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Chains: Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

18 April, 1874

Dear Bertie,

Wonderful news! The persistance in asking my grandfather for aid in warming my parents over worked! He has asked—red demanded—that my mother allow my trip to Russia to promote Russo-German relations. I must admit, I do not quite know what a leeason is supposed to do, but if I can escape my mother for a month in a place she utterly detests, I will be a happy person. I will never know my mother’s utter horror of all things Russian and I frankly do not care to know. A trip into her mind would surely kill a sane person.

How is grandpapa holding up under the pressure of the office of emperer? And your father, for that matter. I trust that Otto is as sharp as ever if my parents are still grumbling under their breath about the sad state of our country. Every day we are not at war with Britain or the French, I count my blessings. At any rate I will be departing at the end of the week and I will hope to send you more mail once I arrive. I will make sure that you receive an address for me when I get to St. Petersburg. In the meantime, I remain ever

Your closest friend

Willy

“Father, why? Why does she get to rule my life?” a fifteen year old snarled angrily. “Just because she is afraid of the Russians does not mean she gets to order me about! I was promised this trip and now she is just going to…just take it away from me! She cannot do that, father, she is not allowed!”

“Wilhelm, she is your mother and is it not written that you are to respect your father and your mother?” Friedrich asked, his tone belying the weariness he felt. He could no longer count the number of times that his son had tried to argue his point on going to Russia—and secretly, Friedrich agreed with his wife on this decision—but still the boy persisted. He dumped the charred remains of his last smoke before loading the blackened bowl again.

“Father, she is just trying to make me miserable. She may be trying to harden me against the adversities I will face when I am emperor, but she is taking it too far. Too far, father, and you sit there and let her! I know for a fact that my grandmother could not have been unkind to you—”

Friedrich glanced up, eyes cold. “She did not give a damn about me, Wilhelm, you watch your mouth. Your mother loves you and cares about you and spends time with you as she ought. You do not appreciate her, but that does not give you the right to speak ill of her.” The crowned prince pinned a dark look on his son as the smoke from his pipe curled ominously about his head. “Do not speak to me of foul treatment.”

To say that Willy was taken aback by the sudden change in his father’s personality was an understatement. He had never known Friedrich to take umbrage with anything; that had always been what his wife brought to politics. But Wilhelm would not take an answer in the negative, not this time. “Father, I do not want to have to appeal to Grandpapa, but I will if I must. My trip will be good for our foreign policy, to have news from Alexander’s court. How could you possibly refuse if it is as effective as having a spy there in person?”

“Because as easily as you can glean information about Russia they could do the same of Germany! Your mother and I do not want you cavorting about with those damned Ruskies and that is final!”

The muscles in Wilhelm’s jaw bunched up in anger, but he did not dare say another word. He would do as Bertie von Bismarck suggested and disobey his parents. For another three years he had conformed to their wishes with much grumbling and anger, but now, Wilhelm was fifteen. He did not need to stand for this abuse any longer: Wilhelm was going to Russia, even if he had to write to his grandfather to do it. Grandpapa understood.

“Then I suppose we have nothing more to say to each other,” Wilhelm said finally. “I will leave you in peace, father.”

“Go play with your brother Heinrich,” Friedrich said absently as he picked up the newspaper. It was as though their spat had not actually happened. Wilhelm envied his father’s ability to forget things in the blink of an eye and act in such a nonchalant manner. In a way, this was part of the reason why Wilhelm was calling it quits and appealing to the elder Wilhelm—because his father could not be bothered to act as a buffer between his wife Victoria and his son Wilhelm.

“My brother is boring.” Wilhelm wandered out of the room and headed back up to his own room on the second floor. He would rather he had a private atmosphere to compose his letter, and that meant not servants or family barging in while he poured his woes onto a piece of parchment that would find its way to Berlin. His mother would probably tear it up and Wilhelm would have to write a new one after he was punished. It would be better to avoid that at all costs.

He flopped onto the bed, fetching a freshly sharpened pencil, a clean piece of paper and a book to write on. The pillow was stuffed up beneath his chest acting as a fulcrum to keep his torso upright—a service that his left arm could not provide. Once Wilhelm was comfortable, he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in thought and tried to come up with a reasonable beginning for the letter. It would have to be somewhat pitiable, but not so much that his grandfather thought that Wilhelm was a weakling.

Dear Grandpapa

That was a good start. It was standard, and implied nothing. Unfortunately, it was not the trickiest part of the letter. Wilhelm’s brows knit together over his eyes as the letter began to work itself out in his mind.

Are you well? I wish that I could say the same, but no day can be purpetually perfect I am afraid. I trust you remember the Russian trip I was to be taking this summer? The one that was designed to bring good tidings to Russia from Germany and vise versa? Well, my parents have put a stop to that, much against my will.

