Vodyanitsa

A long, long time ago in Snezhnaya, Water Imps dwelled all over the city. Some sang glorious melodies on the stage, while others cheerfully hummed lighthearted tunes through the streets and alleyways. Then there were the others who preferred to slip into the water, where they would lure curious passersby to the water's edge with their haunting, dreamlike songs, only to then suddenly leap up and splash the unsuspecting onlookers full in the face before vanishing, giggling, back beneath the surface with a flick of their tails, leaving their victims floundering between anger and laughter...

But, as time passed, the stages and alleyways of Snezhnaya quietly lost their singers, and the melodies beneath the waters, carried by unseen currents, began flowing soundlessly toward a distant silence. People began to whisper uneasily among themselves, wondering if those haunting songs from the deep might drift away from them forever...

Then, one morning, people learned that Vodyanitsa was still performing on the stage of Korolevskiy Theater, as though the days of old had never faded and the joy of bygone times had remained just as it always had been.

Hardly anyone knew why she stayed — nor did anyone dare ask her to her face, unless they were prepared to never secure another interview with Miss Vodyanitsa ever again.

Maybe, she had stayed on in order not to disappoint the audiences who so adored her singing? Or maybe she was just unwilling to exit that dazzling stage? Or perhaps... there were other reasons significant enough to make her swim against the current, even if it meant bidding farewell to her own kind...

But for Vodyanitsa's audience, delving into the answer to that question is utterly meaningless. The only thing that matters is that they can continue to listen to the captivating voice of the Water Imp.

Of course, if you want to be swept away by her song...

"Standing tickets? Uh, sorry, but we don't sell those here at the theater at the moment... And no, we don't allow our patrons to bring their own chairs either."

"Crack the doors open a little? The draft would leave everyone inside freezing..."

"My apologies, but the theater isn't hiring any day cleaners at the moment!"

...First, you need to get a ticket.

Once, Vodyanitsa sang with a joy as bright and untroubled as the childhood her kin had shared in Dalegrad.

In those days, the Water Imps knew no bounds. They wandered wherever their hearts desired, giving freely their songs of blessing to every living thing.

...Then Vodyanoy Dombertiev, the Lackland, entered into league with King Miscislav the Blood-Devourer. The swift and fearless children of the waters became the strength behind Miscislav's ascent, winning him glory and, in time, a crown. Yet Dombertiev's daughter, Vaselisa Vodyanovna, could not bear the sight of her kin's cold blood frozen across the lake. With blood-pink flowers of ice cupped in her hands, she stood upon the water's edge and mourned each silent soul.

At last, she departed. All among her kin who would no longer bear arms followed in her wake, and together they made their way to the court of Emperor Monomakh Snezhnyi.

There, the Emperor conferred a title upon her. Vaselisa Vodyanovna accepted it, for she knew that if she wished to receive the favor of the Pale Star, she must first bear the name bestowed upon her.

Yet when crown, treasure, and lands were offered to her in turn, Vodyanovna refused them all. The exiled Water Imp said only to the Tsar:

"I have no need of this crown, for it can rest only upon a brow weighed down by a heart just as still."

"I have no need of this treasure, for it can satisfy only those who chase after empty gain."

"I have no need of these lands, for waters and earth were never meant to belong to any one sovereign."

"I ask for nothing else. I wish only that the children of the waters cease whetting their blades to songs of sorrow. Let them sing for every soul that carries true love within, and let every song they raise belong to their own hearts alone."

Emperor Monomakh assented to Vaselisa Vodyanovna's petition, and from that day onward, no Water Imp beneath the Pale Star would ever again be made to serve the desire of another heart. The Emperor and Vodyanovna bound themselves by oath as well: Even should a Water Imp freely offer to go to war, none would be required to bear steel. And so the covenant was kept. Weaponless, the Water Imps walked among armies without ever joining in the slaughter. Yet neither did they forget the protection Monomakh had granted them.

They became couriers of tidings, bearing military dispatches from camp to camp and the whispered letters of lovers from heart to distant heart — the latter being, by all accounts, their favorite charge. They carried the wounded swiftly downriver, guiding and drawing their rafts with such mastery that it seemed little short of miraculous. And when terror prowled the camps beneath the cover of night, their songs lulled anxious soldiers into peaceful sleep. Many of those tunes outlived the war and passed into the musical canon.

