Winter ran wild in Petrograd. It was not only the cold but also the wind, howling across the vast land and cracking unforgivingly against any surface which came in its way, never allowing even the fallen snow to rest for too long. One needed to cover themselves with the coats of animals if they hoped to survive. Many didn't; outside the embrace of the Palace, souls were unfortunate enough to wander the streets without a home. At night not even the vodka could keep them warm, and come morning they were often frozen solid, blue eyes full of questions staring up at a grey sky.

Winter was also white. So, so very white, as if it had come to cover the sins of the land and its people.

“Halt!”

Anastasiya Bolshova, dressed from head to toe in dark riding gear, stood at the mouth of the forest behind the Bolshov estate. Her voice was drowned out by the wind.

"Aleksander, halt!" She cracked the whip in her hand.

The sound of hooves slowed, no longer spraying up snow behind them as a great beast came to a stop in front of her. He understood the crack of the whip just as much as her words. Anastasiya chuckled as the horse panted white clouds into her face, giving him a pat of praise on the neck. Aleksander had been acquired some years ago as a gift - an expensive gift, at that, and clearly a favourite. A Kabarda with a pure black coat which currently gleamed with sweat.

Anastasiya led him back to the stables, crunching snow under black boots. She is supposed to be elsewhere, she thought as she glanced toward the darkened windows across the field. A man come to take her hand. Or as Anastasiya saw it, a ludicrous arrangement in the most inappropriate of situations.

This is hardly the time for marriage, Papa. We should be focusing on the situation with the socialists. They're quickly increasing in numbers and if we do not act now-

She secured Aleksander in his stall and once again stepped into the cold, heading for the manor.

It's sweet to see you worry, Nastusha. But we have the situation under control. You don't really think we will be rattled by a few liberals, do you dear? This is the last we will speak of this matter. Tomorrow we have a respectable young man...

Anastasiya stepped inside and shook off the snow from her head, shoulders, and everywhere else. Her dark hair was braided so tightly not even the winds could rustle it. She was gifted with the dark brows and eyes to match, stark against her pale skin, cheeks rosy from the cold. They will see about that. A certain respectable young man can sit at the respectable dining table and eat his respectable caviar while making respectable conversation. There were other matters which needed tending to.

She headed for the armory, far away from the dining room where she suspected this respectable young man and his family was with hers. The armory was a room familiar to Anastasiya, and she began to polish the pistols laid out on a long table cutting across the space until the cold metal glinted sharply in the light. Along the walls lined rifles, and more archaic weaponry like swords and knives. At least they spoke the language Anastasiya knew needed to be spoken.

@Karos

Nikolai Barakohv looked out the window of the carriage as he hurtled along the snowy road. He sat next to his mother and across from his father. All of them were wrapped up in thick winter coats but still their breath plumed up in front of them. What little of Nikolai that could be seen amidst the mass of furs showed an honest yet strong face, with soft grey eyes set against the dark black of his hair, the same colours as the frame of his glasses. He sported a short moustache as was the style of gentlemen at the time but other than that was clean shaven.

Nikolai looked at his father who was staring out of the window. 'Anything of note Father?' inquired Nikolai rather bored of the journey. He'd much prefer to be back at the university, but his parents had insisted. His father had used his full name in the letter, he'd known better than to argue.

'No nothing, Niki' he replied 'Just snow drift after snow drift, hovel after hovel'.

Nikolai took his eyes from his father, and he turned to his mother. 'So who even is this woman?' he asked her.

She looked back at him smiling 'Anastasiya Bolshova' she began 'A beautiful young lady, very bright by all accounts, she'd be an excellent wife'.

'Do me and her get a say in the matter?' he retorted 'I'm certain nobody asked her opinion on all this, and personally I'd rather be back at the university, I was on the verge of'.

'I don't care' growled his father, 'Unless you were on the verge of a way to wipe out these damned Socialists I couldn't care less what you were doing. Besides you're here now'.

Nikolai just sighed in response, his father was right he was here now, might as well settle in for the rest of the journey.

***

Nikolai laughed as his father finished his joke, all the present company laughed. There were five of them in all, Nikolai, his mother and father, and then Lord and Lady Bolshova.

