A short story I've written, based on JC Jaquez's Firebird (Which can be found here on ) and my own novel, Saving Nicholas. I suggest you don't read this unless you've finished Firebird. Otherwise, you probably won't understand what's going on!Plus this may have a spoiler or two. ::whistles innocently::

Artem Demidevich could feel the bright light stabbing at his eyes even before he opened them. He couldn’t hear the battle anymore. No more screams, not more gunfire. Just strange, unnatural silence, brilliant white light and a sharp, throbbing pain in his chest.

He must have broken at least one rib. It’d interfere with his breathing, but he’d fought with worse injuries and more pain. Now if only he could do something about the absurd light. He knew that if he opened his eyes, he’d be blinded, unable to evaluate his surroundings without moving his hands up to shield his eyes.

Basic survival training 101: When regaining consciousness in an unknown location, familiarize yourself with your surroundings before moving or giving any other indications that you have woken.

He stifled the lunatic urge to laugh to himself. Ten seconds of looking around before he had moved had saved his life more times than he could remember. He could take a risk and bring an arm up, or he could have his corneas seared right off.

You can get cornea transplants, he told himself and opened his eyes.

And gasped.

“That’s a pretty unusual noise for the Czar of Russia,” said a voice, the tone dry and the English had a familiar accent.

Artem sat up, swinging his legs off the couch he had been lying on, its rough texture also familiar.

“Where am I?” he asked, but he already knew. Unfiltered, omniscient sunlight poured through the trailer’s windows, bleaching the entire room white. Dark wooden shelves and the books upon them were now virtually invisible against the silvered walls. The once green carpet now resembled the grounds behind the palace after a snowfall. Even the couch he sat on wasn’t untouched by the light.

Bleached as it was, he still recognized the room and the swell of emotions in his chest that came with it. He was in the room they had given to Marya all those years ago. It was exactly the same, right down to the faint musty smell that had pervaded the couch’s faded upholstery.

The only thing he didn’t recognize was the stranger sitting across the room.

The stranger stood out like a sore thumb, a stain in the perversely white room. He was leaning forward, with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching Artem expectantly. His clothes were dark, untouched by the unearthly light and a fringe of untidy brown hair hung over his forehead.

Only his eyes seemed to be affected by the room, for they were just as bright – a burnished silver that seemed to glitter behind his wire-rimmed glasses. They were lined by age and surprisingly readable. No malice lurked in them, but Artem could see flashes of desperation, the stomach-churning dread of the hunted. A hint of madness, a stab of blinding pain. Swirling among that flurry of emotions were flashes of lighter things, fleeting and barely visible.

It took him a moment to realize that the stranger was younger than he was. And that he wasn’t reading the younger man’s eyes – but his soul.

“Where am I?” he said, his command ringing in the air. The stranger straightened slightly, startled by the order, before slumping again. He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time, his thick eyebrows creasing as he took in the sparsely furnished room.

“You know where you are, Artem Demidevich,” he replied quietly. “More than I do, at any rate.” He laughed weakly. “Perhaps you could tell me. This is, after all, where you felt the most alive.”

Artem eyed the younger man. He was more than he appeared, that was for sure. For a moment, he found himself wondering if the boy could read his soul the same way. The thought, combined with the unreality of his surroundings was enough to send a chill down his spine before he reminded himself that he was mostly likely hallucinating. The boy, though Artem was certain he had never seen him before, was a figment of his imagination.

“Perhaps instead, you could tell me who you are,” said Artem, raising an eyebrow.

The boy laughed again. “Nikolai,” he replied. “Nikolai Maximovitch Krichevstov.”

“And where are you from, Nikolai Maximovitch?”

“Tyumen. Or Petersburg, I guess,” replied Nikolai with a shrug. “I lived everywhere, it seemed.”

Artem frowned. “Lived? ”

Nikolai nodded, his expression sobering. “I’ve been dead for almost sixty years, Artem,” he replied, cocking an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve realized that something’s not quite right. Look down.”

Artem stared at him, surprise rooting him to the spot. Then slowly, he looked, grimacing at the sight that met his eyes. Blood stained his jacket black, a tiny hole marking his entrance into this strange world. He’d never been religious, but he knew that this place wasn’t hell. It didn’t look like heaven either.

