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Death descended quietly upon the estate of Count Bessmertny.
The count could always feel it, clinging to his lungs and throat as his spine was bent in coughing fit after coughing fit. 
So now, Bessmertny stared at his handkerchief.
Its embroidery, once blue and silver, was ruined by  dark blood stains.
And he stared at it a long time, for he knew what it meant, despite the sweet lies of his physician that laid rotten in his stomach.
Terror should have torn  him apart, instead he was only filled with dull resignation.

The count raised his head and stared through the window of his country estate at the frozen shores of Lake Ladoga, but the night was so black that the glass had turned into a mirror.
Yet he did not see the Count he was. He saw an old, dying man.

Bessmertny had dragged himself here to die. Far from Saint-Petersburg, where it rained diamonds and fountains gurgled champagne.
And here, behind his grand window with its velvet curtains, a night just like the one twenty years ago unfurled itself.

Wind rattled at his shutters, howled, and tore the countryside open. The peasants cowered in their huts and gathered closely around their fireplaces, whispering tales in hushed tones, so not to anger the spirits.
But the cattle torn apart and the children sent running to the skirts of their mothers were no consequence of angered demons, no, they were victims of the wolves, starved by a harsh winter and forced outside of their deep forests.

Sighting, Count Bessmertny reached for a novel in his shelves
It was The Queen of Spades.
He brushed the  dust from its cover.
The last time he had picked up the story, Pushkin had risen to fame until he became the brightest of all stars, only to die, his absence casting a cold shadow across the nightsky. His wife had still been alive back then. Now, her bastard son had been born, had become a man, been banished to the Caucasus, and most likely perished himself.

Bessmertny could not bring himself to mourn the poor boy. Still, he felt a bang of pain in his heart as he thought of his fate.
And I will join them, shortly, he thought bitterly.
Death awaited them all. That was his only certainty.

He sunk deep into his soft armchair, sighted again, and wanted to read the familiar lines, but an icy gush of air brushed the papers from his desk and made the pages of his book flutter.
Shivering, he realised that both his door and window were securely closed.
Then - for only a moment - the candles flickered, then died. darkness encapsulated everything. But just like that, the flames sprang to light again. Pale and blue.

Just that the Count was not alone in this room anymore.

"Arkady!" The name was a suffocated scream, spoken like a curse.
Still, there he stood, pale and delicate, with gleaming eyes.
And he still wears that uniform.
"You are alive." It was a simple fact, spoken without joy or relief.

"I am." Arkady tilted his head. "You could call it that at least, I suppose."

Bessmertny shook his head, even if only to hide that he was still trembling.
"So they revoked your exile?"

"I spoke with general Yevdokimov," he explained. "My... newfound talents convinced him to relieve me and a dear comrade of mine from our duty. Though I fear I could not convince him to change his politics in war."

"And when was that?"he said, if only to silence his fearful thoughts with his own voice.

"A week ago."

Bessmeetny paled.
Merely a week? From the peaks of the Caucasus to here? He summoned a map in his mind, traced the distance from Lake Ladoga to-
"That's not possible."

"The shadow road is easy to traverse."

Bessmertny gritted his teeth.
There he was again, the stupid boy babbling nonsense.
He felt the urge to raise his hand and deliver a good smack on the cheeks. It had always worked wonders with the child.
But now he found himself was frail and thin, while Arkasha stood there as the man he was.
Oh, fate had played its cruel game indeed.

Finally, Arkady dared to look the Count in the eyes.
"I met a woman. She is very dear to me."

"Oh." Finally, the world clicked into place again, and Bessmertny let out a sigh of relief.
"You must have met one of these lovely Counts' daughters? After an illness forced you into Pyatigorsk or another spa town? That's why they sent you home. You probably missed a few weeks of travel while you spasmed in the clutches of a fever-"

"She is no noble lady," Arkady interrupted. "She is native to the mountains."

Once again, the Count's face derailed terribly.
"What?"He spat out, then laughed a humourless laugh. "You took a savage girl as your lover? To believe your poor mother wasted her life for you to-"

"I am her lover," Arkady corrected.
For a moment, the Count was completely dumbstruck.
His wide- eyed "Pardon me", was followed by a snort that would have sent Arkady fleeing to his room, locking his door as he expected his next thrashing.
But he did not flee as Bessmertny scoffed:
"So you came all that way to humiliate your dying father? Sully your mother's good name? I should have thrown you to the wolves when you were still a babe."

"No," he simply stated. " I came to collect a few of my things and say goodbye."
With this, Arkady stood up, pressed a gentle kiss on his father's forehead, and left.
As the cold night finally embraced him, he allowed himself to breathe again.

It would not be easy.
Even though one evil lied entombed again, the very human evil remained.
He knew what the Yevdokimos, Milyutins, and Yermolows of this world said, back in their comfortable commander's tents, with a cup of wine in their hand. Or back in their splendid ministries, where the fate of entire armies and peoples was reduced to a single column in a report.
They spoke of the annihilation of the Circassians. How half of them - no, all of them- had to perish for this land to prosper under the civilised hand of Russia. It would rain salt and sulfur.
And the other mountaineers?
No matter how brave, Shamil could not resist forever. It was like fighting against the forces of nature itself. The first blows of defeat had already cracked the imam's invincibility.

But Arkady would return to Bela.
They would hide, plot, fight,  and scheme.
He would whisper to the shadows,  and her blade would sing.
No matter for how long, they would protect her Aul, her people, until the enemy had to realise that letting a few of them live, to sign peace with them, would be more profitable than wasting countless soldiers and money on killing three handfuls of mountaineers.
They would pay taxes to the tsar and grovel, but they would live.

It had to be like this. It was their only hope.
This was not a fairytale. There was no good ending. The evil wizard was not defeated.
Arkady was not the prince, he was the demon. And Princess Bela had died long ago.
But they were beyond the roles assigned by fate.

For the first time in his life, Arkady dared to hope.

♤▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎♤

And with that, it is finally over.
Honestly, I don't know if any of this makes sense. I wrote the epilogue and the last chapter at 3 AM last night 😂

The pacing is crazy. I am under the impression that quite a lot happened in the novella, but I barely made it to 21000 words, lol.

Am I satisfied? Probably not. Do I think the message of this book could be interpreted horribly wrong? Absolutely.
Still, I am glad I finished it and a bit proud.
I do think it's important that the ending is like it is. Arkady's and Bela's story could never be a pure happy end, not if I did not want  to change history.

RIP Krassotkin, you would have loved Twitter.