Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  No matter how rough the conditions might have been, the soldiers’ basic needs were met.

  “He gave them houses, land, titles, wives.” Evgeny listed the items on his fingers, cigarette now held between his lips. “Why would they risk all of that? Those who grumbled disappeared. Ask yourself, Anatoliy, do you remember generals being replaced? What happened to them? Did you ever see them again?” Leaning back, Evgeny drew in a breath and released a plume of smoke. “Of course you didn’t. Because they were dead.”

  “I never thought Konstantin was so weak that the death of a tyrant would result in a revolution,” Dara said quietly.

  “Aleksandr broke it,” Anatoliy answered. “He broke the people until they were more animal than citizen. Now, they are fighting for survival.”

  “Exactly,” Evgeny answered. “And yet, it is also the opposite.”

  Anatoliy was confused, but the prince went on quickly. “The people have banded together. A pack of rabid animals with one goal. Konstantin will be theirs, make no mistake, but they will burn it to the ground in the process. They’ll defeat all of the loyalists because there are more of them than there are of us. Eventually, all of you soldiers will realize we can’t pay you, and you’ll desert. The aristocracy is dead. That’s a given, but who will be next? Think about it. Think of how many people there are in Konstantin. My father, Aleksandr, my ancestors, they’ve created a country of peasants with no skill. How will they eat? They’ll turn against each other, mark my words.” Evgeny smiled, as if such a thing amused him, and perhaps it did. Perhaps knowing his own demise was inevitable made the destruction of his murderers a bright spot. “A true revolution, a well-executed one, will last a hundred years.”

  “So, we should leave,” Dara said. “We should just give up.”

  “No,” Anatoliy said. “Nothing is written in stone. You said Aleksandr ruined the country, but you could fix it.”

  His bark of laughter reverberated off the brick walls. “Oh, could I? I can fix it?”

  “Yes,” Anatoliy went on. “You have contacts, support abroad. How are other countries governed? We are not the first country to suffer a revolution, I know that.”

  “True,” the prince allowed. “But we are the first with a population of uneducated, unskilled, and crushed citizens.”

  “Untrue,” Dara said. “For every ten men acting without a moral compass, there is one who cares about Konstantin. Uneducated does not mean unintelligent. Within the masses of citizens there are people with ideas that may save us.”

  “By us, you mean, you,” Evgeny answered bitterly. “There is nothing that will save me, or my brothers, if any besides Pytor remain alive.”

  It seemed cruel to admit that what the older man hinted at was probably true. If he didn’t escape Konstantin, he would most likely die, a stand-in for his brothers.

  “Polya is unlikely to survive if she returns to St. Svetleva,” Evgeny continued suddenly.

  The prince’s words were a dagger. Anatoliy couldn’t breathe. To lose Polya would undo him; he wouldn’t survive it.

  This was hard enough. He knew he’d continue, but he’d be different for the rest of his life. He’d never fill the hole left by his men’s death.

  Polya was different.

  There was no Anatoliy without Polya.

  26

  Anatoliy is Polya’s

  Polya couldn’t sleep.

  Her father dozed nearby, his breath fogging the tent. Polya had left her lantern on. She didn’t care if she was wasting oil they didn’t have and had no way of replacing. The night was too dark. She had the distinct feeling that ghosts were nearby, standing in the darkness, hovering at the edge of the tent.

  Lev’s blue eyes, so like Anatoliy’s, would burn with pain. She wanted to go back in time and demand they stay with her in the hospital. If she’d kept them closer, they’d be alive.

  And Anatoliy wouldn’t be breaking apart.

  A snort cut through the air, and her father shifted.

  She couldn’t stay here anymore, even if going out into the night meant coming face to face with ghosts.

  Her body ached, but she tucked the pain away. The medic had given her a glass vial of medicine along with the directions to take only a small sip when the pain was unbearable.

  The vial remained full.

  Afraid a sip would plunge her into oblivion, Polya embraced the pain. It kept her awake. Kept her present.

