It should have been a joyous occasion, something to celebrate rather than denounce, something to embrace rather than dread, but standing staunch in cinched belts, weighty adornments, and broad epaulets that hang precise over his shoulders, throat itching of thick woven wool, he knows this union isn’t what he wants.

It is what everyone else wants.

The servants – not his own, though equally inclined to help with the every desires made by invested parties – busy themselves; they tidy wrinkles in the fabric of his trousers, adjust the positioning of pin medals and the curvature of thick leather, polishing the dress leather of boots meant for presentation and what he feels is, even through the layers, a cold march; and all he wants to do is buzz them away, brush them off, send them somewhere else where he can’t find them or, in matters of ease, they can’t find him and neither can she.

He feels selfish and he is, a cold draft felt against ever-warming skin at the sight of her – not because he doesn’t find her rosy cheeks, tinged from the cold of snow or flush of blush so dainty, unsightly; not because he doesn’t find her golden curls, pinned up tight under combs and simple, but sparkling coronets undesirable; and not because, in some facet of his being, in some way, shape or form, he didn’t care for her, but because he cares in all the wrong ways, coveting in ways unfit for the husband he is to be.

It should be privilege to be so chosen by someone with more, by a family who had given blessing to their daughter’s wishes, emissaries sent out to forge family-made ties like bars on a gilded cage, but all he feels facing such a monotonous event to be seen by all, by the eyes of the holy bodies and stars above their heads, is sorrow – for him, for the thoughts that cross his mind as he stares into the ornate mirror before him, for the lie he feels burning with more ardor than ever, fueled by such unwillingness to be ignored.

The Firebird and his Winter Bride – what a tragedy.

It feels like clipped wings, as short at the hair on his head that he gently brushes his hands over once the servants depart as if pushing one tress, moving one strand, out of place will see them scurrying back in. He doesn’t move much more than that, an errant adjustment to his jacket made as he tugs down the seat – nothing more than a quick jerk which seems to tighten the presentation left behind by hurried hands – and small twist of chest-posted regalia; and for a moment, perception or otherwise, time seems to slow and the skies, already dark, seem darker still and the shadows in the windows dance with far less ferocity than the twinkling lanterns creating their very being.

Except one.

And how curious it is, the sudden intrusion of cold that pushes against the inherent heat of the room – far less to do with the hearth and the fire within, but that which emitted from his very being – with nary an open window or crack under the door to elicit such a drop in temperature; but still, he found it welcome as it seemed to intrude upon the expanse, frosting across gold and gilded décor like a specter, perhaps Death itself with an inevitable that he knew was too good to be true when the palace wasn’t yet up in flames.

No – this had been Deathless.

It is a cold look nonetheless, not pristine like the porcelain of a bride swathed in fineries and gems with trailing brocades of finely embroidered fabrics to contrast rather something that digs into the bones – or attempts to – like a thief starved from warmth, from sustenance, from all things that made such an immortal cycle livable. It’s written on his face, across his skin that hangs, and the protrusion of bones perhaps almost as pale. Sunken eyes speak of tiredness, dark pools of his irises darkness, and where one may have saw reason to turn away, to run, his was an inherent flex of magnetizing polarity that was punctuated by a simple, single word, not so resounding in what could be fear, but what would the Firebird have to fear from the cold?

“Yes.”

It is hasty disregard for all that had been done, all that had been brought together, in the face of such intended matrimony, but he cares not as he snaps off belts, tears off sashes and parts with boots far too high to allow bare feet to press firm against the cold floors. It feels like freedom, the cold trek through the snow that melts readily underneath each step and even the rush of chilled wind across his skin, hastily carried away from everything life had been – friends, family, loved ones – known on the promise, uncertain as it could have been, of love, of affection, or everything that didn’t exist in such spectacular, but empty halls.

And yet, the years to come find him in similarly kept, but not unhappy. The halls of the palace are gilded, brightly lit in contrasts of red, and their ceilings high much like the one he had been brought from, and the fineries present in draped silks and heavy gold that glistens across the peaks of his shoulders and dips and curves of his skin isn't an unfamiliar weight, and the gardens thrive despite what few perceived beings there were in comparison to the ebb and tide of hardworked soil constantly worked by palace servants against the dread of cold; but it’s different. It isn’t forced. It isn’t unkind. It is elaborate, but not without intention to appease and even in such opulence, smaller, kinder moments can be in a kitchen he has no need to be in, but finds himself seated within among the domovoi as they hastily address whatever he needs.

No, what he wants.

For now, it is tea and Jai plays his part, scurrying around the kitchen to make sure the water is hot and the leaves are just right and there are ever-so many things to do that the Firebird injects a pause. He knows the domovoi won't take it.

“Jai,” he said, fingers delicately pulling the rind of cut lemon away from the prepared sour wedge to pass over. It is a gift, but not one without curiosities even as it is warmly taken between his hands under an equally encouraging, kind smile. He likes it here - not just in Buyan, not just in the palace, but the kitchen where he is constantly swathed in the smell of freshly cooked food, loud in some ways, however not unwelcome. It feels like a beating heart, lifely as the house daemons keep to their tasks. Still, he inquires: “You do know I can do this myself, right?”

"We are aware," Jai starts, still moving around to make sure the snowball biscuits meant to go with the tea are perfectly rounded, baked exceptionally, and dusted precisely before they're set out with a variety of biscuits, cheese and charcutierie - a full tea time for a party of one without his husband present, "but Koschei has provided us a home and we are happy to serve. We're here to help you."

As he speaks, he feels a tugging at his robe and an ever-growing weight - not much - that pulls at the fabrics as one the domovoi, no taller than his ankle, climbs up and stands on it's toes to see over the table before the fire bride. Small hands hold onto the edge, peering over the spread until the domovoi is picked up by talons of gold to see more readily, the firdbird watching carefully as the domovoi focuses more readily on the near-coveted slice of sushki. It's easy for him to reach over and cut off a piece more appropriately sized for the domovoi, setting it in his small hands which garners a squeak of joy before the daemon is set back down on the ground to scuttle off again.

Of course, he knows there isn't a bump or two found in that desire to help, some domovoi sent away while others found themselves transformed for displeasing Koschei, but he understands on some level: It is their purpose and there are certainly worse situations than maintaining a grand palace - be it in the kitchens or in drawing the bath or making sure the gilded walls remain pristine.

"You've brought life into this palace," Jai points out, admiration present as he continues. "You've made it whole, Asa. You're family - and I don't think I've seen a larger portrait hung on the wall." It comes with what he is sure is disbelief by Jai - not rude in any means, but it isn't hard to see just how small the domovoi was in front of such grandeur. It is an entertaining thought even as his eyes flick away to spy another set of curious eyes on the table.

"I am happy to be here, Jai," he states, a much smaller, plainer glass compared to the ornate procelain and gold-inlayed tea cup in front of him positioned at the end of the side of the table as Jai approaches before being filled with tea. His elbow finds the edge of the table, careful with the draping sleeves as to not find the fabric strewn across the table, to press his palm more readily against his chin as if expectant of the two, maybe three, seconds Jai might take to partake before he is well on his way. "I'd also be happy to share."