Oddly enough, he felt no fear, but the ache in his chest, the one he had been so intent on ignoring, suddenly reared its head, slamming into him like a battering ram. The pain was so tangible that he felt his ribs cracking, turning them to dust. Tears smarted at his eyes, but he couldn’t let them fall. Couldn’t let them fall for the friends he had left behind.

Their faces flashed before him… Kasyan’s scowl…. Anikei’s slightly vacant expression… Max, with one of his shit eating grins…. Timur’s gentle smile… even Pavel… A scream of laughter he recognized as Anya’s…. snatches of familiar voices and sounds.

“What does El Capitan have to say about it?”

Marya.

“Funny how it is,” remarked Nikolai quietly, staring at him. “I’ve watched you for years, Artem. You’ve served your country better and with more loyalty than the majority of the leaders in Russian history. But it isn’t what you think of when you realize what has happened. You think of the people you left behind.”

Artem nodded slowly. “I imagine that is what most people consider first,” he replied, his voice weakened slightly from the crushing blow that had hit him. Tilting his head, he frowned as something occurred to him.

“I have seen your name before,” he said. “Krichevstov.”

Nikolai tensed, then forcibly relaxed himself. “You are the czar,” he replied with a shrug, his tone rather maddeningly ambiguous.

Artem stared at the younger boy, his frown deepening. “May I ask what’s that supposed to me-”

The last word was strangled by a choking sound as a new wave of pain slammed into Artem’s chest. His ribs his lungs, they were on fire. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Slumping sideways onto the couch, he bit back the scream that welled up in his throat. The pain passed as suddenly as it came.

“What is happening to me?” he managed to wheeze out, struggling to sound dignified as he slowly pushed himself upright. .

Nikolai grimaced. “Hurts like a hell, doesn’t it? Reminds me of the slip-headaches I used to get sometimes.”

Artem had a sudden flash of a pendulum swinging back and forth inside of his head, crashing into either side with an enormous and agonizing gong. Memories of Nikolai’s experiences were intense enough to spill out it seemed.

“What caused them?” he asked.

Nikolai’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile, his gaze sliding to the floor. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said quietly, shaking his head. Artem frowned.

“Sorry,” said Nikolai, catching the reproachful look out of the corner of his eye. “I’m used to avoiding questions from the government.”

“Technically speaking, I am no longer the government,” replied Artem seriously.

“True enough, I guess,” said Nikolai, staring at the floor. “You’ve probably seen my name in classified files then. My father’s name too.”

“What did you do to warrant classified files?” asked Artem curiously.

“I was born,” replied Nikolai snappishly, then caught himself. Sighing, he glanced over at the bookshelves. “When I was alive, I could summon one of those books over with barely a thought.”

“And… why can’t you now?” said Artem with a frown. Maybe there was a reason for the madness I saw…

“The Ability was the result of a series of genetic traits and it was tied to my physical body, I guess,” replied Nikolai with a shrug. Artem raised an eyebrow. Nikolai hadn’t used the English word for ability, but the Russian one – Sposobnost.

“And this… Ability? What was it?” Artem was startled with himself. The world of the dead seemed to have a relaxing effect on one’s inhibitions. He couldn’t remember the last time he had asked so many questions without waiting for answers to present themselves. But then, it had been awhile since he had met someone who seemed to read him so innately.

How long had this Nikolai been watching him? Or was it just a side effect of the presence of two souls without the encumbrance of a physical body? For that matter, why did the afterworld - if it even was the afterworld and not a hallucination – appear so tangibly? He could feel the rough fabric beneath his legs. The only unreal effect seemed to be the unnatural light. And the crushing pains that kept slamming into his chest.

“To put it simply, it’s a limited form of telekinesis,” replied Nikolai with a shrug, sounding quite uncomfortable with the cleaver that he was putting through his spider web of metaphors.

“Is there more… advanced forms?” asked Artem curiously, disguising his surprise as a quirk of the eyebrow. He had never heard of anything like this before and it did not sit well with him.

Nikolai shrugged. “There’s people who can throw around heavier things than I could, but they were trained. Sort of like how you were.”

“Combat training?”

