infernalserpent:

It is a game.

The rules of the game are simple.

She is his, whatever else happens, his wife, his queen, his she-wolf.

The boy is merely a distraction, a toy to toss between them when they are bored, something new, something exciting, something to be thrown after use. Something old, something of a habit, his name is Ivan and the name burns. 

And he, he is Koschei and he is the player, the one who moves the pieces on the chess set and decides who lives and who dies. One careless - or carefully planned, you will die and I will kill you - flick of the wrist and the knight will fall at the feet of the king. The Tsar smiles and shows his teeth.

But, my darling, my love, my Koschei, is it not the queen who plays the last move?

(continued)