I've finally written a second story. AND I did it in the middle of all of my college classes. Yay me!
So, this is Anastasia - Klaine style. I remember seeing the prompt once on tumblr and getting the idea stuck in my head. Now it's been nearly a month since I started with this monstrosity, and I finally have a chapter done. I have no idea what - or if - my regular update schedule is going to be. I'll write whenever I get the free time to watch the film and take obsessive notes. I'm not going to include every song from the film, just because songs in writing don't always work with moving the plot along. But I'll try to fit them in whenever possible, alright? I like the songs in this movie too.
None of these characters are mine, and I'm not making any profit off of them. If I were, I'd be helping to pay my own way through college. And yes, I know that the film Anastasia is riddled with historical inaccuracies, ones which this story continues to operate on. I'm working out of the film-verse here, not real life, okay? Great.
Oh, and a note for understanding this chapter: regular text indicates the present, while italics text indicates the past (except in instances of emphasis). Вы понимаете? Great.
Even through the frosted glass of the aging building, the skyline of the 'City of Lights' looked beautiful. When the chilly glass began to fog up from her breath, the elderly woman at the window moved away, turning her gaze from Paris towards the images resting on her desk – images which she carried with her like her own shadow. Absentmindedly, she began to tell their story, almost to herself, that she might remember it. "There was a time," she paused, because that time felt several lifetimes apart from where she now stood, "not very long ago," – and truly, it had been only 10 years – "when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties." She spoke reverently, and to the images, looking in particular at an etching done of a portrait of a large family. "The year was nineteen hundred and sixteen, and my son, Boris, was the tsar of Imperial Russia."
She remembered a great deal of her life as the Dowager Empress Yulia, mother of Tsar Boris IV of the Umelnov dynasty. She could remember speaking French at court, consuming foreign liquors and delicious meats, wearing robes of fine Chinese silk, speaking with dignitaries from various countries. She could recall the tennis matches, the laughing grandchildren, the palace on the Black Sea where the family spent the summer. But no event was fixed in her memory among those gaudy images, except that of one fateful night at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg in 1916. "We were celebrating the 300th anniversary of our family's rule," she said softly, though it was a celebration that belonged three years earlier – the Umelnov family had reigned over Imperial Russia since 1613. She idly wondered if the celebration had occurred then, as it should have, if it had happened before the Great War, if matters might have been different.
She closed her eyes, and imagined herself back at the grand ball. The Winter Palace was beautiful that night, snow-laden as spotlights struck the clouded sky and nobility and dignitaries alike stepped from fancy cars and made their entrances into the palace. The Dowager Empress, being herself blood royalty, received many bows and curtsies as she entered, and returned them as was polite. She made her way to the head of the grand ballroom, listening to the joyful music of the dance that was taking place en masse across the floor. The interior of the ballroom was absolutely exquisite, decked with gold ornamentation and red curtains and carpeting, portraits of the Umelnov family dating back centuries, and of course the newest in electrical lighting.
She waved to a few of the attendees, before letting her gaze wander to her family. Her son was dancing with his eldest daughter, Katrina, whose pretty blonde hair and pale skin shone brightly against the lighting. Tatiana, her hair a dark contrast to her sister's, was dancing with Mikhail, a young man of noble blood who had been courting her for several months now. Fyodor, her eldest grandson, moved (albeit awkwardly, the young man had never really taken to heart his lessons in dance) about the room with Rochelle, the daughter of the French diplomat. Alexei, the middle son, and certainly the most mischievous, continued to be bedridden, the condition of his legs worsening. (The doctors feared that the young man had contracted polio.) Shaking her head from these thoughts, she looked upon her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, and the boy who danced with her.
It was at this moment that she turned her attention toward the smaller image, a photo of a young boy in elaborate and heavily embroidered robes, smiling with his eyes even as his lips were pressed into a thin line. "That night, no star burned brighter than that of our sweet Kurtyanadovl, my youngest grandchild," she spoke to the photo, remembering how Elizabeth had picked Kurtya (her pet name for her grandson) up off his feet and swung him around in the air. "Grandmamma!" he called from his elevated position in his mother's arms, waving enthusiastically at her. Kurtya squirmed as he struggled to get down, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, he began racing (in a most un-gentlemanly manner) toward his grandmother, who was seated at a throne. She laughed as he bounded up to her, nearly tripping on the hems of his large robes. He dug into his pocket, before thrusting a folded piece of paper into her hands. It looked to be an image of herself, seated on a throne, though judged objectively it would never be considered a work of art. This, too, was framed, and she looked to it briefly before turning back at the photograph.