Wilhelm thought about the last sentence. He might have gone a little overboard with the tearful nature of his story. He had described the situation; that did not mean that he had to sound like a child. He quickly smudged out the last sentence and tried again.

For whatever reason, my parents have deemed it an unsatisfactery trip and demanded that I stay within the confines of Germany.

There, that was better. Much better. No longer did Willy sound like a silly little boy throwing a tantrum. That would not do at all. He thought again about what he would have to say next and set the pencil lead to the paper.

I cannot say that I agree with them and would find myself eternally greatful if you could help pursuade my parents to change their minds and allow me to go. I would very much like to do my part for encouraging good relations for and with Germany, so it would make sense for me to start in Russia with the Romanovs. The task becomes slightly more difficult when my physical person is not in Romanov country.

Again, Wilhelm crossed out the last sentence. It was no good being condescending to his grandfather, and may well jeopardize the tone that he was setting for the letter. It had to be just right, and suddenly, Wilhelm found that he was vaguely grateful for the dull grammar lessons that his mother set up for him every weekday. It gave a much needed boost to his vocabulary that would be more than beneficial in this letter.

At any rate, I hope all is well in Berlin. Send my love to Bertie and a big hug to you from

Your favorite grandson

Willy

Wilhelm scrubbed his hand across his weary forehead and smiled. His grandfather would hopefully send word within the week and by the end of the month, he would be dining in state at St. Petersburg. His grandfather would earn a much bigger hug than the one specified in the letter if all went according to plan.

***

“Your father said what?” Victoria hissed. Her dark voice had the unfortunate tendency to carry, no matter the situation, which caused a bout of silent laughter in Wilhelm who had hidden himself on the other side of the door. They had received the telegram from Grandpa Wilhelm; that had to be it! He could tell by the angry huffing from his mother and the resolute silence of his father that the news was less than favourable. Willy did not even really think that he had to stick around to hear the rest; he remained still only to continue listening to their raging and stomping about. Or at least his mother’s raging and stomping about. It was delicious.

“He said,” Friedrich sighed, “that we are commanded to allow our son passage to Russia. It is for the good of all Germany and our refusal to conform is an act of treason.”

“He cannot do that! Tell me he cannot steal our son from us!”

“If I was not very much mistaken, Vicky, I would believe he already has. The only way that my father would get wind of this is if someone told him. Nobody that is loyal to us would inform him. You know how much Wilhelm wanted this trip. He obviously wrote his goddamn grandfather and told him about our decision and now the old Dummkopf is reversing it. Wilhelm, get in this room this instant!”

The breath froze in Wilhelm’s chest, eyes wide open. His father had known he was here and yet had said nothing until now. What was more, he knew what Wilhelm had done and had not even needed to have the fifteen year old confirm the dastardly deed. His father was going to have him whipped, there was nothing more to it. So he got to his feet and rounded the corner with his best defiant expression in place.

“Father.”

“You know we did not want you to go to Russia,” he said quietly, dark blue eyes narrowed. A fist crashed on the table, startling Wilhelm into backing up a step or two. His mother was practically foaming at the mouth.

“You had your grandfather override our decision to keep you home!” she snapped. It was not an inquiry; she believed her husband wholeheartedly and would not have listened to any protest that Wilhelm could make.

“I did,” the boy answered tentatively. “I did not want to stay here another year to learn how to be a Prussian prince. I wanted to do something useful with myself; I was honest in my desire to improve Russo-German relations.”

“But you defied us. You disrespected our decision—” Friedrich began.

“You are our son! You have no rights whatsoever! You do what we tell you! You do not go behind our backs, you do not grow a spine, you are a brain-damaged, homosexual freak and need to be kept on a leash!”

“Victoria!” his father reprimanded.

“He is trying to nullify our power over him and you want me to keep quiet?” she shrieked at her husband.

“Victoria, go downstairs. I will speak with you later.”

“Friedrich!”

“Victoria,” he warned, cold blue gaze turned to her. The princess gnashed her teeth at Wilhelm and swept out of the room. The boy cringed at the tired and frosty look that his father redirected at himself.

“You will go to Russia.”

Wilhelm blinked, smartly refusing to say another word until his father elaborated slightly. As far as he was concerned, Friedrich could still reverse his choice easily enough. It was obvious that his father had more to say anyway.

“You will go to Russia and you will stay there until the weather turns cold. None of your friends are allowed to accompany you. You will remain in St. Petersburg as a guest of the tsar and you will immerse yourself in Russian culture. If you find that you are homesick and you wish to come home, you will be punished for this insolence. If, at the end of your stay, you come back as a well-rounded and multicultural individual having honestly gained something from this experience, this will all be forgotten. Do you understand?”

