Chapter Text
After the doors close behind Lily, Vlad rounds on Dmitry immediately.
“What did you say to Anya?” he demands.
Dmitry flinches. Vlad folds his arms in front of his chest, waiting for an answer, his face the sternest Dmitry has ever seen it.
“I told her it was all a con,” Dmitry mumbles, looking at the floor.
“Why?” Vlad sounds aghast. “You would have ruined everything we worked for, Dmitry. Everything!”
“I had to, alright? I had to set her straight.” Dmitry’s jaw clenches on instinct as he recalls the way she talked about the monster – like he was…like he was important to her. “She snuck out to see Vaganov when we were sleeping last night. She thinks that being Anastasia means she has the power to…to save him. I couldn’t let her do that.” Dmitry feels a hot, sick swooping in his stomach at the very thought.
Vlad lets out his breath in a huff, and he begins pacing the floor, muttering. “I knew she would break your heart – I never should have let you –”
“General Vaganov was the one who killed my father, Vlad,” Dmitry interrupts, meeting his mentor’s eyes at last with a defiant glare. “His son is mine.”
That stops Vlad in his tracks. “How did you know?” he asks, his voice hushed, all traces of irritation gone instantly.
There’s no point in hiding it. “I went to the Palace,” Dmitry answers. “Someone who works there told me.”
He won’t put it past Vlad to chide him, but the older man simply lays a gentle hand on Dmitry’s shoulder. He doesn’t attempt to apologize for what happened to Dmitry’s father, for which Dmitry is grateful.
“They will meet in the Revolution. She will no doubt try,” Vlad points out quietly. “What will you do?”
Dmitry is about to say that he’s entering the fray whether Vlad likes it or not, but just barely holds his tongue as he imagines how his mentor will take it. He knows Vlad will try to talk him out of it - will physically stop him if he has to. And Dmitry can’t risk Vlad getting himself hurt...or him hurting Vlad.
Fortunately for Dmitry, he, unlike Anya, has long mastered the art of being able to lie convincingly in a heartbeat.
“I won’t go. I won’t watch her,” Dmitry answers instead. “And when my opportunity comes, I’ll be ready this time.” He’ll just have to make sure Vlad won’t be able to react quickly enough when he shows up at the arena.
Vlad gives him a long, piercing look. Dmitry holds his stare.
“I understand,” Vlad finally replies. He changes the subject, makes his voice chipper. “Well, I guess we’ve got a spare room again. I’ll go put some of the equipment back.”
Dmitry nods, and he lets Vlad help him back to their room. While Vlad lugs training equipment back into what had been Anya’s room, Dmitry slowly picks through his possessions – an activity to occupy his hands.
He stops when he sees his father’s mask, and when Vlad returns, he’s still staring at it.
“Your father’s?” Vlad asks kindly. Wordlessly, Dmitry holds it out to him, and Vlad takes it. He examines it for a moment, and hands it back.
“It’s a good mask,” he says sincerely.
He stretches and glances out the window. “I should go meet Lily, sort out the reward,” he muses. “I’ll get dinner on the way home. Something special, I think. We should…celebrate.”
He’s almost all the way out the door when he pauses and turns to Dmitry. “You don’t want Anya to help him. I understand that more than probably anyone else,” he says gently. “But are you willing to leave her behind?”
“It’s her funeral,” Dmitry says shortly.
“Dmitry, I’m not blind,” Vlad points out softly. “I know how you see her. I know that you care. But for you to get your chance…she has to lose. You know what that might mean.”
Dmitry looks away. “She’s my partner. She’s one of us.” He admits that much to himself. “But…she chooses him, she’s on her own.”
Vlad nods, and says no more.
They dine lavishly – for them – when Vlad comes home, buoyed by the promise of ten thousand rubles to come within the week and no further mention of Anya. With a truly full belly for the first time in a long time, Vlad falls into slumber quickly and deeply, to Dmitry’s relief.
As Vlad snores on the sack of lentils behind him, Dmitry surreptitiously digs in the pockets of Vlad’s coat. He unearths a black envelope, and tucks it into his own pocket.
“Sorry, Vlad,” he whispers. “I have to.”
“Anastasia? Anastasia?”
Anya looks up, startled, and blushes at the sight of Maria – of her grandmother. She hadn’t realized she was being called, so unaccustomed is she to her own name.
“Yes, Nana?” she replies quickly. She hurriedly sweeps the clothes Maria has given her from her small bed to make a space.
