Nearly a week ago, Piotr Rasputin left the Xavier Institute in a panic — he had been unable toget in touch with his family. Telephones had failed him and, most alarmingly, so had the Professor. He would return, but not until he'd gotten to the bottom of this mystery and assured himself that his parents and baby sister were safe.
Unfortunately, while Piotr had solved *one* mystery, he found himself at a loss in more ways than one.
It is a bright and sunny afternoon when the front door to the mansion creaks open to admit its returning Colossus, but he looks completely lost, almost timid. He has dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and seems to have forgotten what a comb is. At least he remembered his duffle bag. He closes the door behind himself, frowning deeply, and begins to turn to head in search of the professor. Surely he will know what to do.
*
The small fishing village was razed— nothing left. All burned to the ground, the bodies long since consumed by timberwolves and the elements. The one oddity was the two graves, side by side, near the hut that had once been the last known home of Piotr's parents, a crude shack on the wind-blasted Russian tundra.
Of his sister, the tiny blonde Illyana, there was no sign.
Then a slip of a blonde girl comes around the corner on the opposite end of the hallway. She's wearing a smart little peasant skirt and blouse, barefoot— all scrawny, wiry legs and muscled forearms.
"Has anyone seen Professor Xavier, I need my les—" she stops, abruptly, when Piotr comes into a patch of overhead light, fingers slipping off the wall paneling and her eyes going as wide as dinner plates. "Piotr," she whispers.
"PIOTR!" she screams. She starts sprinting at him pell-mell, feet thumping on the ground, and bodily hurls herself at him. Her eyes are big as saucers, and she launches herself in an attempt to grab onto him in a bearhug, flying off the ground at chest-height for the big man.
*
It takes someone literally screaming his name to get Piotr to snap out of his fugue. With a start, he turns towards the voice and sound of rushing footsteps, blinking in very obvious confusion and surprise.
He is at least aware enough to brace for impact, but even then, having someone come full-bore-flying into his chest rocks Piotr back on his heels. He stands rock-still, like a deer caught in an oncoming semi's headlights, and very slowly tilts his chin to peer down at the top of the blonde's head.
"…I am sorry," Piotr says slowly, his accent thick. "Do I know you?"
*
She's sobbing and gibbering, so it's very hard to make out what she's saying— but she's speaking Russian, thick and fast and slurred with frantic emotions.
"Piotr please, it's me, it's Illyana, please, don't put me down," she weeps, buring her face in his chest. She's overwhelmed— blubbering a little, and crying quite a bit. She wraps her arm around his neck and hangs from him in a familiar fashion. Her hair's matted and a bit unclean, badly in need of combing, but it's a shockingly pale shade of blonde here and there.
"— and then we buried them and-and- he took me back to this strange place, and— oh, Piotr, PLEASE just let's go home," she begs. It's about all that's comprehensible between broken words about Limbo and something about a man named Belasco.
*
Piotr has grown used to only catching every other word in some conversations, but not when they're in *Russian*. He blinks once he realizes the language she's speaking and immediately becomes more like his normal self— just like that, he's carefully dropping to a knee so that the poor girl no longer has to dangle from his neck, with large hands coming up to very lightly rest at her waist and keep her steady.
"Shhhhh, shhh. Slow down," Piotr says gently, slipping into Russian. She speaks it, so why shouldn't he? "You are safe here, yes? Slow…" As more of her words register, he trails off, his brow furrowing in confusion.
*
She weeps and cries, her cornflower blue eyes red and puffy. She bites her lower lip in visible pain, trying to choke back a sob, and touches Piotr's cheeks with her fingertips, then pats his forehead with her palm once. "Please, Piotr, please tell me you haven't forgotten me. It's me, it's Illyana, it's me, please tell me you remember me," she says, hiccoughing then weeping again, making no effort to hide her face. She's very nearly in hysterics, but seems honestly in agony at the idea that he doesn't know her.
*
It's simply not possible — but Piotr has encountered some very strange things since moving to America, and after seeing what was left of his family's home, he's desperate enough for hope that he can't bring himself to dismiss this out of hand. He doesn't even flinch when she touches his face, too busy studying hers for some sign of the little girl his sister is supposed to be. "I could never forget my Illyana," he says quietly, one hand coming up to brush some hair from her face, the motion almost timid. "But how could this be? She is only so high," he notes, with an odd, strained laugh in his voice as he holds his hand level with his shoulders, now that he's kneeling. "Six. She is only six."
*
"No! Damn— damnit! No!" Illyana smashes her small but hard fists into Piotr's chest, battering at him. "He— he took this from me, too, DAMN you Belasco!" she screeches. Violet eldritch energy crackles around her, threatening to sear the woodwork around them. "It's me, Piotr, PLEASE believe me, it's your little Snowflake— p-p-please," she begs, weeping and gnashing her teeth. She runs her fingers through her hair, mussing it further.