It was too easy. However, the more he examined his father—the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the gray in his beard and hair, the serious expression—the less Wilhelm was convinced that he was lying. But the decree that he was to remain in Russia and all punishments would be dropped sounded far too good to be true.

“Is there a catch, father?” he asked quietly.

“That is the catch. No returning early or the deal is off.”

“But it is too easy.” Wilhelm frowned. “I accept. I do accept. I just…I do not understand.”

“Because you have never been away from home for lengths of time without family beside you. It is not easy. I suggest you start reminding yourself of the stakes now, so that they come easy to you when you lie awake wrapped in furs wishing that you were in your own bed. Now get out.”

“But—”

“Get out!”

Wilhelm turned tail and fled from his father’s wrath. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

***

The uniform chaffed in places that Wilhelm was not entirely sure was possible. He had planned the outfit so that it might speak of his willingness to learn of other cultures, and so he had looked to the tailors to cut him an outfit styled in a Russian manner. The tunic was of cossack cut—not that Wilhelm was entirely sure what a cossak was—of crimson cloth with white piping. The tabs were embroidered in silver on the collar and cuffs with silver epaulettes on crimson backing; over his shoulder was a sword sash of silver braid, also on a backing of crimson velvet. There was a St. Andrew’s star on the silver flap of the cartridge pouch; on a cross sash, with another officer’s sash of silver thread with black and orange stripes. Wilhelm’s trousers were dark blue in colour in a diagonal weave cloth with crimson stripes, and perhaps the only part of the uniform that was relatively comfortable.

He flicked the downy hair that had settled over his blue eyes away and patted the tunic down again. The whole ordeal was nerve wracking, given the way that Alexander III, Tsar of Imperial Russia kept eyeing him like a side of beef. Wilhelm had heard rumours that the Tsar did not like Germans, but he could not conceive of a man who would continue to give him considering looks over the soup. It made the fifteen year old more self conscious than ever as he struggled to keep his uniform in check and straight and free of stains. It was a task made doubly hard with a useless and floppy arm at his side.

“So, what of your…grandfather is it? Too old to be your father if you will agree,” he said finally. The dark navy eyes continued to run up and down the boy, giving Wilhelm the insane idea that perhaps Alexander thought that he was making a mockery of the uniform simply by wearing it.

“Yes, my grandfather is well. He is as young as ever,” Wilhelm said politely, taking another spoonful of the soup. His limp arm was resting in his lap: a place where Willy guessed that Alexander did not approve. It was unfortunate, as Wilhelm was not about to let his arm swing free to the winds of chance.

“He is old. He will die soon,” Alexander said carelessly. Wilhelm watched as his wife—he could not come up with a name for her yet—stopped with her spoon halfway to her mouth and blanch. She seemed to be a good soul, even if her abrasive husband was not. Wilhelm would have to get on her good side if he intended to make this trip a successful one.

“He is not so old that he does not go out for walks in the garden or enjoy games of sport. His authority is strong yet; he was the one who got my parents to agree to sending me here to your graces.”

“You were better off at home, lad.”

“I don’t think so,” a voice piped up. Across the table (Wilhelm had to lean slightly forward and sit up straighter in his seat to see) was a little boy of about six years in age. His dark brown hair was tousled and flyaway in compliment to the boy’s dark and shining eyes. He looked so perpetually happy and inundated with sunlight that Wilhelm had to blink away his perplexed thoughts and allow his senses to tell him that it was a mortal boy with a sunny disposition. “He’s nice enough.”

“Quiet, Nicholas. This is a conversation for adults.”

“I know, I know,” the boy replied, though it did not bother him in the least. He looked as though he had grown so used to his father saying this to him, that he had shaken it off as a dog with water. So very sunny and optimistic was this lad.

“I could not be sheltered for so long, my lord. I needed to see the world and I wanted to start with Russia,” Wilhelm said after finally prying his eyes from the boy Nicholas.

“Not for proximity issues, certainly. Does the Kaiser wish to exert his authority,” Alexander said this like as though it were a dirty and ignoble word, “in the motherland? Tell your grandfather that I am not interested.”

“He does not,” Wilhelm argued. “I cannot leave yet and nor would I wish to without learning as much about the motherland as I could, my lord.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “You would talk back to me?”

“I would not. I wish only to say that were you to have me removed from your country, my grandfather would take this for an act of aggression—”

“Let the Prussians come! It is not as though nobody has ever tried before!” Alexander cried. “I seem to remember a Frenchman by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte sending his forces through my father’s country not so long ago. Do you know what happened; do you remember your history? My father sent that Frenchman back to where he came from with no army to speak of. Let your Kaiser try to defy history; let him send his soldiers here!”

