Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

  A gust of wind whipped her hair out of her braid, tangling it across her mouth and eyes and she heard the voice again. What do you wish for?

  Lev stepped closer, and she stared into his blue eyes. Anatoliy. His name whispered across her mind, and her heart ached. I’ll always wish for Anatoliy.

  What would you give for him?

  Anything. She barely felt Lev’s hand against her back, leading her back toward the heavily clumped fir trees.

  The Hunt had taken more from her than Anatoliy. It had taken her innocence and freedom.

  And yet she wouldn’t change it. She’d give it all up for Anatoliy and for those precious moments with him. The truth was, without Anatoliy, she had nothing left to lose. And she had no way to honor him except by helping the soldiers he cared about help get home.

  Wherever he was, she hoped he was happy now. And free. She hoped he didn’t hurt anymore.

  She loved him enough to wish that for him.

  13

  Reunion

  Something changed on the air, and if Anatoliy had still been a bear, he’d have lifted his nose and sniffed.

  It didn’t work that way anymore, though. Now all he had was a sense of eyes on him, of the world being too quiet and too calm.

  There was no use asking Bogdan or the other men to join him scouting the perimeter of the camp. The noise they made would give him away and send fleeing whatever was there.

  Or cause it to attack.

  Instead, Anatoliy told his second he was going to bed, left the men at their posts, and snuck away. They’d camped away from the town, downwind so the smoke from their fires would blow away. The trees were thick around them, shielding the flames from sight.

  Unless someone was searching for them.

  Anatoliy had counted on the falling snow to cover their footprints, but a seasoned hunter would recognize the signs of other humans. Even now, with night falling as he crept away from the light and the warmth of camp, he could see the bent branches, the ones wiped clean of snow by one of the soldiers as he passed by.

  Anatoliy paused, evened his breathing, and waited. Villagers, hunters, even other soldiers, made noise when they walked, and he would hear them should they hunt him. Squatting near a tree, he lowered his rifle to the ground and withdrew his knife. If he needed to, he could wound or kill soundlessly.

  He stayed there for what felt like ages. Ignoring the pins and needles in his toes and the cramp of his thighs, he gazed around the forest, waiting patiently.

  Finally, the wind died, and he heard it. A soft shuffle timed poorly with the wind. When it died, whoever had been walking had stopped, but a moment too late. He heard it—the carefully placed boot in newly fallen snow, a glide and a squeak of leather and rubber.

  Anatoliy loosened his grip on his knife. It wouldn’t do to become too tense, he needed to be ready to attack without a moment’s hesitation.

  From far off, the trees creaked and groaned as the wind picked up again. When Anatoliy had been with his squadron and they’d seen signs of their enemies, they’d stayed the course. It was different in the army. There, most officers would backtrack or go in the opposite direction if their position was compromised.

  But Anatoliy’s squad was smarter. They knew changing positions was what the enemy expected.

  So while he examined each direction, he kept coming back to the south.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  Relaxing his grip, he got ready to leap as the first shadowy figure came into view. He’d rolled onto his toes, body arched forward, before a sliver of light landed on the figure’s face.

  Long white scars, from eyebrow to cheek were more familiar to him than the hands wrapped around his knife.

  “Dara.” Anatoliy’s heart pounded in his chest. The blood rushing through his veins masked the wind.

  “Anatoliy?” Dara’s voice choked and his eyes widened. “Anatoliy?”

  Slowly, so as not to frighten him, Anatoliy stood from his crouch, dropped the knife and held up his hands. Dara stared at him in disbelief, and Anatoliy couldn’t blame him.

  His former second-in-command should be watchful. He should be suspicious and cautious.

  “It is you. It is you, isn’t it?” Dara asked.

  “Yes,” Anatoliy answered, and Dara stepped closer. All at once, Dara dropped his rifle and embraced him. He clutched his jacket, hands fisted in the woolen coat and squeezed tightly.

  “My friend. You’re alive.” Dara choked again, squeezing even tighter. “Lev said he saw you. He came back white as a ghost. I thought no. It must be a man who looks like you. I never thought— How is this possible?” He released Anatoliy only to grab onto his shoulders. It was as if he was afraid at any moment the wind would scatter him like ashes. “I saw you dead. You were dead. And still a bear.”

  Anatoliy shook his head. How could explain what he knew to be true? Father Stepan, whatever he was, had heard Polya—just as Anatoliy had heard her—make a wish for him to live.

  And granted it.

  “The magic that changed me brought me back,” he answered. “I don’t know how, but I am me.”

  Dara’s gaze roved his face, and he shook Anatoliy. “I don’t care how it happened,” his friend said. “It is a miracle. My friend.” Tears leaked from Anatoliy’s eyes, but he made no move to wipe them. They had lived through so much together, suffered together. No one in this world, other than Polya, understood him like Dara did.

  Anatoliy took a deep breath, shutting his eyes as if to push out the remaining tears. Dara released him and sniffed, clearing his throat. “You are with the princes,” Dara said.

