Hello again! I've been struggling with my other story, Run to You (shameless plug), so I thought I might try and help that by writing something else. I had definitely considered writing a second part of this from Anya's point of view, and ultimately thought no one would want that. But then so many people requested it! So here it is, I hope you like it.
There was absolutely nothing stopping her from fleeing back to Paris, so Anastasia wasn't quite sure what she was still doing in St. Petersburg.
Maybe it was the guilt. Her entire family had died over their right to rule, and now that she had a chance to reclaim their dynasty, how could she not? As the sole survivor of the massacre in Yekaterinburg, she was also the sole heir of her father, Nicholas II. Never mind that she was not male. She was still the direct descendant of the last Tsar, and that placed her first in line for the throne.
Maybe it was pride. The Bolsheviks and the Communists alike had kidnapped, tortured, and killed, desperately trying to quash any rumors of the Romanovs. The time of kings was in the past, they said, and the power now belonged to the people. And in the end they had failed. They had failed to kill her, they had failed to suppress the Russian people, they had failed to even put an end to the rumor of her survival. She had become a symbol of hope to all the citizens of the country. She suspected that was why there had been so few attempts on her life since Gleb had cornered her before the press conference in Paris. No one wanted to make a martyr of her and risk inciting the people's wrath.
She wondered what had happened to Gleb, both after he returned to Russia and after the coup. He had been right all along. A revolution was an incredibly simple thing. It was what happened after the revolution that was complicated.
Anastasia tried to push Gleb from her thoughts, but it was too late. It seemed to be inevitable; her thoughts, as they always did, migrated from Gleb to Dmitry. Her prince.
No, not her prince. He was nothing but a coward.
A coward she missed dearly. Her brush with death by Gleb's hand had left her shaken, and all she could think about in that moment was Dmitry. She had searched for him high and low, and had even enlisted Vlad's help. But he had gone without a trace. Later she had learned that Vlad hadn't even known Dmitry had left until she had asked for his help.
Maybe it was the spite keeping her there. How many times in the past three years had she heard people claiming she was an impostor? All the would-be actresses emerging from the woodwork, claiming they were the real Grand Duchess and that she was the fake herself. All nonsense, of course. But how many times had she also heard from the members of the court that she was unfit to be a ruler? After all, her schooling in childhood did not include politics or foreign affairs. As the last-born daughter, she was possibly the least important of the imperial children. Her duty had been to be married off to a foreign nobleman. She was never meant to ascend to the Russian throne and they all knew it.
But everything she had done in childhood had been out of spite. If someone told her not to climb a tree, she did just that. Why should this be any different? People had said she knew nothing of running a government, so she went out and learned everything she could. She attended every state affair and meeting with Lily, she took lessons from Nana. She did everything in her power to prove all of the doubters wrong, and was determined not to let it go to waste. She imagined the looks on all their faces when she succeeded would be worth it.
Maybe it was spite that made her hang on to Dmitry, too. He had decided to leave her behind, so she had to hold on to whatever she could of him.
There was no doubt in her mind that it would be easier to let go of him. It was very clear by now that he was not coming back. And yet, she was still haunted by him. The early days were the worst, when she saw him everywhere. She would catch a glimpse of his face and push her way toward it, and in the end it was always someone else. People would whisper and stare, some tried to claim she needed to be in a hospital for these hallucinations. Nana never permitted it, of course. With time she learned to ignore both the stares and the glimpses of Dmitry as best she could.
Maybe it was her home that was calling to her. But no, that couldn't be right. It didn't feel like St. Petersburg was her home anymore. Between the decade of living on the streets and the past three years in France, she no longer felt a connection to the city. She wasn't even sure she wanted to step foot into the old Winter Palace, either. How could she, when the last time she had been there she had been with her parents and siblings? She was certain that if she stayed there, all she would be able to see was their absence.
Maybe she could order the palace to be destroyed and rebuilt. She was, after all, going to be the Tsarina. She had all the authority to do it.
Maybe she could order Dmitry to be found, too.
'No,' she thought forcefully. That was a stupid idea. There was a good possibility he wasn't even in Russia; for all she knew he could have gone to America. Besides that, she didn't even know what she'd say to him if she ever did see him again. She had thought about it on plenty of occasions. What she imagined saying to him varied depending on her mood.
Sometimes she imagined calling him a coward to his face. She would scream at him and berate him, and maybe even hit him a little. He would look appropriately ashamed until she decided she had had enough and sent him away.
Sometimes she imagined herself falling to her knees in front of him and begging for his forgiveness. She knew it would shock everyone, a Grand Duchess kneeling before a commoner. She had been cruel to him the last time she saw him, and she knew it. She had been angry, and she still felt she had had the right to be. But she also should have listened to what he had to say for himself. She saw it all clearly now that she had some distance, and she only wished she could apologize to him for her harsh words.
She could never imagine what he said back to her.
Anastasia stepped outside into the chill of the day and shivered. It was never this cold in Paris, and especially not in April. She wondered if she would ever get used to Russia's climate again. Maybe she should abdicate the throne, solely so she could return to France. She laughed a little to herself at that idea. As if anyone would let her do that, her grandmother included. Besides, some part of her did want this too, or else she never would have chosen it. Maybe she didn't completely think it all the way through, but she did want it.
She wanted a lot of things.
It was her idea to have a parade. Her advisors, Nana and Vlad all told her it was a bad idea. She knew why. She was a very prominent public figure now, and they would not be able to protect her if she was out in the open in a carriage. If someone chose to throw a bomb or shoot a gun, there would be nothing anyone could do. She still insisted.
Vlad was the one who saw right through it, and reminded her in private that they had no idea where Dmitry was, but it was extremely unlikely that he returned to Russia.
Now she was wishing she had listened to them.
Naturally the entire thing was bringing up memories of that day. She knew it would. In fact, she had kind of been counting on it. But she had been so focused on the memory of a young Dmitry that she had forgotten about the memories that had nothing to do with him.
Her sisters, chattering amongst themselves in excitement. Her baby brother whining about how hot it was in his suit. Mama tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, instructing her to keep her composure. Papa smiling as he helped her up into the carriage. The bumpiness of the ride. It all came back to her in a rush, nearly choking her. A nearby attendant touched her elbow and asked if she was alright. Anastasia waved him away, squaring her shoulders and stepping up into the carriage. She had made this decision, now she would have to live with it and its consequences.
But it was harder than she expected to keep the memories at bay. As her carriage passed through the streets of St. Petersburg, she managed to keep her small, polite smile on her face and wave, but her mind was a million miles away. People cheered as she passed the place where she was beaten up for her blanket. Someone called out "Long live the Romanovs," as she passed the train station that would take her family to Livadia. A group of people bowed and curtsied as she passed the old Yusopov Palace.
And there were ghosts everywhere she looked. There were Olga and Maria, standing by side of the road, waving flags. There was her mother, shouting something with her fist in the air. There were her father, Maria and Alexei, holding a homemade banner. There was Tatiana, singing along with the crowd. There was Dmitry, watching silently beneath a tree.
She longed to close her eyes and block them all out, but even that wouldn't bring her any peace. Besides being extremely rude to her citizens, she knew the ghosts wouldn't leave her alone. They followed her everywhere, sometimes even into her dreams. She wondered if they would ever allow her to find peace.
A tear rolled silently down her face, invisible to the crowd below her that continued to cheer.