In time, there came a day when no blood darkened the waters of the lake, and the Pale Star cast its radiance unto the furthest reaches of the land. The long lament beneath the snows reached its final verse, and upon the frozen banks of Dalegrad, the blood-pink flowers of ice never rose again.

Then Vaselisa Vodyanovna gathered the Water Imps before her and spoke to them plainly:

"Go. Sing as freely as the waters run, for every precious thing beneath the sky, and for every sincere heart that holds this world dear."

"Tell the snows of spring and the blossoms of winter, the autumn sun and the fruits of summer, that never again need anyone lose their way in the passing of the seasons."

"Tell the waters and the earth that all creation may now hear the hymns that should have been sung to it long ago."

"Tell farmer and craftsman, soldier and sovereign, and every soul in between: The world is worthy of love, and worthy of praise."

And so, at last, Snezhnograd rang with the unfettered songs of the Water Imps.

As accomplished singers even among the Water Imps, Vodyanitsa's parents soon rose to renown throughout Snezhnograd. Theaters across the city competed for the honor of hosting them, and the pair seldom turned down an invitation.

But the stage they loved best was the one at their own small estate, where they would gather a chosen few for intimate performances. There, worldly distinctions seemed to fall away, and the only ticket worth having was a heart that loved song.

Vodyanitsa was only a child in those days, but even then, she knew how a song ought to be heard. Whenever the fae and townsfolk below began to sing together, she would quietly open her window and watch from above in the dim gold of morning. Her parents would lead, and all around them rose voices of every kind, meeting and parting, weaving apart only to embrace again within the same melody. As their song climbed into the morning air, anyone listening could almost believe that no difference had ever divided them at all.

They were all born of the same world, and in that alone, none stood apart from another.

Little Vodyanitsa blinked, remembering something her parents had once told her — the same words once spoken by Vaselisa Vodyanovna, the "Zmey Maiden" herself.

"Go. Sing as freely as the waters run, for every precious thing beneath the sky, and for every sincere heart that holds this world dear."

Vodyanitsa thought, "Oh my, there are so many people in the world! They must all have so many things they truly love. There are so few of us Water Imps, so how are we ever supposed to sing for everyone?"

"You needn't think that far ahead, dear Vodyanitsa," her mother said gently. "The trick to singing is to think only of how to sing the next song well."

"That's right. One song, then another, then another after that," her father chimed in with a smile. "Swimming is much the same. You swish your tail once, then once more, and little by little, you find yourself somewhere far away."

"Then I'm going to be singing for ages and ages," Vodyanitsa said.

"You are," her mother and father replied. "We Water Imps will be singing for this world for a good long while yet."

"But that's all right. We have all the time we need to love it."

Vodyanitsa's songs had always been sweet and lilting, much like the countless little "performances" she had given all across Snezhnaya.

Of course, only a small number of them had ever taken place beneath the lights of some grand, gilded stage.

She had found far more amusing places to perform beyond the theater walls. Admittedly, her choice of venue could give the occasional passerby quite a fright. At these impromptu "concerts," she was never merely the singer — she listened, cheered, waited for her turn, and clapped along for everyone else.

Vodyanitsa once followed a peddler making his way along the riverbank, calling out his wares as he went. He hummed a little tune with no name, toys chiming softly in his hands while children laughed and chased one another at his heels. The melody was bright and easy, and though the children stumbled through it, they joined in all the same. Years passed, and when the peddler finally went to his long sleep, those children returned to the old riverbank as grown men and women. They laid flowers upon the water in his memory, and just then, a fin shimmered briefly beneath the surface. A moment later, from somewhere along the river came the faint strains of the song they had known as children. They began to sing before they even realized it. Their voices followed the current together with the Water Imp, and as the melody drifted downstream, they wished with all their hearts that it might find its way into the dreams of their old friend.

Vodyanitsa once paid a visit to a half-built railway station, where she became fascinated by the work chants of the men repairing the trains. The workers could not imagine why a little Water Imp would willingly sit in such a place, much less do so without earmuffs. But she seemed perfectly safe, and not even the sparks could scorch the hem of her dress, so they shrugged and returned to their work. Hammers rose and fell. Steel rang against steel. Flame hissed against ice. Then, when the weather turned and a blizzard came sweeping in, everyone finally laid down their tools. Someone brought out the liquor, and cups were raised to chase the cold from their chests. That was when Vodyanitsa, who had listened in silence all day, suddenly began to sing. Her humming followed the cadence of their own shouted calls. For a heartbeat, the workers simply stared, and no one quite knew what to make of it. Then they roared with laughter and answered her. Soon, her bright voice and their coarse, thunderous chorus were ringing together through the steelworks and the storm.