'Very good, Leo very good' remarked Lord Bolshova offering Nikolai's father a glass of Vodka. Nikolai sat quietly and began looking about him, the room looked just like the many aristocratic halls he'd spent time in. Wooden panelling, paintings, a vast stone fireplace nothing of real note.

He fished in his pocket digging out his notebook and his fountain pen. He began to write in the notebook, his untidy scrawl joining that of previous sessions. 'Always working are you?' asked Lady Bolshova who sat next to his mother.

'I try, it's best to keep the mind busy, hard at work that way it doesn't get sloppy' he replied looking up from the notebook, before returning to its pages.

'Sloppy is just the word I'd use to describe my daughters mind right now' said Lord Bolshova.

'She's probably just nervous' replied Lady Bolshova 'I know I was when I was meeting you for the first time'.

Nikolai put his notebook and pen away and took out his silver pocket watch, he flicked the time piece open and noted that Anastasiya was 10 minutes late. 'Why don't I go see if I can find her?' he offered politely.

'No no, you just wait here, I'm sure she'll be here soon' replied Lady Bolshova.

'It'd be no trouble' responded Nikolai 'It would be a good opportunity to acquaint myself with more of your house at the same time'. With that he got to his feet and walked out, leaving his parents talking with the Bolshova's.

He walked down a long corridor, more panelling and paintings met his gaze. That was when he saw a lady dressed in dark riding gear walk into a room at the other end. He didn't call out to her instead he walked up to the door and stopped. He looked himself over, ensuring that his coat, waistcoat and shirt collar were all straight and uncreased.

He opened the door, walking into the room he saw the walls lined with weapons. There was easily enough weapons in this room to arm 20 men, swords, rifles, knives the lot. He smiled as he saw several weapons manufactured by his fathers company. He remembered firing those weapons back at the academy in Moscow, remembered the clash of sabres in the cold winter air.

'Ahem' he said to the woman he assumed to be Anastasiya who was polishing several pistols laid out on a long table.

...a respectable young man by the name of Nikolai Barakohv I'd like you to meet. Now our families have been friends since before either of you were born, so none of your funny business.

The last man who'd come knocking on their door had fallen off Anastasiya's horse. It was hardly her fault that the men of the town were so delightfully unimpressive.

When she heard the door open Anastasiya did not turn around. It would be one of the servants, or if she was late enough - her father himself come to get her. As an unfamiliar voice sounded however, she did turn, pistol still in hand.

It did not take elaborate guesswork to figure out who could be standing in front of her. A young man, dressed in expensive furs looking respectable as ever. She studied his face for a long moment, from the dark hair to the glasses to the gentle eyes to the manicured moustache to the clean-cut jaw. Barakohv. The name was engraved into several of the weapons here. But it was not this man's - his father's, maybe, or his father before that. There did not appear to be anyone with him, so surely there was no need for formality.

"Know much about guns, Nikolai?" Or do you only bury your head in books.

Anastasiya slid back the chamber of the pistol in hand and popped out the bullets in one fluid motion, all the while having her eyes trained on the man. A smile appeared on pink lips as she offered both items to him with the gun's barrel downturned - partly playful, partly a challenge.

As the woman turned to face him Nikolai first noted the pistol in her hand, his reflexes kicked in. He straightened himself, balling his right hand into a fist. He left it at his side however as she nimbly emptied the weapon of it's rounds before proffering it to him.

"Know much about guns, Nikolai?" she inquired. She was beautiful, his mother had been right about that. She had tightly braided hair, and dark eyes that complemented her pale skin.

He looked at the proffered weapon again, 'You're asking the son of Russia's largest weapon merchant whether or not he knows about guns?' He raised an inquisitive eyebrow before taking the weapon. Looking Anastasiya in the eyes he reloaded the weapon in a few fluid motions. He then walked to the table the pistol had come from, placing it on the top. '10 seconds' he said closing his eyes.

Then Nikolai's hands were a blur darting all over the weapon, first he field stripped the whole thing taking apart all of the components as though he were about to clean it. Then eyes still closed he assembled the weapon and placed it on the table.

He checked his pocket watch, 'Hmm, I was wrong' he paused '8 seconds'. He smiled and turned back to Anastasiya, 'So I take it you're Anastasiya then?'