  Slipping her feet into the oversized boots someone had found her, Polya crept out of the tent and into the camp.

  It was much brighter than she expected. Earlier, the warmer air had hinted at snow, but none had fallen. Instead, the clouds moved over the full moon, lighting the camp as bright as day before plunging it back into blackness.

  Unsure of where Anatoliy would be, she began to weave through the camp. It was set up in circles. Most of the soldiers had pitched tents near the center of camp, but those who wanted space or quiet had moved to the perimeter, near the forests.

  That was where she’d start. If Anatoliy needed to get away, he’d go where people weren’t.

  Most soldiers were asleep, but there were still random groups, huddled around fires, sharing flasks. They ignored her as she walked by, if they saw her at all.

  She approached the trees, going a few feet into the forest. The snow was untouched, frozen into crusty plates that crunched beneath her feet. It was a welcome reprieve from the mud and slush that sucked her boots down.

  Gaze on her feet, she tramped through the forest. When Anatoliy saw her, he’d stop her.

  Polya paused.

  He’d stop her, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t let her walk by, unaware of his presence.

  Polya didn’t like the thought. She imagined passing right by him, his eyes following her, but he’d remain silent.

  Her heart hurt, and she rubbed her chest before reaching for her tail. Her fur was encrusted with mud, and she ran her hands across it, over and over, wiping the muck on her jacket or picking at dried bits.

  Should she call his name? “Anatoliy.” Her voice trembled and she tried again. “Anatoliy.” This time she was a little louder. “Anatoliy.”

  Ahead of her she saw a flash. It wasn’t campfire, but the same orange-red glow. Warily, she approached.

  “Polina.”

  It wasn’t Anatoliy. For a moment, the smooth voice reminded her of the priest, but then the clouds parted, and she saw her uncle. He stood, back resting against a huge pine tree. The boughs were high, swaying in the wind, but the trunk was stripped. The bark was torn in places, dripping sap where bullets had grazed or embedded into its flesh.

  “Anatoliy is not here,” her uncle continued.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked, peering around him, but the clouds covered the moon again, and the only light was the brief flare of his cigarette.

  “I have. He is with Dara.”

  “Oh,” she answered, and tried to keep the hurt out of her voice. Dara would understand. Dara would sympathize. It was good Anatoliy had sought him out.

  “How are you feeling?” her uncle asked.

  “Well enough,” Polya answered, but her uncle didn’t reply. The silence went on and on. The clouds opened again, and Polya jumped away in surprise, a low growl escaping from her throat. Uncle Evgeny had moved closer to her without her hearing until he was an arm’s length away. She could smell the tobacco and burning paper in the air, and something else. Something bitter, but perfumed. It reminded her of being in church and of holy days when the priest swung incense burners, filling the air with spicy, unfamiliar scents that stuck to her clothes and hair the rest of the day.

  “This revolution will destroy everything,” Uncle Evgeny said, and Polya took another step back.

  “There’s hope. My father—”

  “What could your father possibly do to stop this? Do you want him to step into a tent of explosives? Do you want him to place himself in a room full of revolutionaries and tell them he is now king?” She couldn’t
see his face, but she sensed he was smiling at her.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, unable to stop from growling.

  Her uncle laughed.

  “It’s not funny!” She stomped her foot and immediately regretted it when it sent shards of pain racing along her back like ice.

  “It isn’t, Polya. But you. You’re so hopeful. So innocent. Even now. After all you’ve seen, and all your father has done, you still believe he can do something good.”

  Did she? Her whole life, her father talked about ruling Konstantin. He talked about understanding the people and what they needed. He talked about self-governance and a benevolent leader.

  Could he do it?

  “But you forget Polya, I am the eldest living son. Not your father.”

  “You could work together,” she said. “Like you are now.”

  “The only thing we’ll do together is die, Polya. And you with us, I expect.”