And so Vodyanitsa continued her wandering, following heart and current alike. She found herself among freshly sown fields, where farmers sang simple verses to keep track of the seasons, among schoolchildren who chirped and giggled and composed mocking little songs for their friends on the spot, and outside brand-new restaurants, where shy owners, red-faced but determined, tried to lure in customers with tunes they had only just invented...

Soon enough, everyone knew of the little Water Imp who had no great patience for proper stages. Given the choice, Vodyanitsa would always rather be outside the city, singing to the open wilds.

Like a stream carving its own channel through the land, Vodyanitsa made a path simply by moving forward. And wherever her wandering current flowed, all things in its wake seemed to answer her with laughter.

Then the Pale Star's lingering radiance went out, and with it faded the songs that had once filled every street and alley of Snezhnograd.

The Water Imp who used to haunt the entrance of a restaurant, pestering the owner for lunch and promising to pay in song, no longer came. Before he left, he handed over every page of music he had written, suggesting that perhaps they might be counted toward the meals he still owed. The Water Imp who liked to sit on the roof with her legs dangling over the eaves, deliberately singing dreadful little songs, was gone too, though not without leaving behind the favorite flower she always wore in her hair for the little Domovoy who had spent so many days jumping up and down beneath her, shouting at her to stop disturbing the peace. The Water Imp who forever complained that Snezhnograd did not have a single proper place for a bath was gone as well, having already made plans with a Vila to seek out the finest frozen lake in the north, if only so she could prove whether a Water Imp had any reason at all to fear the cold. So too was the Water Imp who criticized every jewel in town and argued endlessly with one particular shopkeeper. Before leaving, he gave her the finest pearls and gemstones he possessed and, at last, told her what he had never quite managed to say before — that he had always trusted her to make the most beautiful jewelry in all of Snezhnaya. And then there was the Water Imp who had spent day after day trying to coax flowers from the frozen soil. She was gone too. She had finally found seeds that might work, and after all that searching, the difficult part was already done. All she needed now was time for the first buds to push through the soil in her pot.

The people had long suspected that the Water Imps would not remain forever, but knowing that did little to soften the day when silence finally settled over the city and not a single song remained. Nothing in daily life truly ceased because of it. Doors still opened, meals were still served, and work still carried on. Yet somewhere among all those ordinary things, a tiny vacancy had crept into the world, almost too small to name and far too persistent to ignore. Everything was still where it had always been, but somehow the whole of it no longer felt quite whole.

It was like returning to a familiar home and finding one treasured picture missing from the wall, or seeing a beautiful hat stripped of the trim that had once given it character. It was like a feast in which every dish was perfect save one, made strangely dull by the lack of a little seasoning. Such omissions might mean very little to a stranger, but to those who had known and loved these things for so long, their absence announced itself at once.

Still troubled by the sense that something was missing, people opened their windows and leaned into the silence, listening for even the smallest trace of sound...

Then, to everyone's surprise, a faint thread of song rose out of that silence. No one had expected to hear a thing, and yet there it was, drifting from the great Korolevskiy Theater. Curious, people began making their way toward its entrance almost without thinking. By the time they gathered there, a Water Imp had stepped before the crowd and proclaimed in a clear, ringing voice:

"Today's performance at the Korolevskiy Theater will go on as scheduled!"

A man in a hat was the first to find his voice.

"You... stayed?"

"I did." The Water Imp smiled as though there were nothing remarkable about it. "My performance isn't finished yet. It's meant to run for seven days, and we've only reached the second."

"And when the seven days are over... will you leave then?"

A girl with exhaustion written plainly beneath her eyes asked.

Vodyanitsa looked out over the crowd. Every face turned toward her, toward the last Water Imp in the city who still stood upon a stage and sang.

"No," she said, smiling. "I have far more songs in me than seven days could ever hold."

"Now then! Tickets ready, everyone, and inside you go! There's warm sweet wine by the aisles."