Wilhelm could see that he could not persuade the angry Russian through normal channels. He would have to resort to something that the boy was not proud of: pure, undiluted honesty. “My lord, if you send me back to Germany, my mother will fit her sticky and brutish fingers about my throat and squeeze until my head pops. She would wish to end me because not only did I fail to talk comrade to comrade with the Russians that I so desperately wanted to meet, but I had double crossed her for naught. You see, comrade, I had to pull some fairly stiff and unyielding strings to get where I am right at this moment. I played my grandfather against my stubborn parents so that they might allow me to come, and they found out my ploy because I was not careful enough. My father said that if I came back before my scheduled departure from St. Petersburg, he would unleash my mother upon me. I doubt you know my mother, but were she to discipline me, I would be not much more than a spot of grease on the floor once she deemed herself satisfied. I will not leave until the time my father has delegated, and you shall not get rid of me until then my lord, for which I apologize.” Wilhelm nodded at the tsar. “I plan to make myself as useful and as apt a pupil as possible until that time, of course, but homeward bound, I will not be.”

Alexander leveled an even look at the young German. Wilhelm thought that he saw the mechanisms that turned the wheels in the great man’s head and knew that a great cranking and wheeling was taking place behind those darkened eyes so unlike Nicholas’. Nicholas’ were dark blue as well, but cheerful and happy; Alexander’s were shrewd and calculating. For a long moment, Wilhelm thought that perhaps he had said too much.

“Papa?” Nicholas asked softly. “Papa, I don’t want him to go yet.”

That small voice that had stopped the conversation earlier seemed to reanimate the tsar. He shook his head, snuffled and seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing. His look seemed to grow more amused than considering, and even his mouth twisted into a small smirk. “You are a twisted and conniving individual. You have much to learn, but you have guts. I wish I could say the same of the rest of the Germans. You may remain here as long as you need. You will no doubt spend most of your time keeping my son company when you are not learning, but I suppose it will just be more of your education, will it not?” Alexander gave Wilhelm another satisfied smirk before returning to his dinner. A quick look across the table showed a young Nicholas practically bouncing with excitement, those unnatural eyes shining like the sun.

Wilhelm smiled slightly, and decided that he was no longer hungry.

***

True to his word, the tsar had upon his waking sent Wilhelm to keep the young Nicholas company. Already, Wilhelm could admire the ingenuity of the Russians in action, for the young boy was entirely clothed in soft navy cotton. It was as though he had worn peasant clothes to bed, had peasant’s clothes been clean, whole and comfortable. When Wilhelm had woken up and set feet to tile, he had yelped and slid his feet back beneath the covers again. Wilhelm had not counted on the temperature being quite so low—getting dressed had been an unnecessary challenge.

“Morning,” Nicholas said brightly, lips pulled into a smile that revealed two missing teeth. Wilhelm glanced at the boy with a tired ‘Heaven help me’ look and settled himself on the fur rug as best he could with his lame arm. He would not have his backside frozen to the floor, woolen pants or not. The German brushed his hair out his eyes for the third time that morning and stared at Nicholas with an air of expectation.

“I’m Nicky.” The boy tried again to initiate conversation, much to Wilhelm’s discomfiture. “What’s your name?”

Wilhelm rubbed the back of his neck. “My name is Wilhelm. I am from Germany. I guess you know that, do you now?”

“Willem?” The boy asked, brow furrowing. “That’s a funny name, Willem. I knew you weren’t from Russia, but I didn’t know where.”

“Not…not Willem. No,” Wilhelm said awkwardly. “No…it is said Wilhelm. Will. Helm.”

The boy tried again, with much the same result as the first time. Wilhelm bit his lip against saying anything and possibly hurting the little boy’s feelings. If this was to be his companion for the entire trip, Wilhelm endeavoured to do anything he could to make sure that the boy was kept happy and comfortable. Not that Wilhelm could imagine the boy as anything but happy and comfortable. He was a ray of sunshine in every sense of the word, save the obvious.

“Can I call you Willy?” Nicky asked finally, puzzled expression turned towards the older boy. Wilhelm smiled weakly.

“My friends call me Willy.”

The boy pondered this evasive answer. It had not been a yes, but neither had it been a no. In fact, Wilhelm had admitted that his friends called him as such. In Nicky’s mind, it was as good as telling him outright that the German considered him a friend. The young boy’s face split into a radiant smile, every one of his teeth flashing in the light that filtered through the window. He leaped at the older boy, catching him in a mighty hug, toppling them both to the floor. If not for the furry carpet, Wilhelm imagined a large, egg-shaped lump would be forming on the back of his head.

“Thanks, Willy!” Nicky beamed from his position atop the fifteen year old.

