eyes went wide at the sight of Wars face.

“I brought a friend of mine,” War said solemnly as Pestilence stepped out from behind him,

“’Friend’ may be a bit much,” Pestilence responded as Ivan’s face slammed into his chess board, scattering pieces across the room, and shocking his opponent. The stroke had killed him instantly.

As Pestilence, and War left the room, there were three smiling. The other horsemen both gave Death a pat on the back as they walked by him. He rarely got excited about work, but after taking eight of the Tsar’s wives, and countless children, Death had been waiting for this day.