“God knows,” snorted Nikolai, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I never received any of it. They never gave a damn about me. Son of a deserter and an outsider, that’s me. Sort of like you, I suppose. Except not really. Either way, we’re similar enough when it comes down to it.”

Artem cocked an eyebrow. “Dare I ask why you say that? Or even why you took an interest in me? Surely the matters of the living have little influence on the affairs of the dead.”

Nikolai let out a humorless laugh, shuddering as though remembering something that made his stomach churn. “I made it a point to ignore the Russian government after what was done to me, and indeed, I wouldn’t have noticed you,” he replied, still staring at the floor.

“But -” supplied Artem, standing up and crossing his arms.

Nikolai glanced up at him, his bright eyes seeming to dim. “But you hurt someone close to me – not intentionally, I know. But enough that I took notice.”

“Well, I’ll put forth my apologies someday,” replied Artem dryly. “When that person joins us.”

Nikolai smiled wistfully, his silver eyes softening as the fleeting impression of a pretty, dark-skinned girl flashed between them, her bright black eyes hardening as time softened the outlines of her face, claiming her looks beneath a sheet of white hair and a spider-web of wrinkles belonging only to the very old. “Won’t be long. She’s got a few more years of fight left in her. Then I’ll be able to see her again.”

Artem felt an uncomfortable jolt of recognition. Not of the woman, for he had never seen her before, but of the emotions surrounding her. Once naïve, she had grown both wise and unyielding to her surroundings over the course of decades…. her smile had the same effect that….She was almost like…

He clamped down on his thoughts, spinning on his heel and striding towards the window. There was no use thinking about or… mourning the past.

“Mariana, right?”

Artem’s head snapped back, his body going rigid as it wheeled around to face Nikolai. It was all he could do to keep his surprise off his face, before realizing a moment later that it was futile. The younger boy was watching him curiously and Artem didn’t doubt he could pick up on every emotion that flitted through his body.

“Well?” he said. Artem favoured him with a curt nod.

“How does it feel them? Knowing you won’t ever see her again?” said Nikolai, standing up and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Artem, courtesy of years of training and experience, instantly took in the shape of his opponent, automatically evaluating potential weaknesses and strengths. It took him a second to remember that Nikolai was not an opponent. Artem didn’t think he’d be much of one even if they ever had to fight hand-to-hand. Nikolai was at a disadvantage, both when it came to size and weight.

But there was this Ability that he had mentioned. Maybe Nikolai had never needed to be particularly tall or strong. There was only one quick way to test this hypothesis. Taking a step forward, he threw himself into a punch.

Nikolai flinched back, his eyes fixing on Artem’s fist. It took him a split second to realize that Artem wasn’t stopping and threw himself sideways. Crashing into the couch, Nikolai rolled to his feet, swearing under his breath. Artem repressed a grin. The younger boy had a more impressive command of mat’ than he did

“What the bloody hell was that?” demanded Nikolai indignantly in Russian, glaring at the taller boy while he straightened his glasses.

“Testing a theory,” replied Artem calmly, clasping his hands behind his back. .

“Last time I checked, The Czar of Russia didn’t test his theories like that.”

“Kasyan’s not here to test it for me,” replied Artem with a shrug.

“What were you testing exactly?” he asked guardedly, peering at Artem through narrowed eyes, for the first time seeming bothered by the brightness of the room.

“I was seeing how you reacted to direct physical confrontation. Obviously, you relied on this Ability of yours far too often.”

Nikolai grimaced. “I forgot it wasn’t there.”

“So how do you know her?” Artem’s words were cut off by another explosion of pain in his chest.

Nikolai blinked, thrown by the sudden change of topic. “Who?”

“Marya. How did you know about her?” repeated Artem with a slight rasp, his dark eyes boring into Nikolai’s. “And why do you refer to my titles in the present tense?”

Nikolai froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He made a gesture as if to speak, but seemed to think better of it and forcibly took stock of his faculties. Averting his gaze to the floor, he was silent for several minutes.