  His words sliced through the night like knives. “He won’t—you won’t—”

  “What do you think will happen when we get to St. Svetleva? It will be like Vaskova. They’ll line us up. You, me, your father and mother. My mother. Any other members of our family. And they’ll pump us full of bullets.”

  The image appeared in her mind, clear as day. All of them would represent the evil done by the king. They were his scapegoats. The fact that he was dead meant nothing compared to the anger he left like an oozing wound in Konstantin.

  “No.” She could barely get the word out.

  “Enough, Evgeny.” Anatoliy’s voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “Enough.” He’d appeared silently and reached for her, Dara following close behind. Polya took his hand, holding it in both of her own and sighed in relief.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and she squeezed his hand. He didn’t have to apologize. Whatever he needed, she’d give to him—even if it was space from her, and even if it killed her to do it.

  “I’ll walk you back to your tent,” he said and steered her gently away from her uncle. He was careful of her back. Anatoliy was always considerate, even as a bear her pain had hurt him more than anything.

  Polya gazed up at him, and he glanced down. His eyes hadn’t changed. They were as expressive as they’d always been. He was concerned, and a little angry, but he smiled at her.

  “You don’t have to pretend,” she said as they walked further from Uncle Evgeny.

  “I know,” he replied.

  Behind her, her uncle started in the opposite direction, and Polya peeked over her shoulder. Evgeny walked backward, eyes on them before the clouds covered the moon again and he disappeared. For just a second, she imagined she saw his teeth, white and gleaming, shining in the dark. The wind blew, and she shivered.

  “You should be resting.” Anatoliy squeezed her side.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted and reached for his hand, placing hers on top. Lacing her fingers with his, she pushed his hand against her skin, silently asking him to hold onto her.

  “Should I take you back to your father’s tent?” he asked.

  “No.” She didn’t want to spend the night feet away from her father. Her father had always been a safe person, someone she could count on. But since finding him after the Hunt, a piece of her feared him and what he might do if she wasn’t constantly vigilant.

  Would he stand over her in the night? Ready to sacrifice her for Konstantin?

  It was a possibility.

  “All right.” Anatoliy didn’t argue or try to convince her otherwise. He respected her choice. “Do you want me to find you a tent?”

  He was, however, a little dense.

  “No,” she said. “I want to stay with you. Where you are, I want to be.”

  His sigh filled the night, as loud as the wind blowing through the branches. “I don’t know if I’ll be good company tonight, Polya.”

  “I prefer your company to any other. I need you, Anatoliy. You’re my safe place.” It was true. He would protect her, but she could also protect him. She wanted to stand between him and anything that would harm him. Even if the thing hurting him the most right now were memories. “Let me be yours, as well.”

  “Polya,” he whispered and stopped her, turning her gently until she was chest to chest with him. He stared down at her, blue eyes vivid even in the darkness. It seemed that the clouds parted for Anatoliy, and she sent up a prayer of gratitude to whatever deity had crafted him. He was everything good and honorable.

  His gaze was a caress, one she could feel over her forehead, down her nose, and lingering on her lips. Polya stood on her tiptoes and lurched forward. The mud slid beneath her boots, making her lose her balance, but Anatoliy was there to catch her.

  Carefully. Always so carefully.

  Hands on her hips, he steadied her and closed the distance between them. When his lips touched hers, it was everything. His breath fanned against her lips, and she inhaled, wanting to take him inside her and absorb every piece of him.

  She pursed her lips then slid them across his. Her skin tingled, like static electricity, and when her eyes closed, she imagined blue and white sparks fizzling where their lips met.

  Anatoliy never pushed her, he was content to let her lead. Except for their first kiss. That one was uncontrolled, joyous and messy at discovering the other was alive.

  He was water and breath and life. When Anatoliy kissed her, it was like he filled her more satisfyingly than a meal or church.

  A warning bell clanged in her mind. It was dangerous to worship someone who wasn’t a god themselves. Hadn’t the priest warned her about idols and not putting anyone before God?

