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She was waiting for the man with the bloody hands and those warm eyes. She looked at the clock. Presuming her note had found its destination, which she was sure it had, ten minutes. Ten minutes. The clock felt more like an hourglass. Anya, no, Anastasia, turned away from the ticking reminder. She was alone for the moment. So far from all she'd ever known.
Home, love, family.
Family.
Anya.
Anya, by the window. French wine staining yellow teeth red. Red, as her dress. She was looking over Paris at night. She was thinking. The thought was familiar, she'd heard it a thousand times before, ever since she was a girl. She swirled it around like the wine in her head. Almost savoring it, bitter as it was. The thought, as always, “Am I going to die tonight?”
Perhaps, she knew she was being followed. Still, it didn't matter. She had a destiny, she knew it now. It was time to put away childish things. To put away “Anya”, and to become Anastasia. She would look after Nana, and take her place in history, bloody as it is. It was her duty to her family. Family. It was what she had to do.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and so is the heart straining beneath it. She finished her wine. Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov.
Family.
But no home.
They wanted an Anastasia, they’d get one.
Dmitry and Vlad had probably expected a fake one, but she’d never doubted. Well, almost never. She could remember, the broomstick in her hands, and she’d wished it wasn’t true.
She put down the wineglass and turned to the door, she looked at the clock again. She smiled darkly, she knew he'd be alone. She remembered his talk of how his superiors didn't quite trust him. She'd said she was sorry. So much to be sorry for.
It was all so fast.
He came in, she rushed into his arms before he could think, or perhaps deal his killing blow. She was so close, so close. She heard a click. Even though she had made the movement herself, she was still surprised it was her own gun, pointed up next to his ribs. As fast as she had rushed to him she stepped away. She pointed it at him. She had had a knife in her boot ever since she could remember, but her hands shook. She ran through everything Vlad had told her in her mind.
Point blank. Point blank. Point blank.
Gleb stood there, smiling, he hadn't drawn a weapon. He sighed, “Still playing this game, Anya?”
Her eyes misted but the gun was still trained on him. Dmitry’s parade princess Anya had bled out in the snow. She shrieked at him, “The helpless little girl died with her family. Anya- doesn't exist!” But she ought to, her attempt at a stoic expression came back, “Your father killed her. Cold blood. Vaganov.”
His smile was gone now, “Revenge, Anya?” there was pain in his eyes.
“Duty. You understand. Vaganov kills Romanov, Romanov kills Vaganov. Balance.” Anastasia said. Point blank. Point blank can't miss can't miss. He wouldn't hesitate. He wouldn't hesitate. But why hadn't he killed her at the ballet? Why hadn't he already drawn? This duel was a farce. Her finger edged towards the trigger. For Russia. For her family. Family. She squeezed her eyes shut and time slipped away from her.
Somehow he had reached for his own gun.
She looked at him. Point blank.
I am going to die tonight.
And she smiled.
Anya
Anya let her own gun fall to the ground. She opened her arms wide. Point blank. This duel was a farce. It wasn't a duel. It was an execution. She was a Romanov, and Romanov’s are executed. But Anya was murdered. She couldn't keep playing this game, “Do it. We are our father’s children.” They weren't people, they were legacies.
Or were they Anya and Gleb?
Point blank.
Painful choices.