Maria smiles as she enters the room that she has made Anya’s in the cozy home she shares with Lily. “I wanted to see how you were doing, my dear. Does the gear fit?” She scrutinizes the burgundy robe Anya is wearing with a critical eye.
Anya nods, fingering the rich velvet. She must have worn things just as grand when she was Anastasia, but she can’t recall ever touching something so luxurious. “Perfectly, Nana. I feel just like a princess now.”
Maria carefully arranges herself on the space Anya has made. “They’re my old things, I’m afraid. I had not prepared well enough, or I would have bought a new wardrobe.”
Anya sits and takes her grandmother’s hand. “You don’t have to, Nana. It means more to me that I’m wearing something of yours…it makes me feel closer to you.”
Maria squeezes Anya’s hand. “We will have all the time in the world to grow close again,” she promises. “You will be a Romanov through and through once more.” She brightens. “Would you like me to tell you some stories?”
Anya nods eagerly. “Please.”
As she listens to Maria’s reminiscences, she marvels at how different the Anastasia she’s hearing about is from the person she is now. She wonders if this Anastasia is someone Maria can still learn to love.
Maria raises her eyebrows when Anya voices this. “The years may have changed you, but you are still Anastasia in every way that matters,” she declares sternly. “I loved you then, and I love you now.”
Anya feels the pinprick of tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Nana. I’m glad you never gave up on me.”
Maria suddenly fidgets and looks away. Anya furrows her brow. “Nana?”
When her grandmother answers, her voice is choked and faint. “I wish I could say I never did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did give up on you,” Maria confesses. “Ten years ago, after our family –” she pauses, unable to finish – “I never expected to see you again.”
Anya is confused. “But you looked for me…you even set a reward.”
“It was a distraction,” Maria admits. “I used your name because I knew it would draw the attention of the old gods and keep them from noticing that I had returned for my vengeance.”
Anya’s hand drops. “You never thought I was alive?” she asks in a small voice.
Maria takes her hand again. “Don’t despise me, my dear,” she pleads. “I would have searched the ends of the earth if I thought there was a chance you lived.”
Anya’s stomach is twisting at the thought that she was merely supposed to be a cover, an empty threat. Not without some bitterness does she wonder what Maria would have done with her if she hadn’t been Anastasia – would she have been left to the mercy of Death so Maria could exact her revenge?
Then Anya looks again at Maria’s face – fearful, tired, drawn. Maria has seen too much, far too much for one person to have to see, and Anya realizes she can’t fault her for the choices she has made. Anya’s not the one who’s had to live with the memories, not the one who has had to let them mold her into something hard and driven and merciless. Anya could have become that woman herself, if some strange power had not seen fit to protect her all these years.
She squeezes Maria’s hand. “I don’t despise you. Even though you didn’t intend it, you’ve still found me. And you’ve brought me home. That’s what matters. We’re together again.”
Maria touches Anya’s cheek gently and embraces her tightly. “And we will not be parted again, I swear it.”
“Nana...why is the phoenix the symbol of the Romanovs – of our family?” Anya asks into Maria’s shoulder.
“It was said that our ancestors had always had a connection to the phoenix, and that we were born with its power in our blood,” Maria replies easily. She has evidently answered this question many times. “As a result of this connection, we are unable to die, the story goes.”
Then her voice hardens and grows bitter, almost mocking. “And so as the mask passes on from generation to generation, we honor that connection – and maintain the protection granted by the phoenix.”
“Has this connection meant…any kind of special ability?” Anya ventures.
Maria scoffs. “If we had any, our family would be here with us now,” she bites out. “We were supposed to be untouchable by Death, but we fell to her in the end.”
Anya presses a little further. “Earlier, you said I burned…what did you mean by that?”
Maria’s breath catches slightly. “There was a moment…” she begins. Then she exhales. “You stayed alive in these conditions. You found your way to your rightful place. I was…astounded.”
Anya takes a deep breath – Maria’s not going to like what she will say next. “Gleb Vaganov said the same thing to me. That I burn.”
Maria inhales sharply and stands quickly, shoving Anya away so quickly she nearly topples off the bed. “Don’t speak to me of that name,” Maria says coldly. “It is the name of a monster.”
“Nana, listen to me,” Anya pleads. “He’s the reason I came to believe that I am Anastasia. I have some kind of effect on him – around me he becomes…human.”
“What do you mean?” Maria snaps, eyes narrowed into slits. Despite her anger, Anya can see that she has piqued the queen’s interest.
Anya quickly fills her in on the previous night’s encounter, fighting the urge to cower under Maria's glare. The fury does not fade from the queen’s face, but it’s mixing with what seems like a grudging wonder.