Anastasiya shrugged as he took the weapon. "A family name is given, everything else must be earned. It would hardly be fair of me to judge you based upon what has been given." She had seen one too many sons of great men fall short. "Papa had only bragged about your scholarly ways, but I suppose you are more than that." Anastasiya watched the man disassemble, and then reassemble. She smiled again. "We will have to go shooting sometime."

She walked to stand beside Nikolai and picked up a different pistol, resuming what she had been doing. When she had been much younger her father had understood it so well - that politics came out of the barrel of a gun, nothing else. Then people grew rich and they grew soft, and weapons grew rusty. Anastasiya was the only one who comes to this room now.

At the question she turned her body to face Nikolai again.

"I hear we are to be wed." She answered, but it was also a question. Did he want to be wed? Why wasn't he already?

'Yes I've heard the same, I guess you also had as much say in the matter as I did?' he said turning and sitting in a chair at the edge of the room.

He took out his notebook again, this time turning to the back of the book, here there were a number of sketches. All sorts of things were sketched there, bridges over half frozen rivers, experimental apparatus, people here and there. As he flicked to a fresh page he took a pencil from inside his coat pocket and began to sketch as he talked.

'You know it's funny' he paused biting the end of the pencil before he continued. 'From what I understood of things marriage was originally meant to symbolise a choice' he paused again looking at Anastasiya 'A covenant that one made with god. How strange that now it too has become little more than a business arrangement'.

He kept sketching away in his little book whilst he waited for Anastasiya to reply.

"I suppose that's a freedom reserved for those without the burden of a family name." Anastasiya mused. She's moved on to the daggers now, cleaning and giving them the attention they missed. "My mother did not get that choice. My father.. well." She smiled to herself, "And I doubt their parents before them got any say in the matter either. It does sound quite catching though, doesn't it? The son of Russia's greatest weapon merchant and the daughter of the Tsar's first general."

Finally she set down the things in her hands and turned to focus her full attention on Nikolai. The riding outfit made no attempt to obscure the figure underneath it - curved at the right places, with evidence of strength that came from her time spent with the horses. Anastasiya tilted her head in the slightest as she watched the man work over his notebook.

"What are you drawing?" Curiosity got the better of her.

Nikolai looked up smiling at the question, he looked at Anastasiya her tight fitting riding gear leaving just about the right amount to his imagination. He closed the book, thumb pressed between the pages holding his place. Pencil in the other hand he gestured to another chair.

'I shall give you three guesses, but only if you sit down, it's not polite for a gentlemen to sit whilst a lady stands, but this is much easier to do sitting down' he lifted the notebook opening it once more.

'Before your guesses though, I do hope your parents told you that I'm a psychologist as much as I am soldier. Guns and bullets have their place but its much better to remove a mans want to fight without removing the man, at least that's my take on it.' he marked, biting his pencil and looking at Anastasiya.

"Yes, I have heard all about it. And that is an interesting take. How do you propose we strip a man of his will to fight?"

Anastasiya had grown up with books of warfare, of ancient Egypt and China, of tribesmen in far away lands with arrows, of galleys and cannons. In her lifetime she had seen again and again rich men declare war, and poor men die conducting it. Sometimes it was to expand borders and reap the gold of others, sometimes it was out of misunderstanding and spite. From what Anastasiya understood of the world - men will always want to fight. But she held her tongue and moved to sit. When her father was who he was and she was who she was, it was a rare thing to hear someone not echo whatever came out of her mouth. Anastasiya thought back to what she had heard about Nikolai.

"Architecture? Nature? Your university?"

She used up her three guesses all at once. Me? It wouldn't be the first time, but how conceited for a lady to assume that.

'Ahh, now that depends on the man' Nikolai replied still drawing, glad to know that she'd at least feign an interest in his work. Most people didn't even pay him that courtesy. 'Different things motivate different men' he stopped holding up his notebook to better catch the light for a moment before continuing. 'A strong leader won't be bowed by pressure from commoners, well unless there's a lot of them anyway. But get a couple of his rich friends to suggest a new course and suddenly you can win him over. Peasants however, well it's much better to win over as much of the village as possible, even if they don't understand the reasons' he concluded, looking up for a second at how Anastasiya was elegantly sat in the chair opposite him.