“Not a problem, Nicky,” Wilhelm wheezed. The boy rolled off his chest at the laboured breathing and Willy had to lie on the floor until he recovered enough breath to sit upright. There was a tense moment when Wilhelm thought that he might topple backwards again, but his body rocked forward and he came to a stop. The German quickly tucked his arm back into his lap and folded the right hand over the lap in a self conscious gesture. The boy’s keen gaze picked up on it immediately as he settled himself across from Wilhelm on the carpet.

“Why do you need to move your arm around with your other arm?” he asked with a nod to Wilhelm’s left side. Perhaps Nicky’s only shortcoming so far in this world dominated with cold and madness was his inattention to modesty. Wilhelm found that his own siblings had similar reactions around this age. They were so open and honest with everyone else, why should adults not reciprocate? Willy could not fault the boy, even though he desperately wanted to. Everyone made fun of his arm, it was only natural that Nicholas do the same.

“It…it is broken. It does not work.”

“It’s broked? When’d it get broked?”

“When I was a baby,” he answered softly.

“Oh. Okay,” Nicky nodded, eyes serious. Unlike all the adults that gave him a similar look when they received the same answer to their own questions, Nicholas’ own expression did not fit with his temperament. He looked so silly just sitting there looking concerned, that Wilhelm began to laugh. The boy’s head cocked as the look of gravity melted into one that was confused and slightly hurt. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Wilhelm shook his head.

“No, what? What’d I do?”

Willy’s grin broadened as he watched the boy try to use his father’s methods for intimidation against the German. Coming from the boy, it was absurdist, but Willy enjoyed it just the same. “I’m sorry, Nicky. Just don’t ever look serious again. You’re too good to imitate your father.”

The boy’s worries seemed to vanish in an instant and the grin returned. “Good. I think so too.”

“Are you always this…cheerful…in the morning?” Wilhelm asked carefully.

“Papa calls me his sunray,” Nicky replied.

“Oh,” Wilhelm murmured. And he meant it.

***

He could not see. The darkness pressed about him and suffocated him. There was no up, no down, no sides or diagonals, and he was alone. A spot light, seemingly from nowhere illuminated him in a patch of circular light and blinded him as effectively as the tangible darkness. Looking down at himself, he saw the Russian uniform he had worn on his first night in St. Petersburg adorning his body and still as rough on his skin as ever. But, unlike the first night, he had it broken in, so it was comforting in a way that clothes generally were in a frigid climate. He had almost resolved to leave the light and go searching for clues to his whereabouts when he heard it. Footsteps were coming steadily closer.

He scrambled upright, the white glove becoming dusty from his contact with what he took to be the floor. He would meet this person on his feet as he had met everything else in his life. That did not mean that he was ready to meet said creature, though, as evidenced by his surprise when a foot invaded his safe little light circle.

“Willy?” a voice asked. A soft, sweet voice that tantalized and charmed Willy in ways he never thought possible. It called his name again and again, and Wilhelm found himself drifting towards the leg. The voice was not seductive or sensuous; it was safe. The boy craved safety.

“Come here, Willy, all is fine. Everything will be all right,” it coaxed him forwards. Even a soft, white-gloved hand was ushering him in the shadow’s direction. Wilhelm was only too happy to oblige, his slick, black boots dragging on the floor as though he were in a daze. It was his mother calling him. Victoria, the woman he despised, but loved in ways he could not explain. What in the world was the matter with him that caused him to walk so blindly and willingly into her arms?

As in a theatre with the audience engrossed in a play, he only noticed the gradual lightening of his surroundings when he could begin to make out the silhouette of the creature that owned the shoed foot and gloved hand. When he could about make out the face, he had choke back a scream of terror.

She was nine feet tall, with pointed fangs streaming out of her mouth like a shark, each shimmering in the dim light from the drool. Her nails—when she removed the glove—were normally straight and perfect, but now became claws filed to points. Everything about her screamed predator and killer and if he stayed still much longer, he would be in her gullet within the minute. Her black, beady eyes seemed to confirm the guess. But he could not move: Wilhelm was rooted to the spot.

The demon lunged, the powerful muscles in her legs uncoiling and slinging her forward with and effortless grace. He was going to be gobbled up! He could make out the blur of motion to his right, but before the she-demon could munch on his bones, there was an explosion and one of the creature’s eyes was no more than a bloody hole in its head. The succubus screamed, her head whipping about to meet her new foe.

Bertie reloaded the rifle and sighted down the barrel again.

Wilhelm tried to scream for Herbert to run away, but either his friend could not hear, or he chose not to. Either choice was possible considering his friend. Willy ran for Herbert in the hopes of coaxing the young man to escape with him. They would have to escape quickly if they intended to make it out alive.