  She did, though.

  She worshipped Anatoliy.

  Needing to be even closer, she wrapped her arms around his waist, encouraging him to press his body against hers. A fine tremor ran through his body, and his hands left her hips, skimming up and down her arms.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want him to be so careful. Something inside her ached and throbbed and the only thing that would ease it was Anatoliy’s touch.

  But he wouldn’t touch her. He kept his hands on her arms, his kiss chaste.

  With a growl of frustration, Polya jerked her hands from around his waist and pulled his jacket apart, clawing at his shirt to put her hands on his chest. She wanted—no—she needed to feel his skin.

  Her cold hands made him suck in a breath, and she took advantage, plunging her tongue into his mouth.

  She felt shock reverberate through him, and then he was with her, sucking on her tongue, drawing it deeper into his mouth.

  He growled, fierce and low, and it turned her blood to fire.

  Still, he kept his hands on her arms, not taking what she was offering. Their tongues chased each other, tasted one another, and all the time, he kept his hands on her arms.

  With a gasp, she pulled her mouth away. “Anatoliy.” Her voice was whiny, needy. It sounded nothing like her normal voice. He groaned and reached for her hands, clasping them to pull away from his skin, and she moaned. “Why?”

  “I want you,” he whispered, and his voice shook. She was glad he wasn’t unaffected, even if he was denying her that unnamable thing she needed. “But this is not the place.”

  “You’re mine, Anatoliy.” As soon as she said the thing, it was true. Somewhere in the universe it was written in stone. “Anatoliy is Polya’s.” As the thought crossed her mind, her ache eased and she could breathe again. He was hers. She didn’t need to push him, or rush him toward something that would develop on its own.

  “And you’re mine,” he replied. “Forever. But I have plans. A way I want to do things. The right way to do things.”

  Closing her eyes, Polya dropped her forehead against his chest. He was warm, and his heart raced so loudly, she could hear it. “I don’t care how we do them, as long as they’re the way we want them.”

  He chuckled and smoothed his hand along her short hair to cup the nape of her neck. “Our way?”

  “Our way
is the right way.” She nodded decisively. The words sounded right.

  “All right, Polya. But not tonight. Not now, and not because we’re in pain. I don’t want what will be beautiful to be in response to something tragic.” A snarl escaped her before she could hide it, but he only laughed again. “Come on, fierce girl. Let me find you a bed and put you to sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow and you need to heal.”

  27

  Others

  To Polya’s surprise, she did sleep once Anatoliy found her a cot and tucked himself next to her. They slept like that, forehead-to-forehead, hands clasped between them as if in prayer.

  “Polya?” It wasn’t Anatoliy who roused her from sleep but her father. Perhaps she should be embarrassed, tucked as tightly as she was next to him, but she wasn’t. She wouldn’t pretend he was less than what he was. If the Hunt had taught her anything, it was what mattered. And none of the rules of good breeding for ladies meant anything anymore. Her mother would be horrified, but Polya didn’t care.

  Not one bit.

  Anatoliy’s eyes opened, and he smiled at her before pushing himself up. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

  “Kapetan.” Her father’s voice was tight, but only someone who knew him as Polya did would interpret the tightness as anger. “The soldiers who are going are ready.”

  Swinging her feet over the side of the cot, she stared in confusion at her father. He smiled at her, again, tightly, and raked her from head to foot. His shoulders relaxed a smidgen when he saw both of them were fully dressed.

  “Ready for what?” she asked, glancing at Anatoliy.

  “We’re going to the train station to see if it’s damaged. If not, and the trains are still running, we’ll travel to St. Svetleva.”

  “Today?” she asked.

  “There’s no reason not to,” Father answered. “We stay here, we’re waiting for more traitors to attack us.”

  Right away, Polya noticed the change in Papa’s tone. No longer did he talk about citizens, villagers, or peasants. Yesterday, the people they fought were revolutionaries, but today they were traitors.