I was fourteen when I first saw Moscow. It was a majestic city, full of colors and gems. I had never seen anything like it in my small, wooded town. And yet I would give anything to return there now. But then, Moscow wasn’t the city of my enslavement, or the city of death. It was the city of my dreams.
Horse drawn carriages were pulled by, their inhabitants hidden, besides the uncommon waving of a white gloved hand, showing off the pale wrist of the owner inside. The carriages themselves were beautiful, decorated with paints so bright and designs so vivid they seemed to fly off the side. The men herding us down the street were careful to show off only the best of Moscow, so I didn’t see the squalor that that Russia was truly living in until years later.
Walking through the great halls of the Czar’s palace, I saw what it truly meant to live. Not a single space on the wall was devoted to wood. Everything was ringed in gold, silver, and ivory. Nothing was painted, and everything was genuine.
And then I met Ivan.
He was wearing what I could only call the most fashionable outfit in all of Moscow. It was outfitted with jewels of every shade and color, and seemed to be made with enough fabric to clothe the entire serving staff. Twice.
The man inside, however, was had none of the majestic quality of the city.
He was cruel, and could kill at the drop of a hat. He cared little for the lives of those he deemed under him. The other slaves and I lived in fear for the moment we would be called to his chambers for a chore. If he found one thing unsatisfactory with our job, we were killed almost immediately. And Ivan decided how.
My turn came on my fifth month at the palace.
The hallway was padded outside his room, so I knocked quite loudly as to alert him to my presence.
“What do you want!” His voice was rimmed with anger and exhaustion. It was deep, but not deep for a man.
“I’m…” I paused, then took a deep breath, “I’m here for your bedclothes.”
He muttered unintelligible and the door opened, “Don’t take your time at it.”
His carpet was thick and my footsteps became inaudible. Advancing slowly towards the bed, as not to anger the beast beside me, I slowly leaned down and touched the silk. I almost groaned as the soft, light fabric came into contact with my hand.
“You recognize good quality,” he murmured.
I nodded, not speaking, determined to get the job done as quickly as possible.
“Come here.”
I paused for a second, and then warily advanced towards Ivan.
He smiled at me wolfishly, taking my hands, “What’s your name?”
“Fedosya.”
“Fedosya,” he repeated, and then turned me towards one of the many mirrors of the room.
My appearance startled me. I had not been in front of a mirror in weeks, not since I had left my small house for the last time before it had burned to dust. My long straight black hair was frizzy and matted, dirty and dry. The pale skin showed tell-tale signs of no bathing, the dirt hiding my freckles upon my nose. Average height, dwarfed by Ivan’s tallness, I never realized how small I was until then. My hazel eyes, however, still shone, despite all they had seen in such a short amount of time.
“You are… dirty,” he whispered, “And yet your eyes continue to shine through. Tell me why this is?”
I didn’t say anything, not knowing whether or not I should speak.
“It is because, despite no matter what happens to you, you still have potential for great beauty. Your eyes show that potential, even if your body lacks it somewhat,” dropping my hands, he circled like I was a slab of meat, and he was a vulture, “Where are you from Fedosya?”
“Derbent.”
“They suffered a fire there not long ago, no?”
More than a fire, I thought, “Yes.”
“Is that what caused you to come here?”
Funny how he speaks to me as if I am simply here on a summer trip, soon to be returning home, “Yes.”
“Where is your family, Fedosya?”
“I either do not know or they are dead.”
“Your parents…”
“Dead,” a ball welled up in my throat, but I fought it, not wanting to give Ivan the satisfaction.
“Pity, pity,” he murmured. Stopping his circling, he stood next to the mirror, “Do you know what tragedy has befallen recently in my home?”
I shook my head.
“My dear wife… Killed. Poisoned, the physicians tell me. I seem to find myself widowed recently.”
I stared at the mirror, avoiding Ivan’s heavy gaze.
He walked over to the bed, a sigh tripping out of his lips, “Take these and leave. And then, do me a favor and be the one to escort my advisors to the throne room this afternoon, hmm?”