“After I died… Cori never stayed in one place for long. Can’t blame her, I guess. She was ID’d by the government. She knew things that could never be made public. They even sent teams after her a few times during the war. Eventually she settled in the one of the few places where she felt she could be publicly protected – Spain. She’s worked in the palace for the past thirty years and, like the rest of them… she saw Mariana as a daughter. Then that whole debacle with the negotiations and well…. ” he trailed off for a moment, shrugging his shoulders. “You know the rest.”

“Was this Cori…. attached to Marya?” asked Artem, quirking an eyebrow.

Nikolai nodded. “She was one of her early tutors,” he replied with a shrug, flopping down on the couch. “It doesn’t matter really. Point in case, I started paying attention to the world. To people beyond those who kept me alive. There’s not much else to do up here.”

“Do you take bets then?” said Artem sagely. Nikolai laughed. “There’s not much to bet,” he said ambiguously. Then he looked up. “But sometimes, when we’re really lucky, we can influence the living. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I’m told it’s the best feeling ever.”

“Influence,” echoed Artem with a frown. “Is that what you are here to do?”

Nikolai started slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh man, how can I word this – if a soul is lucky, they can help someone they loved make a wiser choice. It doesn’t always work. But ever notice about how people usually come back from those near-death experiences as better people?”

Artem nodded. The wheels in his brain were churning. The crushing pain hadn’t gone away. The light no longer blinded him. Even Nikolai seemed to be fading.

“What advice do you have then, Nikolai Maximovitch?” he said at last.

Again, Nikolai looked startled. Glancing up at Artem in a manner that signified he hadn’t been prepared for the ease of convincing Artem to listen. In the end, Artem found he didn’t have to listen at all, for he found the story he needed in the younger boy’s eyes. Suddenly, the rib-crushing pain felt pale in comparison to what Nikolai had suffered at the expense of being righteous. At the expense of his own happiness.

“I understand,” he said at last.

“Good,” said Nikolai, standing up. “Don’t screw it up.”

Artem managed a ghost of a smile. “I’ll try not to.”

Nikolai stepped closer, his arm drawing back slightly. “Say hello for me. To everyone.”

With that, he delivered a rabbit-quick punch, so hard that Artem heard his ribs shatter. But it wasn’t Nikolai hitting him, he realized as the world spun around him and went dark. The younger boy didn’t have the strength or the training to land something like that. Or the raw anger.

“Kasyan…” he gasped, his eyes snapping open. If his chest hadn’t been on fire, he would have shot completely upright from the shock.

The savage blows stopped. A pair of red-rimmed brown eyes hovered above him, sliding in and out of focus.

“Artem?” a voice whispered disbelievingly.

“It’s me,” Artem managed to croak out. The bullet in his chest and the dusty remains of his ribs made him regret each syllable.

“You’re dead.”

Artem shifted slightly, ignoring Kasyan’s yelp of “Don’t move!”

“You seemed to be doing a good job of keeping me dead,” he managed to quip, glancing at his bare chest. He couldn’t see the entry wound, for his chest was covered in what looked like the bloody remains of Kasyan’s shirt. The bullet had missed heart and lungs at least.

Kasyan glared at him, grief forgotten. “You died.”

“Everyone else?” asked Artem, feeling his voice fading, fighting the tearing in his eyes.

Kasyan seemed to come to himself. Or at least Artem thought he did. The tall boy’s face was still a haze. “They’re all alright,” said Kasyan. “Max and Timur went for help. Anikei’s keeping an eye on the guy we captured. I was supposed to find you. Now don’t talk.”

Artem nodded. He could hear sirens through the fog that had begun to envelope his brain again. Swallowing, he licked his dry lips, trying to muster up the vague memories of light. The pleading look in that strange boy’s silver eyes.

“Kasyan -” said Artem suddenly.

“Shut up Artem,” said Kasyan firmly. “You start thinking about staying alive.”

“- Call Marya.”

Kasyan jumped as though a live wire had hit him. “What?”

“Call her,” gasped Artem, fighting the blackness pressing down on him. “I need to – talk to her.”

Kasyan stared at him, his eyes completely agog. “But -”

“Do it.”

“Ooookay. Now shut up.”

Artem nodded, a small smile quirking at his mouth as he quietly accepted the void, letting the pain float away as he fell into a meditative state that Vlad Ilych had taught him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake Nikolai made. That he had made before.

Not if he could help it.