"And we've laid out blankets, hand warmers, and opera glasses as well. Take whatever you need."

"Come on, no dawdling — the show is about to begin!"

"...Dear Vodyanitsa, we miss you. Just as we told you before, if ever you wish to return, you will always have a home with us."

So ended another letter from a faraway lake untouched by winter's ice. The Water Imps who had returned there sent their messages with the river fish, asking after their little sister and calling her home. They knew that Vodyanitsa, like most of their kind, was unlikely to thrive in the city as it had become. Too many hearts there burned hot and restless, and too many voices clamored to be heard. Everyone seemed determined to claim the stage for themselves, while almost no one had the patience to share it, much less join another in harmony. Before long, the result ceased to resemble music at all. Voices crowded against one another, each struggling to rise above the next, until what should have been graceful and harmonious dissolved into little more than a harsh tangle of noise. Whatever else the city might still be, it was no longer a place made for singing. And where singing could no longer flourish, listening had grown difficult too.

Vodyanitsa lingered over her thoughts for a long while before beginning her reply.

"I do want to come home. But just as I told you before..."

"...Whenever I start thinking of returning, I first find ten people in Snezhnograd and listen to see whether they truly care for my songs."

"And if even one of them is listening with all their heart..."

Of course, there were people in the city who adored Vodyanitsa's singing... Why wouldn't they? A ticket to hear the Korolevskiy Troupe's Prima Donna was a prize in itself — scarce enough to make a splendid gift, and impressive enough to win almost anyone's favor. Better still, if one could say they had spoken with the prima herself, the story would travel nicely through any salon. With a flourish added here and there, even the most jaded members of high society might be persuaded to look impressed. Her handwritten letters were rarer still, the sort of thing no amount of money could easily buy. Though, naturally, that only made them more valuable to those who wished to collect such things, and a determined collector might offer an even better price. Then there were the rumors that the prima occasionally sang to herself by the roadside or out in the wilds. With the proper timing, one could always contrive to be passing by at precisely the right moment.

...Would I choose to stay for people like these?

But people like these had never truly wanted to listen to my songs. What they wanted was to turn those songs into whatever pleased them most, burdening my voice with one hollow crown after another. They did not see, and had no wish to see, how each crown pressed a little harder against my throat, weighing down songs that should have been bright and effortless until they grew heavy and strained. And somewhere along the way, as they covered my voice beneath all those things they wanted it to mean, they buried their own sincerity just as surely... They no longer wish to love me as I am.

And yet Vodyanitsa's pen never touched the paper. She did not write what she was thinking, nor did she ask her kin to come and carry her back to the quiet homeland she had left behind.

Because there had still been a time when their affection was real. The person who now passed rare tickets around to curry favor had once been thrilled beyond measure to receive one himself. He had dressed in his best, settled into his seat, and watched so intently that he scarcely seemed to blink. The one who now liked to boast of knowing Prima Vodyanitsa had once, as a child, gone with his friends to pick wildflowers. Together they had woven them into a garland and left it by the back door of the theater, and when Vodyanitsa appeared, the children cried, "You sang so well!" before running off together before she could catch them. And the girl who had since grown into a skilled singer really had met Vodyanitsa by chance beside the river. In those days, her voice was still clumsy and unsure, and she stumbled badly whenever she tried to sing. Before long, the two of them made a habit of practicing there together. Whenever Vodyanitsa talked on and on about music, the girl would listen with eyes that shone like dew beneath the sun.

The true feeling they had once carried had simply changed with the current. In some, it became ambition, forever searching for a higher shore to climb. In others, it became the restless hunger to gather and possess. In still others, it swelled slowly into vanity...

But Vodyanitsa remembered what had come before all of that. Her songs remembered too. They remembered that once, these people had loved her voice with all sincerity, and that in loving it, they had also loved the people they themselves had once been.

And somewhere within that endless current of time, perhaps one sincere moment is enough for love to have been real.

At last, the solitary Water Imp completed her reply.

"...So I am willing to stay for them, too."

...Above all else, remember to soak your tail in fresh, clean water on time. Do not add milk. Do not add flower petals. Do not add fruit. And please, for the love of all things watery, stop adding anything that looks remotely like seasoning! This is tail care, not a fish-tail stew!