I nodded and hurried from the room. The advisers, of course, would meet outside the throne room, in a small room set aside for them. It would be my job to open the door for them. At three o’clock exactly, I pushed open the door, and watched the advisors spill in. Normally, the slave who had done this would wait outside once the doors had closed to open them again, but something told me that I was suppose to watch.
Ivan entered the room, and quickly searched it, his gaze landing upon me for a moment before sweeping the rest of the room full of advisors hugging the walls.
“My dearest advisors,” he coughed to clear his throat, “It seems to me that we have a traitor in our midst.”
None of the advisors reacted. This was, to my understanding, a weekly occurrence. Ivan would announce a so called ‘traitor’, have him killed, and everyone would move on, pretending like it never happened.
“You!” he yelled at a young adviser, who flinched, “You will pay for what you’ve done!”
That was when I realized that Ivan wasn’t just cruel or evil. He was crazy. Completely and totally unhinged. But he had power. And a madman with a power equals death.
“Guards!”
The palace guards seized the man and I watched with horror as they pinned his arms behind his back. The great and noble (and horrible) Czar beckoned to one of his troops. The man-at-arms kneeled before his ruler. Whispering quickly in a hushed voice, the czar offered up his weapon: an ashen spear with a leaf head tip. Glimmering in sunlight from the window, Ivan admired the pint, running his hand across it. A drop of blood welled up, and he looked at it with a dull satisfaction.
Grunting in approval, he looked up and barked at his men, “March.”
The man threw the spear at me, and I caught it, catching my hand on the edge and I winced at the blood, “Watch.”
He grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me from the room. The other room held a small spiraling staircase which, upon looking out the window, seemed to lead to the courtyard, where the guards, who had been walking quite a bit faster than us, where just now entering.
“You will wait here.”
I rolled my eyes in mock sarcasm, but he didn’t notice. Walking out, he took the spear gently from my hands, and crossed the courtyard.
I’ll give the young advisor this: he did not cry.
Seeing the man walking at a brisk pace on such a gloomy day, he did not flinch. He did not make a sound. He just watched him, silently, as if he had already accepted his fate. To this day I wonder if he truly was a traitor, or if he had just been another framed. But he went out a hero to whatever cause he was serving.
“Swine,” the guard muttered savagely, “Do you not beg for your life?”
The advisor raised his glance, squarely looking the man in the eyes, but not uttering a single sound.
“So be it,” the guard raised the spear, “May God have mercy on you.”
When I looked again, the spear was red. Blood red. And the man could have been sleeping.
“That is what awaits you if do not agree.”
I jumped.
Ivan looked at me, his eyes narrowed, “It had to happen. I needed an example. Somebody had to die.”
I did not say anything.
“So will you?”
I realized he wanted me to answer, “I do not understand.”
“I need a slave-girl. For my new wife. We meet this afternoon, and tradition dictates that I must have one.”
I nodded, knowing the reason for the man who had to die.
Who would want to slave-girl to a queen?

I sometimes wonder what my parents would think of my new position, it being so low. I had grown up in a noble family, one of pure, rich blood. That is, until the soldiers had attacked.
Oh, wait. I meant to say fire started. At least, that’s what I’m told to. Officially, that’s all that happened in Derbent, a small wooded town on the outskirts of Russia. My father had been mayor to the town and yes, I guess he did technically die in a fire. But if the doors had not been locked behind him, he and my mother surely would have been able to get out.
Then again, I guess they weren’t suppose to.
In such a short time, I had been stripped of my rank and forced to bend so low, cleaning and cooking food, sweeping hallways. Technically, being the personal slave to a Czar’s wife would be a promotion, something good. But I had seen what Ivan did on less than a suspicion, and in no way, did I want to get close to him.
But, at the same time, denying meant my death.
See, here’s the thing. Some people are noble, and will look death straight in the eye and say ‘bite me.’ Some people are just willing to throw their lives away like it’s nothing special. Some people are just brave. But do you know what they have in common?
They all die.
I didn’t want to die. Not for bravery, not for nothing, not for nobility. I was taught, at least in my family, that sometimes you have to be brave and noble in a different sense, even if that means bending down low and touching your nose to the ground.
Who knows? Maybe the opportunity will present itself, and I’ll be able to avenge my family’s death.
But until then, life must go on.
Like it always does.