As he looked at her, he tried to take in every detail. She reminded him of a ballet dancer, strong yet graceful, the dark hair only enhancing the image. A stark contrast to the people he spent most of his time with he thought. Usually they were either academics like himself or bumbling peasants, usually half starved, poor souls.

Nikolai listened to her guesses, 'No none of those, and I'm afraid you're out of guesses' he smiled, 'Now you'll have to wait for me to finish and then see'. After a couple of minutes he finished his drawing holding up his notebook so that when he looked at Anastasiya he could see the two simply by shifting focus. On the page in pencil was a precise sketch of the young woman. For something drawn so quickly it was exquisite, picking out her features in fine detail. He quickly signed his name at the bottom before showing it to her.

'There we are, how's that? Probably doesn't stand up to the standard you're used to, but when the others back at the university ask me what my bride-to-be looks like. Hopefully I can show them a picture she approves of?' he asked.

He hadn't spent much time with Anastasiya, but he could already tell they'd get along well. She was obviously bright, and very confident, traits he always admired, and it certainly didn't hurt that she was gorgeous too. The idea of marrying her became more appealing the more he thought about it.

In the time that it took Nikolai to complete the sketch, Anastasiya was quiet, studying at the man curiously as his eyes flickered between her and the page. It was a strange feeling, being intently examined as if she were something to be understood and then recorded.

"That's very good, Nikolai." Anastasiya smiled as he showed her the drawing. In ways the sketch was much more than the oil portraits painted of her and her family - simple, but only capturing the essence of the subject and unfazed by a myriad of details. "So you're a man of many talents." And so far proving to be much more impressive than the previous 'matches' her parents had pressed her to consider. She could see why her father had been enthusiastic to say the least, when he brought up Nikolai.

"And what of hungry men? What will demotivate them?" She pressed on an earlier subject. The prospect of conversing on this topic with someone was an exciting one for Anastasiya - her father did not deem it of importance and her mother wished she would speak more about the fashions of Paris and London. Nikolai ought to be learned on the subject, from what she's heard, and Anastasiya was interested in digging his brain. "These socialists, their supporters grow by the day. They're mostly peasants on empty stomachs, lead by idealists filling their minds with ideas from film machines in darkened rooms. People start to think they have much to gain from overthrowing the Tsar and - while that sounds far-stretched, who is the Tsar going to lead if there is no one left willing to be led?"

Anastasiya sat a little straighter in her chair, speaking with a passion and urgency her mother often wished she wouldn't show for such crude matters.

Nikolai smiled back, glad that Anastasiya liked the sketch. Personally he hadn't liked it very much, but with the time he'd had it was the best he could do.

"So you're a man of many talents." said Anistasiya. Nikolai laughed a little. 'When one is a child prodigy, rifle drill and sabre practice can only keep one entertained for so long' he remarked placing his notebook and pencil back into the inner pocket of his coat.

Nikolai settled into his chair, leaning back comfortably elbows resting on the arms of the chair with his hands in front of him, fingers laced together. That was when Anastasiya asked her next question "And what of hungry men? What will demotivate them? These socialists, their supporters grow by the day. They're mostly peasants on empty stomachs, lead by idealists filling their minds with ideas from film machines in darkened rooms. People start to think they have much to gain from overthrowing the Tsar and - while that sounds far-stretched, who is the Tsar going to lead if there is no one left willing to be led?"

The smile that had played on Nikolai's face faded as he thought about the question he was being asked. He hadn't mentioned to anyone outside of the university what his true thoughts were on a subject like this. He sat in contemplation for a while thoughts ran through his head faster and faster.

'When a man is starving' he started slowly his prior eloquence leaving him somewhat 'Whilst other men have plenty, then there is something wrong with the society. He will become angry, motivated to look for better, he's nothing to lose and everything to gain. So… well if someone gives him a good cause he'll give his life for it. These socialists do that.'

Us socialists he thought to himself… us socialists.

'If you want to demotivate a man like that, a determined man, a desperate man… a righteous man. Well you'll have to give him what he wants' Nikolai stopped looking to Anastasiya trying to gauge what her response would be to his next statement.

'And if you ask me, we should give them what they want. Most of them just want enough food to get by, give them that and they'd gladly fall back into line' he finished somewhat more resolute.