“Bertie!” Wilhelm called. Bertie did not acknowledge his friend’s yell; he fired another shot into the beast’s chest. She screamed again, but his bullets did not seem to be having much effect on her considering her size. She began to run towards Herbert with the intention of running him through on her spiked nails as Herbert fired shot after shot at the oncoming creature.

“BERTIE!” This time, the scream was one of desperation as he watched his nine foot tall mother jab her thumbnail into Herbert’s thigh. The soldier cried out in pain before he was flung from Victoria’s thumb as far away as she could heft him. He bounced before rolling to a stop, unconscious. Wilhelm ran over to check to see if his friend was all right, only to be thrown high in the air as a powerful forearm swung downwards to catch him in the chest.

“No son of mine wears rags!” Victoria boomed. While Willy lay dazed from the one blow, her hand reached down and tore at the shining red uniform, tearing it, ripping it from his body while he could not protest.

“Why, Mother?” he gasped, forcing himself not to cry. She would be angrier if he cried.

“You are not my son!” the she-demon screamed. Willy cringed at the proclamation, waiting for her to step on him or eat him. When nothing happened, he glanced up. He watched as Victoria tore at her hair and ripped it clean off her head like a wig. She pulled at her jaw until the skin came loose and peeled off at her touch. She shed her skin and her clothes until; finally, it was Alexander III who stood before Wilhelm at a height that seemed to double while the boy watched.

“You were better off staying home, boy,” the tsar laughed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really am, please don’t hurt me, I just wanna see Bertie again. Please can I see Bertie again?” Wilhelm begged, his hands clasped before him weakly. The torn crimson and navy shreds of his clothes did not cover him at all; he was growing colder with every passing second.

“Get back to your home, boy!”

“Please!”

“Get!”

“Bertie!” Wilhelm sobbed.

“Willy? Willy, wake up, you were dreaming,” a soft voice said. Wilhelm picked his head up, wildly searching for the source only to find himself shrouded in darkness again. The spotlight was gone, but that did not mean the horrible giant creatures were.

“Show yourself!” Wilhelm cried feebly, backing up as far as he could. His back hit a solid mass that seemed to be a wall that he could not remember being there at first. “Where’s Bertie?”

“Willy, it’s Nicky,” the voice insisted. “You were dreaming. Who’s Bertie?”

“Not…not a…” Wilhelm panted. The nine foot tall creature of doom dressed as his mother. Herbert without a limp. Menacing Alexander III. The tatters of his Russian regalia. It was a dream. An awful, horrible scream worthy dream. He was covered in sweat and everything.

“Who’s Bertie?” Nicky asked again. Wilhelm could see the small hands clutching at the blankets he had tossed aside when he was writhing about in the darkness. It explained why he suddenly began to feel very cold when the succubus ripped his clothes off. Nicky was standing on the tile, seemingly oblivious to the cold that tended to seep into them in the middle of the night.

“Hey, come on up here before you catch frostbite on your feet,” Wilhelm murmured, tugging at the boy so that the six year old could hop up onto the mattress. Nicky sat at the other end of the bed to better watch Wilhelm while the older boy tried to sort out his thoughts. It had been a dream, and he had let slip about Bertie. It was time to find out how much Nicholas knew.

“How much did you hear before you woke me up?” he asked with a slight sniffle. Wilhelm sincerely hoped that he had not been crying in his sleep.

“Some stuff,” Nicky admitted. “You were kinda whining and whimpering about not being hurt.”

“Did I talk about anything? Names? Places? Things? Help me, Nicky, please?” Wilhelm asked softly. He was barely able to make out the glint of the younger boy’s eyes. It had to still be very early yet if the sun was not yet straining to get through the curtains.

“I heard Victoria…and Alex…and you said ‘no’ a lot.”

“Anything else?”

Nicky shook his head somberly. Wilhelm sighed, not at all desiring to have to explain his dream to the boy. It was strange enough and scary enough for him not to wish to inflict it on another soul. Not to mention the fact that it was already fading as dreams were wont to do. Relief began to creep through his tired mind as the dream became lost in a nebulous fog.

“I will answer one question. No more,” Wilhelm said quietly, glancing at Nicky. “Make sure that it is a good one.”

Nicky did not even hesitate. “Who’s Bertie?”

The young prince’s head drooped, hiding a smile behind his flop of hair. The tsarevich was nothing if not persistent. Wilhelm did not blame him in the slightest. Of all the figures in his dream, he imagined Bertie might be the easiest one to describe.

“Bertie is short for Herbert. He is my best friend back in Germany. Bertie is the son of my grandfather’s friend so we do not get to talk so much anymore and he is a little bit older than myself. My parents do not get along much with him. He has a cane and he walks with a limp,” Wilhelm said quietly. He tried to say as much as he could while saying as little as possible, if such a thing were conceivable. He did not want Nicky to get a strange or warped perception of Bertie.

