And so I danced with the snowflakes, and became like the snow maiden they named me for. Each tiny, perfect crystal was a kiss from my Father, letting me know I was not forgotten, or bereft, or alone. While I was struggling against the tide, there was indeed a safe harbor for me to return to.
The tide was myself, and I was in the midst of the oldest tale of them all; the tale of a person's fight to understand themselves, and so to master themselves. It had never been necessary before for me, as I had no self to master. Now, however, it was of the utmost important if I were to successfully complete my mission and return to my Father.
And to save Father Gavril, the man whom I now knew I loved.
While I could not return to him as of yet, I would remain close, perhaps with the starosta as he seemed in no hurry to be rid of me. In time, and with my Father's help, I would indeed quell the storm that raged inside of me and become all that Father Gavril desired of me; a helpmeet, an assistant, a friend. I could be nothing more, and I would be content merely seeing him succeed to be all that he could.
So I truly believed.
It wasn't until much later I realized how painfully naïve I was in the ways of the Great War, and how truly nefarious the Enemy was.
~:~
"I dreamed of her again last night, Litynskivy."
Atela sighed. No matter how many times she asked, Gavril insisted on calling her formally. Although he did add the somewhat less form –vy to the end of her last name, it was still like being spoken to by a teacher. Or the starosta!
"Did you, Popiy?" She knew it irritated him when she called him that, but she still wasn't sure why. Something about that being the name for his church's ultimate elder or some such. Well, if he wouldn't call her by what she requested, she could do the same to him! He hadn't even said so much as one word of thanks, even though she had made the walk through the snow to this wretched chapel!
Turning, she saw him standing by the window to the left of the vestibule door. The shutters were closed, but they were not so well fitted that large gaps did not remain between the boards. He reached out one hand and touched the cold glass of the window that the shutters protected.
"What was she doing?" she snorted. "Fighting demons again?"
"No…last night she was truly the Snegurochka. She was dancing in the snowfall, and laughing."
"Well, good thing it was a dream, or she'd catch her death doing such a foolish thing."
"Yes."
"I'm to make your breakfast, do you have anything you want?"
"No, thank you."
Placing the apron over her head, she stopped and looked at him. "So what did you think?"
"Of what?"
"Of seeing her 'dancing in the snow'?"
"I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."
"I'll have your tea ready for you shortly!" Atela snapped, and stomped her way to the kitchen.
Why do the dreams persist? He asked himself for the millionth time. She was gone, and not likely to ever return. He could get no news of what had become of her from the villagers, apparently they had finally accepted her as one of their own, and him as still an outsider. He was not privy to such information.
He did, however, hope that if anything dire had befallen her they would at least inform him of that. She had been his responsibility, and upon finding out she had left without even a loaf of bread or a coin in her pocket, he should have immediately set off for the village to force food and money on her, and her protests be damned!
But he hadn't. He had still been too stunned to take any sort of decisive action, and by the time he came to his senses, it was far too late. She was gone.
Visions of Varya dancing in the snow came to him again, and he indulged himself by letting it overtake him. He had fought it ever since he had awoken, but he couldn't any longer.
The lithe form illuminated in brief flashes of moonlight, her skirts swirling, her hair shining brightly until it seemed to become one with the snow itself, and he could no longer tell where she left off and the snow began. The full lips parted in a delighted smile as snowflakes covered her face and sparkled in her eyelashes, the faintest sound of her laughter tinkling against the glass that separated them.
In the dream, he had so wanted to join her, but even his sleeping self knew that fairies never permitted mortals to join in their dance. It would ever be his fate to only watch her as she glittered and shined, not realizing the tearing longing she created in those unfortunate enough to be spellbound seeing her in her secret moments.
A sudden noise, the weight of the snow on the roof becoming too much, sending a chunk cascading to the ground in a rolling rumble. She had started like a deer and flitted away into the woods, as she always did in his dreams, leaving him to awaken cold and alone in his miserable bed.
It was the fourth dream he'd had of her, the third since she had left, and the first she had been dancing. The other two she had merely kept to her lonely vigil, as if she were a soldier patrolling the church grounds for the demons she had told him plagued them. They always seemed so real. To the point where he remembered feeling the cold needling its way into his feet, encapsulating his hands, and returning to his bed, to huddle beneath the blankets until it seemed he fell asleep again.
But of course they were dreams. She was gone. And no dreaming would get her to return.
There was a resounding crash from the kitchen, jerking him from his gratifying and mortifying reverie. Litynskivy must have broken another plate. Or bowl. Or glass. She was the clumsiest one who came to tend him, and her recitation of the Chant was a mumbling, distracting mess.
With a groan, he moved towards the kitchen to see if he needed to assist her.