Anastasiya watched the man hesitate. It was the first time - ever since Nikolai had come in the door he had spoken freely, and now he seemed to choose his words with care. She listened all the more intently, nodding when he was finished.

"Russia is a country of many things but it is not wealthy. The land does not produce enough to feed its people and winter is harsh, some starve or die on the fringe of it. The Tsar mourns. But what is a father to do when there is not enough food on the table for his children? If bread is all that they want it would be simpler but from the way they talk, Nikolai. I'm afraid like any man starved long and hard enough they will be satisfied with nought but blood." Anastasiya seemed to speak on one breath and when she caught herself, settled back properly into the seat she'd started to perch on the edge of. From what she could make out Nikolai held.. favour? Or sympathy for the socialists, and she ought to learn more about him. Anastasiya rose from the chair.

"But I am being rude. Have you had time to acquaint yourself with the house yet? I will give you a tour if you like."

His mind raced as Anastasiya talked. You idiot! he thought how on earth did you let that slip out, if she says anything to father... His mind still racing Nikolai tried to come up with ways to explain what he'd said, trying to think of ways to change the subject, whilst trying to appear as though nothing were wrong.

Nikolai looked up as she finished talking. 'A tour' he responded, a shade confused before his panicked brain caught up with him. 'Err yes that would be wonderful.'

He latched firmly onto the chance to change the subject. Nikolai got to his feet, walking over to the door and opening it for Anastasiya, before waiting there politely.

Anastasiya nodded to Nikolai as he held the door open. So he was a gentleman.

She had not missed the flash of concern in his eyes - a panicked flutter of wings behind grey irises. But what was it that rattled him? The last thing he had spoken about was to do with the socialists, their intentions and what they brought to the people. Unless he has more to do with them than he let slip? Anastasiya brushed off the silly notion. She has heard and learned all about these 'new thinkers', as they called themselves, and perceiving something only through words written and spoken often gave one a very skewed idea of what said thing was in actuality. In her mind Anastasiya envisioned these people to be irrational idealists, easy to be told apart from the likes of herself or any sane person in the flesh. Easy to be told apart from a well-mannered young gentleman, one from a good family and with good education. To think that they were anything alike, it was ludicrous.

Anastasiya chose not to dwell on that note.

"I'm sure you have noticed the extensive amount of portraits here," She started, turning to Nikolai with a faint smile as she gestured to the walls. "These were all painted by my uncle Igor. He had a passion for.. painting his subjects in the nude. As you can see a large number of projects here were for elder men - he is living in France now, where his talents are more suited."

She stopped and pushed open the heavy oaken door to her right. "Our library. Nowhere near as grand as that of your university, I'm sure, but it does hold many editions no longer available to the world." The room was a comforting one, all earth tones and lit by warm orange lights. Woodwork everywhere, holding rows of books and gleaming dully around bearskins and crackling in the fireplace. "You are welcome to browse them whenever you like - you are staying at least for the night, I hope? It must have been a long journey for you and your family."

Anastasiya turned to face the man, looking up at him slightly now that they stood closer. He was the taller of the two - Anastasiya's eyes came to rest on his cheeks, if she were to look straight ahead. "Do you ride, Nikolai? I want to show you the stables."

Nikolai followed behind Anastasiya hands clasped behind his back as he walked slowly behind her listening intently. He inclined his neck to take in the various pictures she gestured to, nodding in approval at her comment that such things were better suited elsewhere.

As she came to a large oak door he paused, she opened the doors with a flourish before stepping into a room lined with books. The warm colours of the room rushed to greet him and Nikolai felt compelled to rush into the room, to pour over the volumes, but he didn't. He remembered his manners and entered calmly listening quietly to Anastasiya's words.

'I should expect so' he replied as she inquired as to whether he and his family would be staying the night. She barely seemed to notice moving onto further questions. When asked whether or not he rode he was reminded about their discussion about weapons in the armoury. Of course he could ride, he didn't choose to in the middle of winter, he'd much rather be in a warm library with a good drink. But, he did know how to ride, another left over from his training at the academy. He remembered Cpt. Chekov's words 'Riding, shooting, and yelling my boy. That's what an officer does now days'.

'I don't ride often in weather such as this, but I can ride, please go ahead.' he replied smiling, glad the talk of socialists had been forgotten about.