“Your best friend?” Nicholas asked. Did the prince’s face seem to droop?

“Yes. Back in Berlin.”

“I would like to meet him someday.” Nicky lay down on his side to keep an eye on Wilhelm as the older boy remained seated with his back to the wall. He felt extra tired after the nightmare, as though he had not fallen asleep at all.

“Perhaps you will. You would like him. He is…different,” the German boy yawned. His eyes were drooping again and he was sliding back down onto the bed.

“Want me to keep you company so you don’t get scared again?”

Who was Wilhelm to argue? He was too tired to object and even if he did, he was reasonably certain that Nicholas would not leave anyway. He had a hunch that the boy had had a nightmare himself and gone to find Wilhelm, only to find his friend in the throes of one of his own. Why else would Nicholas be in his room in the middle of the night?

“Sure.”

***

Wilhelm was not expecting a large welcome when he arrived home. What he did expect was perhaps an escort to take him from the train to the palace. What he received was his mother and father standing on the platform in wait for their only son. It was touching, but very surprising. Wilhelm was instantly suspicious of their motives, especially his mother’s. It was always better to be ready for the worst than to be caught unaware.

“Mother! Father!” He called to the prince in princess in the hopes of getting their attention before the throng of people swept him past them. “Vati! Here!”

Friedrich’s head jerked about before the crystalline eyes trained on his son and he sent up a wave of recognition. He bent close to Victoria, nodding at Wilhelm before tugging her after him to catch up to their son. When they reached, Wilhelm shared a hug with each of them before Victoria—who received that last hug—held him at arm’s length for a more detailed inspection.

“I see you are as well as can be expected,” she said briskly. “I do not suppose that that ape Alexender fed you or taught you anything worth learning.”

“No, he did not,” Wilhelm acknowledged. “The servants fed me. His son Nicholas taught me.”

“How old is his son?” Victoria frowned. “He cannot be much more than you.”

“He is six years old, mother. He taught me about life and how to play and slow down. He is my friend and when he is the Tsar and I the Kaiser, he and I will forge alliances together,” the boy returned defiantly. “Germany and Russia. Just as Grandfather and Uncle Otto intended.”

Her expression changed minutely, her dark eyes adopting a hard shine. Wilhelm had to work to contain the shiver that tried to manifest in his muscles when he recognized that same beady stare as that of the Russian tsar. He suspected that he may have pushed his mother too far this time, but Victoria said nothing because Friedrich shimmered forward and enveloped his eldest son in a rib-crushing hug. Wilhelm could not think of a time when he was happier to inhale the tobacco rich scent of his father.

“You made it,” he whispered. “I am extremely proud of you.”

“I love you, Vati,” Wilhelm answered. And for all his efforts to keep a stalwart front were coming to naught when his eyes began to burn from unshed tears. He had missed home, but Nicky had kept him from having enough time to realize it.

“Willy,” another voice called. The fifteen year old glanced up to see his younger brother leaning against a light post. Heinrich looked conceivably different: he was taller, his limbs more gangly than ever. The bulge of his Adam’s apple had grown more prominent over the past four months and his hair seemed greasier than Wilhelm remembered. His brother was growing up.

“Harry. They dragged you out of bed at this hour? Count me impressed,” Wilhelm smirked. Heinrich took his father’s place in his brother’s arm for a swift and tight hug. They were ever the happy family in public. Wilhelm wondered why they did not go out more often like this.

“They did not need to drag me when they told me that my beloved brother was returning from his sojourn to…what do they call it over there…the Motherland?” Wilhelm nodded in the affirmative and Heinrich continued. “I can only hope I will be as lucky to travel to other countries on politics.” A sly grin accompanied the excessively emphasized word, which Wilhelm rolled his eyes at. He had not realized how much he had truly missed his brother until now.

“It was politics! Father, tell Harry it was purely for political reasons,” Wilhelm demanded, sticking his tongue out at his younger sibling.

“Of course it was politics. More office politics than foreign policies, but I am sure that I do not know the difference,” Friedrich answered airily. Wilhelm blushed, remembering his extreme tactics of several months ago. Now that he had been returned to his family’s arms, he was sure that it had all been worth it, but towards the middle of his stay, he had almost been convinced otherwise. But it was over for the moment, and Wilhelm had made a friend from the deal.

“Let us get back to the carriage then, we do not want to keep the driver waiting,” Victoria announced coldly. “I dare say that some of us have had enough adventure to last a month or two.”

Wilhelm sighed at his mother’s antics. He had harboured the secret hope that perhaps she might put aside her frivolous anger and be happy to see him, but he had clearly been wrong. Obviously, there was no level that was too low for Princess Victoria to sink to. But Wilhelm would not argue so soon after returning, and made haste after his family.