“When I concocted my plan, I chose you, Anastasia, out of all my grandchildren because your survival would be the one the old gods would fear the most,” Maria says slowly, a harsh edge still in her voice. “Your very name – resurrection – embodied everything the phoenix stood for. I thought it was simply a lovely homage by your parents to your legendary heritage, nothing more.”
She studies Anya intently.
“I have never heard of any power being able to restore someone that has already been claimed by Death,” Maria finishes skeptically. “But the phoenix has traditionally been her foil, and you have already channeled its protection. I won’t discount the possibility that you have a power in you that perhaps no other Romanov has ever had.”
Anya looks down at her hand, and for a moment, she can once again see fire dancing on her fingertips.
“I want to save him, Nana,” she declares.
Maria breathes out noisily, and anger clouds her face again. “Anastasia, this man is the very essence of the reason why we are all that is left of the Romanov family. Why we were unable to find each other for so long. Why you suffered all these years. He does not deserve to benefit from your fire – he deserves to be charred in it!”
“His father killed our family,” Anya corrects softly. “Gleb isn’t his father – he never wanted to be the instrument of Death. He was a boy when his father sacrificed him.”
“And old enough certainly to know what his father believed,” Maria points out sharply. “You do not know him well enough to know whether he would not turn and finish what his father started once he has gained your sympathy.”
Anya bites her lip. Maria is right – Anya can’t guarantee that Gleb isn’t simply weaving a con of his own. After all, she had believed Dmitry easily enough – her track record is poor as it stands.
But the fire in her veins – the power of the phoenix – won’t lie. She has to trust it.
“I believe him,” she assures Maria. “He won’t hurt me.”
Maria is silent for a long time. Her jaw twitches, as though she’s biting something back.
“I will not stop you,” she finally says. “But I will not help you. He is the face of the man who killed my family, took my granddaughter’s mind. I will not forget.”
Anya supposes she cannot expect more than that. “Thank you, Nana.”
She only hopes Gleb will hold on for her.
“Gleb.”
Gleb’s red eyes flicker open in the pitch black of his quarters, and he immediately gets to his feet.
Her voice is the only sound that matters to him.
His footfalls are heavy in the silent hallways as he makes his way to his mistress’s office. He stands before the closed door, waiting.
The door creaks open, spilling yellow candlelight where he stands. Despite the hours he’s spent in the dark, Gleb doesn’t even blink in the sudden light as he steps inside.
Death has a limp body in her arms. She lifts one hand – the adjustment takes no effort – and crooks her finger at him. He comes closer.
“The phoenix is coming to the Revolution,” she declares. “I have seen it. You will need power, my champion, and I will give it to you.”
Something stirs deep down in Gleb, a faint whisper of a memory, but the feeling passes just as quickly as it came, leaving nothing in its wake.
She leans down over the body and sucks out what’s left of its life force. Then she looks up and exhales, expelling a thick golden mist from her nose and mouth. Pursing her lips, she blows the mist in his direction.
“Take it,” she commands, her voice a deep rumble.
Gleb obediently breathes the mist in. Electricity shoots through his veins instantly, and for a moment, he sees red and gold before his eyes, feels the faintest pressure of softness against his mouth.
Then the crackle of electricity dies down, and he sees nothing but his dark mistress.
Death casually tosses the corpse, now a skeleton, to the side with a clatter and looks him up and down, smiling a cold approval. “You’re so much stronger.”
Gleb hears the compliment, but it rings empty to him. Words, nothing more. He’s not meant to pay attention to them, to give heed to any meaning they hold.
She saunters over to him and traces his jaw with a long, curved red nail. “The drums of war will beat soon,” she whispers in his ear. “Your time is at hand. The gods have granted you the power to bring their wrath down on Anastasia Romanov.”
He feels that strange stirring again. He tightens his jaw against it – it does not matter to him.
“You won’t let me down, will you?” Death’s eyes, still glowing golden with new life, bore into his red ones, searching.
He shakes his head.
“Good.” She lets the back of her hand rest against his cheek. “Come with me.”
She leads him into the arena, which has been lit only by a single bulb hanging over the ring. A young man stands inside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The wrath of the gods is no small thing. When Gleb brings the full force of it down that night, the blow is intense enough to rock the Palace to its very foundations.
When the tremors stop, there’s nothing in the ring but himself. Not a trace of his victim is left.
It is complete annihilation.
She smiles and takes Gleb's hand. "Death is coming for everyone. A thousand of them."