"He had…" she broke off, tears welling in her eyes. "He begged me not to return to Paris. So I had a…a very special gift made for him, to make the separation easier, for both of us." She opened her velvet purse, and, reaching into it, produced a small, golden, intricately decorated egg-shaped box. She held the box in her palm, offering it to Kurtya. "For me?" he breathed in surprise. "Is it a jewellery box?" She smiled and shook her head 'no', before reaching into the purse again, this time producing a thin gold chain. She grasped the small, circular ornament that hung from the small necklace, fitting it into an indent on the front of the box and twisting it three times. As she did, the top of the box opened itself, revealing an intricate mechanized interior.
An airy tune began to play from within the tiny machinery, as two figures rose out of the body of the box and began to spin. On closer examination, the figures were Tsar Boris and Tsaritsa Elizabeth, dancing together. As the music carried on, Kurtya gasped. "It plays our lullaby!" he said excitedly, taking the box from his grandmother's outstretched palm. Yulia smiled. "You can play it at night, before you go to sleep, and pretend that it's me singing." She took Kurtya's other hand, the one that wasn't clasping the music box, and began to sway it in time with the song. "On the wind, 'cross the sea," she sang, "hear this song and remember." She lifted her arm, and Kurtya spun under it. He, too, began to sing, his high soprano a beautiful contrast to her alto. "Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December." Kurtya gave a little bow as the music ended and the box shut itself.
She handed him the necklace, pointing to the key ornament that hung from it. "Read what it says!" she whispered with delight. He lifted the ornament to eye level, turning it over and holding it with both hands in order to read the inscription on the back. "вместевПариже(Togetherin Paris)," he read slowly, before his eyes widened in realization. "Really?" he said, so loudly that a few nearby servants turned their heads. "Oh Grandmamma!" he exclaimed as he threw himself into his grandmother's arms.
Yulia took a deep breath, as she recalled what had followed that happy exchange. "But we would never be together in Paris, for a dark shadow had descended upon the house of the Umelnovs." Suddenly, the electrical lighting in the palace flickered and went out, leaving only scattered candlelight and glow from the outside lanterns to permeate the now-dim ballroom. An eerie hush fell upon the once-merry crowd as the music stopped abruptly and people struggled to see. Then, there was a scream from near the back of the room. The crowd parted quickly away from the source, and continued to split in order to avoid a now-approaching figure. "His name was…Karovskii," she spat with venom. "We thought he was a holy man, but he was a fraud – power-mad, and dangerous." Karovskii pulled his hood back, revealing his bald head, wide grimace, and supernaturally bright eyes. A dark brown bat rested on one of his shoulders. He stalked up to the front of the room, coming face-to-face with the Tsar.
The Tsar's face grew dark as he confronted Karovskii. "How dare you return to the palace!" he shouted. Karovskii looked shocked. "But – I am your confidante!" he yelled back. It was true, once – the Tsar had trusted Karovskii, in the past, when he'd helped to heal Katrina of her night terrors and was friendly to the Tsarina – but Tsar Boris now knew that the 'spiritual healer' had been using the royal family solely for fame; and moreover, that he was willing to spread political secrets to Russia's enemies if it would prove lucrative to himself. The Tsar threw Karovskii's words back in his face. "Confidante? Hah! You are a traitor! Get out!"
At this, Karovskii's eyes glowed brighter, and he growled. "You think you can banish the great Karovskii?" he shouted. He grabbed an object that had been dangling from his belt – a thin, glowing white and red glass rod, with brass snakes wrapped around it and a similar brass skull at the top – and flung it toward the Tsar's face. "By the unholy powers vested in me, I banish you! With a curse!" At this, the evil reliquary seemed to glow brighter, as the collective crowd – and especially the royal family – gasped, shocked.
Karovskii turned, his words still addressing the Tsar but his message boring into the hearts of all the attendees. "Mark my words," he growled menacingly. "You," he pointed a claw-like finger at the Tsar, "and your family, will die, within the fortnight!" The crowd, which had previously been subdued, began to chatter anxiously at Karovskii's threat. "I will not rest until I see the end of the Umelnov line forever!" he nearly screeched. He flung the reliquary into the air, aiming it at the grand crystal chandelier which hung from the ballroom ceiling. A jet of ruby-white light burst from the reliquary and up to the chandelier, causing it to snap from the ceiling and crash to the ballroom floor. The guests, frozen in fear, gazed at the fallen ornament in horror as Karovskii stalked out, before fleeing the palace themselves.
"From that moment, the spark of unhappiness in our country was fanned into a flame that would soon destroy our lives forever," she spoke sadly as she looked back at the etching of her family. Among the peasantry, riots broke out, goaded on by Karovskii's demons. They stormed storehouses, looking for food to sustain themselves and ammunition to overtake the Tsar. Government and other royal buildings were broken into, looted, and torched. Statues and images of the royal family were destroyed. As Karovskii had predicted, the royal family was being wiped out, and those who had managed to survive the initial riots were trying to flee Russia (despite the Great War), either to the Crimea or into England or France.