The carriage ride was uneventful at best, and getting to see all of his siblings grown to some degree was only slightly exciting at best. It was back to the dreary and usual life that he was used to. Wilhelm decided that he would need to write to his grandfather again soon, and ask if he could stay awhile in Berlin. Anything but his dreadful lessons day after day. He did not think he could stand it after having been to St. Petersburg and Moscow and Crimea. Life no longer had to be dull and uninteresting and Wilhelm preferred that it continue to keep up its intrigue.

However, before he could get on with his living, Wilhelm had promised Nicholas a note once he arrived back at home. He was not about to forget his friend just because he was no longer bounding under foot. As soon as politely possible, he stole off to his room to pen his letter to the Tsarevich.

He flopped onto his comfortable bed—much as he had several month earlier—with pencil, paper and writing surface in hand and let the words come. He wrote about how his parents had met him at the station with his brother, how everything seemed different now and how much he missed St. Petersburg with its curious onion domes. How he wanted to return next year.

Make sure you start working your father over now, right? Or, if you wanted, I bet I could get my grandfather to agree to harbouring you next summer while I vacation there. I do not recommend trying to ingratiate yourself in my mother’s house: she is slightly less than reasonable when it comes to all things Russian and may not appreciate your presence. I realized today, in fact, that she is much your father in woman’s clothes, except that I believe the princess Victoria to be better endowed with hair on the top of her head. In all seriousness, the resemblance is quite striking and all the more reason you would want to stay in Berlin were you to come to Germany. My grandfather is a nice, old fellow, you would like him.

“What is this?”

Wilhelm rolled over swiftly to confront his mother. Her expression was already at its most dangerous; she had been reading Wilhelm’s letter over his shoulder. He tried to back away slowly, but her arm shot out and gripped his lame arm in her fierce grip. The boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw blood begin to bead around her nails embedded in his skin.

“I asked you what this is!” she screamed with a shake to Wilhelm’s left arm.

“It’s a letter!” Wilhelm cried, his voice betraying his fear. “A letter, nothing more!”

“A letter to whom?” she hissed. Wilhelm tried desperately to focus on her face which was the more frightening part, but found that he could only watch as he nails dub deeper and deeper into the pale flesh of his left arm. She shook it then, reeling him back into the present. When his terrified eyes met hers again, she barked out, “Whose letter is that?”

“N-nnn-nicky’s! I promised him! I said I would write him!”

“I suppose you thought that everything would be forgotten once you came back home, is that it? What were you trying to pull, young man? You wrote to your grandfather just so you could go to some backwater country in the middle of nowhere with an average temperature of -20 degrees! You defied us, William, and that is inexcusable.”

Wilhelm did not see the prudence of correcting her on the average temperature of Russia; not when she looked as though she could tear his arm off at any moment. Wilhelm gulped, forcing himself to stop looking at the bloody trails wending their way down his pale blue arm. He counted it a major blessing that he could not actually feel her nails stabbing into his flesh. “Mother, Vati said that I could go and all would be forgotten if I did not come back before he said so.”

“None of this ‘Vati’ business! Your father overstepped his bounds as well and he knows it! You will be punished and that is all you need to know.”

“Mother, you cannot do this! We had a deal and you cannot make Father go back on his deal!”

“Your father made the deal, not I. Wilhelm, tomorrow morning, you will be waking up at four in the morning, you will endure twenty whacks from the cane. You will work long and hard. Your meals will be taken with the servants. You think your life is so privileged that you are allowed to do whatever you want? Well you are wrong, wrong, WRONG, William! Wrong! And you will not forget it again!”

Something seemed to snap in his mind. Between the blood pooling in his unfeeling hand, the shouting, the fear, the bloody smudges on Nicky’s letter, his mind cleared. His mother said that she would punish him, but how would she do that if he were not around for her to abuse? It would not be Wilhelm’s problem—Wilhelm would run away tonight, around midnight. He would take the train with the money his grandfather periodically sent him and go west. Where, he was not entirely sure, but he know that it could not be Berlin. They would find him in Berlin and his punishment might turn into a murder. He could not let that happen, not to his grandfather, or uncle or Bertie. Wilhelm would leave by himself and make a new start as far away from his mother as he could.

And the best part was that she could do nothing to stop him.

“Do you understand?” Victoria’s voice asked him. He jerked, eyes refocusing on the princess. The surprise that registered on his face earned him a dirty look and a snarl. “I said ‘do you understand?’”

“Y-yes!” Wilhelm gasped.

“Good.” She finally relinquished her hold on his arm and wiped her bright red fingers on his trousers until most of the blood was removed. “Get some sleep. I will see you bright and early.”