"You remember our cat Mylene, the little calico, a-and the haytower, we would jump from the ledge and land in the hay," she says, gripping his shirt with a surprisingly firm set of wiry fingers.
"You remember, the tractor, you /saved/ me, you pushed the tractor out of the way," she begs. In fact, Piotr had stopped it cold with his bare hands. "My foot was stuck in that bear trap— I have the scar, please," she begs him, holding her ankle up awkwardly and showing him the ugly but very old scar or her lower calf.
*
Whatever reaction Piotr was expecting, it is safe to say that violet energy crackling in the air was not on the list. He actually startles visibly, blue eyes widening, and he seems to be back at a loss for how to respond. Until she says it.
Snowflake.
Piotr certainly looks like he's listening to her every word, but now, really, he's just staring. Even if someone were to be playing some kind of a cruel joke, all of this… no. It's too much. Even a telepath would not be so cruel.
Before she can even present the scar, Piotr simply leans forward and wraps a pair of massive arms around her in a familiar, all-encompassing bearhug.
*
Illyana just wraps around Piotr and cries. Not in pain, but in joy— relieved, heartbreaking joy. He can't see it, but she's burying a smile in the crook of his columnar neck, and she strokes his head and hugs him as if she won't ever let him go.
*
*
It takes hours to get caught up, it seems. Piotr had of course written letters, had been in contact, but for Illyana a literal lifetime had passed since last they met. She spills it all to him, every bit, holding nothing back with the pent-up need of a person finding a soul who can they can completely trust. Tea is made, consumed, and then upgraded to vodka. That helps soothe Illyana quite a bit— half a shot and she's clearly unwinding. A bit of a lightweight, the tiny blonde is. It all gets laid out— Belasco, the curse of the unknown amulet she's wearing, the magic tutelage from Ororo and swordplay from Cat— and the gory, bloody insurrection that had led to her becoming the undisputed Queen of Limbo.
Some of the details had been a bit too gory for Piotr's rather more sensitive manner. Illyana had become quite a terror.
"..then Strange brought me here and said I should live here between lessons," she says, picking at the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. "I had no idea this was the Academy you mentioned in your letters— I wasn't even sure where we were in America," she admits. "Oh, if I'd known, I would have found you days ago."
*
It is one thing to encounter strange, otherworldly stories in the world and know that they are true. It is quite another to wrap one's head around the fact that they happened to your baby sister — who is not so much a baby anymore, quite abruptly. For once, the upgrade to vodka from tea had actually been Piotr's idea.
"I am just happy you are safe," Piotr says quickly, wanting to cut off the apology before she can even offer it. He offers her a very tired, reassuring smile, massive hands cradling a very small glass that had vodka in it a second ago. *Not* a lightweight, this one. "When I could not reach anyone, I was afraid —" He cuts himself off with a firm shake of his head. He takes a deep, steadying breath. "…but you are here. And you are safe now. Yes?"
*
"My enemies are vanquished and my allies fear me, so… yes?" Illyana hazards. Her feet wave back and forth under the barstool, bare and dirty from walking around without slippers.
"I am so sorry you were scared, Piotr. It was not my intention. I would have left a message but… who would find it? It would be weeks until the next shipment from Kyrograd, and I'm sure they would not find it or send it, even if I knew to where I should have it sent."
She sips more vodka, making a face, but trying not to look weak in front of Piotr's strong Russian sensibilities. "Please, though, tell me about you," she urges, resting elbows on the table and planting her chin on her hands. She gives him her best, puppyish look, clearly having not forgotten how to wheedle her big brother. "You are still gigantic, so you are eating well. Are you happy here? Learning? Is there someone special?"
*
It is clear from his expression that Piotr is finding all of this incredibly surreal… but the vodka does seem to be helping. He reaches over to lay a hand over one of hers, fixing her with a very serious look. "Illyana. You do not have anything to apologize to me for. I will not hear of it," he says firmly. "You are here now, and that is what matters." And that, in his mind, is that. Time for a refill.
He has just enough time to bring the glass back to his lips before she asks the question, and Piotr sputters a laugh into his drink. This… this is all completely absurd, and her expression is not helping matters. "Not… not in the way you are implying," he manages, answering the last question first. "But I am learning. I am told that my English is excellent," he says proudly, puffing up his chest. "And I am… as happy as I can be, I suppose," he murmurs thoughtfully, letting his eyes fall to his hands.
*
Illyana's smile starts to tug the corner of her mouth and she exhales, the expression falling away. "Yes, I … suppose that's true for both of us," she says, a bit sadly as that recent loss pangs them both. She reaches over and squeezes three of his fingers, about all she can get her slender, callused little hand around comfortably.
She purses her lips, then switches to English. "Strange did… something when we met," she says, in excellent if heavily Slavic accented English. "He cast a spell and words just… come to me. I merely need to think 'Speak in English' and I know precisely what to say. I do not know what many words mean," she admits. "Hamburgers, I… none of that word sounds like you would think it is."