One more note: The finest water for tail maintenance comes from the Court of Fontaine. Goodness, if I could bathe in Fontaine's waters every day, my tail would probably be in such perfect condition I'd never stop admiring it. If the opportunity ever comes up, I'm taking a nice long holiday and disappearing underwater in Fontaine for a while.

"...Vodyanitsa, the house is full. We sold every last ticket."

After a quick glance beyond the curtain, the announcer let out a breath of relief. At least one fear could finally be put to rest: The theater would not lose its crowds simply because the Water Imps had left. Yet the relief hardly had time to settle before another concern began to gnaw at him. Vodyanitsa was no stranger to the stage, and her singing had always been more than respectable, but... now? With expectations running this high, "more than respectable" might not be enough to carry the evening.

"Good," Vodyanitsa replied with a smile. "We'll go ahead as planned. I'm counting on you for the opening announcement."

The announcer nodded, though the motion did little to calm his nerves. He hesitated for a moment before finally asking:

"What are you planning to sing...? Ah, but... no, that's not really the point, is it? It's just... heavens. All the other Water Imps are gone. You're the only one left to sing now."

He could not quite bring himself to say the rest aloud, though the problem was obvious enough. Normally, there was a system. Each Water Imp sang what suited them best, and while one stood beneath the lights, the others rested. It spared their voices while keeping the program varied, and even when someone took the stage alone, every song was chosen and placed with care so that there was always just enough time for the throat to recover.

But tonight... Tonight, one look at the excited audience beyond the curtain told him that none of that careful pacing would matter. Good heavens, he knew that much already. The moment Vodyanitsa tried to leave the stage, they would applaud her back onto it. Then they would do it again. And again... In the space of a breath, he imagined countless ways he might step in and save her from being worn down, only for each one to fall apart before it was even fully formed. The audience beyond the curtain was like a vast plain starved of rain. No matter how fierce the current that swept across it, they would not let it pass without taking every last drop.

"Oh, I haven't decided. I'll sing one song, see where it takes me, and go from there."

The little Water Imp said it with a grin and watched as disbelief slowly gave way to horror on his face. Then she calmly slipped a throat lozenge into her mouth.

"Y—You haven't—? No. No, no, dear, that won't do at all. You need a plan. Please tell me you have a plan."

"Look at the people out there. Really look at them. Do you honestly think they came here prepared to be satisfied by something as neat and sensible as a plan?"

Vodyanitsa stood before the curtain and peered through the narrow slit between its folds. Beyond it, the hall thundered with voices, and through that small opening spilled a familiar warmth and tumult she had not felt in a long while. Excitement filled the air, certainly, but beneath it she could feel impatience as well. Doubt. Melancholy. Grief. The whole hall seemed to lean toward the stage, every eye resting on the curtain, tense with the certainty that it would not remain closed for long.

What could possibly satisfy them? What could soothe a heart gone dry from silence?

"Song," Vodyanitsa thought. "Of course it's song. What else could they have come here wanting? What else could they be hoping for? What else could all that expectation be asking of the stage?"

"Song. Endless song. Boundless song. Every song that was, every song that is, and every song that will one day be sung."

The announcer stared at her, dumbfounded. A moment later, his years in the theater began to pick apart the meaning behind her words.

"Hold on. How long, exactly, are you planning to sing alone? Even with a Water Imp's voice, there has to be a limit..."

Vodyanitsa merely shrugged, letting his concern slide past her. Then she brightened at a sudden thought. "Actually, if I'm the only Water Imp in the theater now, doesn't that technically make me the prima?"

"W—Well, no, not technically... There's usually an official selection, but..."

"Perfect. We'll call tonight the selection."

The announcer barely had time to blink before Vodyanitsa pulled back the curtain and strode straight into the spotlight. The audience jolted at her sudden appearance, and for a moment, the entire theater seemed to hold its breath. Then the applause came crashing down from the seats like a cataract.

"Welcome, everyone, to the Korolevskiy Theater! Tonight, there is no setlist. No program. I'll sing whatever comes to me, and I'll be the only one singing."

As she spoke, the theater's would-be Prima Donna raised both hands.

Every eye in the theater followed the movement, drawn to Vodyanitsa and the water-blue Vision that had suddenly appeared in her grasp.

"Well," Vodyanitsa thought, "that should make keeping my voice in shape a little easier."

"Maybe there is a chance I can keep singing until no one out there has the strength left to applaud."