Yulia wiped away a tear as she recalled her own flight from Russia. There were people – servants, royals, and government officials – everywhere, tripping over each other with half-packed possessions as they tried to flee from the rioting masses outside the palace gates. Yulia tugged her youngest – and, if rumours held true, only surviving – grandson along the hall, fighting against the teeming crowds in an effort to escape alive. Suddenly, Kurtya tugged away from her tight grasp on his forearm, running against the flow of the crowd shouting "My music box!" She, unable to leave without Kurtya, began too to fight against the flow of the crowd in order to follow him. "Kurtyanadovl!" she yelled, hoping he'd turn around and hear her. "Come back! Come back!" But it was no use, and he disappeared into the playroom where he kept the box hidden. She skidded into the room only a few seconds after him, shutting the door behind her. "Kurtyanadovl–" she began, but was interrupted by the sound of artillery fire just outside the playroom windows. "Oh!" they both gasped, frightened and frozen by the noise. Suddenly, a hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to see a young servant boy – perhaps Kurtya's age, possibly a few years older, with unruly black curls and bright hazel eyes – behind her. He pointed toward a panel in the wall as he began to tug once again at her robes. "In here – through the servant's quarters!" he said, leading them towards the wall. He opened the panel, pushing first the Dowager Empress and then Kurtyanadovl into the small space. She called to her grandson – "Hurry, Kurtya!" – who had once again turned away, back towards the playroom, where his music box rested just outside of the open panel. "My music box–" he began to the servant boy, but was shoved insistently backwards before he could retrieve it. "Go! Go!" the boy shouted, making sure that both royals were safely within the passage before shutting it behind them.
Yulia and Kurtya ran through the thick snow, their cloaks pulled tight around them in order to conceal their identities. "Grandma!" he wailed in a panicked voice as he ran, looking behind him to see one of his former homes surrounded by smoke. "Keep up with me, darling!" she shouted urgently to a slightly-lagging Kurtya, whose arm she had a firm grip on as she nearly dragged him along. They kept going, eventually passing under a bridge, before Kurtya was knocked down. Yulia turned to see what happened, only to see – "Karovskii!" The man had leapt from the bridge and tackled Kurtya, though he now barely had a grip on the boy's ankle. "Let me go, let me go!" Kurtya cried as he tried to kick Karovskii off. Karovskii clawed at Kurtya's ankle, eventually getting a grasp on his shin, then his calf. "You'll never escape me child, never!" he laughed. But then, the ice beneath him began to crack dangerously. The sudden shock of the icy water caused him to loosen his grip on Kurtya, and Yulia dragged her grandson away from the now-exposed water as Karovskii flailed, sank, and drowned.
They managed to make it to the train yard, which was thick with other refugees trying to escape the revolution. They heard the piercing whistle of the train as it chugged away from the yard, and the two weaved quickly through the throng in order to catch up to the caboose. Yulia could see that her grandson was getting tired, was lagging, and yelled to him, "Kurtya! Hurry! HURRY!" She barely caught onto the railing of the car, helped by a few of the passengers already there, but gasped in horror when she realized that Kurtya was not there with her. She turned to see her grandson still running behind the train. "Grandma!" he gasped out, sobbing and a little winded. "Here! Take my hand!" she yelled, flinging herself dangerously against the railing as she stretched her body out as far as possible in order to reach Kurtya. "Hold onto my hand!" "Don't let go!" he yelled breathlessly, his bright blue-silver eyes brimming with tears, his face utterly panic-stricken. She would never forget how horrified he had looked in those last few moments. Kurtya continued to run, but it wasn't enough. The departing train was picking up speed, and his legs could no longer keep up. His hand slipped from his grandmother's, and he fell to the bare, cold ground. "Kurtya!" Yulia shouted, trying to rouse him. It was no use: he was unconscious on the train yard ground, and the train was much too far away for him to close the distance. "Kurtyanadovl!" she wailed, sobbing as she was pulled back into the caboose, the train taking her away from both Russia and her favourite grandchild.
"So many lives were destroyed that night," she whispered to the image of her family as she continued to wipe her eyes. "What had always been," she said, meaning the Umelnov dynasty, "was now gone, forever." She looked back to the photograph of Kurtya. "And my Kurtyanadovl, my beloved grandchild…I never saw him again."
Love it? Hate it? Let me know - that's what the little blue link a couple hundred pixels south of here is for. Even a few words mean so much. Thank you.