*
Without a second thought, Piotr sets his glass aside in favor of covering her hand instead. It strikes him as a better use of it. "A spell? But that is cheating," he notes in his own heavily accented English, though the twinkle in his eye makes it clear he is only teasing. "I should thank him. He has saved you a great deal of trouble. It is difficult to learn," he grumbles, his brow knitting in confusion. "Hamburgers are not pig. They are beef. Makes no sense."
*
"Thank you!" Illyana says, flapping her free hand in the air. "And the French are not fried, and hot dogs are not made of Labradors." She gives him a helpless expression. "English is such a strange language. Still— I at least can communicate. Many people frown at me though, and ladies at Macy's would not help me shop. A police man told me I should go home to Moscow. I am not from Moscow, so I was very confused, but he was insistent about it." She wiggles her narrow shoulders at him.
*
That makes Piotr wince. "…mmh. Politics," he rumbles in a low voice, casting a sidelong look towards the doorway. "It is… difficult, right now, to sound like we do," he says slowly, sliding his eyes back to his sister. He's stomping down the impulse to try and explain this to her the way he would a child — she is supposed to be one, but demonstrably, she is not.
*
"Why?" Illyana asks, looking baffled. "No one has said anything to me about it. Can you explain?" A sharp reminder of the fact that while she looks to be an adult, Illyana has not had the advantage of growing up in Russia— or America. Knowing nothing about international politics or diplomacy or the like. It might be a start to find she's ever aware of America as an independent nation from Russia.
*
The thought that noone has spoken to Illyana about this before now causes Piotr to draw his lips back into a thin, disapproving line. If he felt like being fair, it is less obvious a concern to the likes of Strange than it is to another Russian, but he has had just enough vodka that 'fair' is going to have to wait for another time.
For the moment, Piotr holds up a finger and rises to his feet. One benefit to living in a school — a map is never too far out of reach. Or, in this instance, a globe. He sets it onto the table between them, and points. "This is home," he explains, tapping Lake Baikal with a fingertip. "Then, here… Moscow. And over here," he continues, crossing the sea to tap New York, "is where we are now, in America. Different country, different people in charge than back home. Yes?"
*
Illyana's eyes go to the size of robin's eggs, and she pours over the map as the impromptu geography lesson starts. "Oh… oh my. It's so… far! I had no idea," Illyana says. She puts a finger over Lake Baikal, then snaps her hand back— as if stunned by the enormity of distance from her home to the lake, then from the Lake to the heart of Russian authority and culture.
"Yes, I… I see. New York." She examines the map carefull, nose almost touching the globe to read all the tiny little characters hand-painted by the steady hand of some un-named globemaker.
*
Piotr draws his hand out of the way to let Illyana examine the globe, a small smile tugging at his face, despite the context. "Very far. But what one does matters to all of the others," he explains carefully, and now it's his turn to sit with his chin propped up in a hand. "And right now, our countries… there is no trust," he murmurs, his smile fading to be replaced by a tired, almost resigned frown. "Just fear. There is not *war*, not yet, but…"
*
"Yet. That is worrisome." Illyana pats Piotr's fingers. "It is all right. We do not have to stay here," she urges him. "You and I can go anywhere— anywhere I can think of. Or we could hide in Limbo," she suggests. "There is an entire world there. I have flown as fast as I can will myself and not seen a tenth of that land. And I am a Queen! You could live in my palace and be the Commander of my armies. I know no one I could trust more," she says, beaming at having found the perfect solution to all their woes.
*
It actually takes Piotr a moment before he can respond. "It is… tempting," he admits in a very quiet voice, casting a guilty look towards the doorway. "But my comrades — I could not just leave them. If they are to face danger, I would face it with them. The people here, they are good," he smiles, lightly tapping the table with a hand. "They are worth it." He pauses briefly, his smile widening. "…besides. Having your Commander call you 'Snowflake' would probably be, ah…" He shakes his head. "…not so intimidating."
*
"I'd shove you in the giant wasp nest," Illyana threatens Piotr, waggling a bony finger at him. "Facefirst."
She rests her hands on the counter, the threat fading to a smile. "I'm glad I found you, Piotr. I thought I was going to be alone forever. I don't think I have to be, now." She squeezes his fingers affectionately. "I feel… better now. For the first time in a long time— maybe since the first time Cat and 'Ro showed up."
*
Facefirst into a giant wasp nest? "That is fair," Piotr decides, keeping his smile. He frees one hand in order to give her hair a light, affectionate stroke. "I am glad you found me, too. This place, I think it will be good for you. I will try to get used to this quickly," he promises. "It is… not the oddest thing I have ever seen, but this is not same."
*
"It will be all right, Piotr," Illyana assures him. Her smile twists a little bitterly. "Belasco conspired to try and take everything from me. We lost many years together but… I did not lose my brother."
"And in some ways, this is more fun, da? We can go hiking, adventure, skating, all things we used to do. You don't have to look after your little sister. I can protect myself now. We can look after each other," she promises him. "Wherever we go."