  “I found them when I awoke. I thought perhaps Polya would be with them. I’ve stayed with them because they want to find her as well. Though that goal is secondary to getting back to St. Svetleva. They are anxious to get to the throne,” Anatoliy said.

  “Konstantin is not safe,” Dara said. “We’ve been attacked twice and seen some things. How many men do you travel with?”

  “Besides the princes, about a hundred men who have not deserted,” he answered. “Do you have the entire squad? Have you lost any?”

  Dara shook his head, suddenly pinning him with a gaze. “Anatoliy. Polya is with us.”

  The blood thundered in his ears, and he swayed. If it hadn’t been for Dara’s hands on his shoulders, he may have fallen. As it was, he had to lock his knees to stay upright.

  “She’s all right? Not hurt? No one hurt her?” He remembered the glance Aleksandr gave her. She was wild and innocent, and he would have used her.

  “We found her. We were with her when you died.” Dara studied him, and Anatoliy understood why. He was alive and real, and wholly himself.

  “Take me to her, right now.” He spoke with a commander’s voice. There could be nothing to keep them apart, not anymore.

  Dara nodded, a short quick motion and gesture in the direction he’d come. “Hurry.”

  Anatoliy followed him, making no move to hide his trail or use stealth. Any skill he had was lost in his haste to get to Polya.

  Dara moved with silent precision, skirting the town, but moving with enough speed that both of them were out of breath as they rushed up a rise and deeper into the forest.

  Anatoliy hesitated for a moment as they broke through the trees, scanning each figure. Their weapons raised, and one-by-one he heard the slide of bullets being chambered.

  All at once it seemed the clouds parted and a beam of moonlight illuminated the girl surrounded by his men.

  At his appearance, she’d gasped, and stepped back, but then she straightened her shoulders and leaned forward, as if ready to leap. Her blue-eyed gaze caught his, and she stilled.

  The forest disappeared, and there was only him and her.

  Polya.

  His tiger girl.

  Beneath her heavy green coat, her tail swished along the ground, slow sweeps that blew the snow into little gusts. She was thinner than he remembered, with dark circles beneath her eyes and h
ollows under her cheekbones.

  Anatoliy wanted so much to approach her, to run to her and catch her up, but she wouldn’t know him in this form. An unbearable yearning filled him, but he would not let her unknowing stop him.

  He was a man now, with a voice. The words that had been trapped in his head, or etched out hastily into the ground, could be spoken now. He’d woo her.

  Lev stood next to her, shifting, and it seemed to startle her. Polya bit her lip, the edge curling a little, and then hesitantly, she took a step toward him. “I know you.”

  Where was his voice? The one he was so sure of a second ago? It betrayed him, caught in his throat, and he could only nod.

  “I dreamed about you.”

  Did she? He dreamed of her. She was everything.

  His tiger girl was strength and grace, but it abandoned her and she wobbled. One step followed another until her warm breath tickled his face, and she was inches away.

  “Are you real?” she asked, and touched his chest. Gently, she curled her fingers into his jacket, gripping the wool and brass buttons. She lifted her gaze to his, blue eyes wide and hopeful. “Anatoliy. Are you real?”

  He sighed at his name on her lips and lowered his forehead to hers. Skin touched skin, and then her lips were on his.

  If this was it, if all Anatoliy got was this moment to touch Polya, to hold her with a man’s arms, it was worth it. Father Stepan could appear and turn him to ash, and he would have this.

  Oh, he’d fight. He’d fight tooth and nail to keep her, but he’d had this.

  Polya’s kiss was uncertain. Her lips pressed against his, and she held herself there until she released his coat and slung her arms around his neck pulling him even closer. Her breath left her, and he used the opportunity to touch his tongue to hers, a gentle stroke that let him taste her.

  “Polya,” he whispered, and she gasped at his voice, embracing him even tighter. “My tiger girl. I’m real.”

  “I love you.” The words tumbled, one over the other, as if she was afraid someone would yank him away before she could get them out. “I love you, Anatoliy.”

  He smiled, drawing back to hold her gaze with his while he uttered the most important words he’d ever speak. “I love you, Polya.”

  Around his waist, soft against his wrists, her tail wrapped around them. When he was a bear, he’d hardly noticed its weight, merely saw it as an extension of her affection. And now, heavy with muscle and soft, baby fine fur, he experienced it anew.

  She was a wonder, his girl.

  The black-tipped end of her tail tapped his hand, slowly, like a metronome on a piano, counting beats in a measure. In time with his heart. He forgot about everything except her.

  “Anatoliy.” Dara’s voice jerked him away. Polya moved, but he caught her, embracing her with one arm as he turned to face his friend. “What do we do now? You are with the princes and the army.”

  “My father?” Polya asked, and this time the waver in her voice cut him. He would never let her father use her.

  “They are looking for you.” In a way. Anatoliy swallowed the words wanting to escape his lips. It would hurt her to know her father still sought to exploit her for his benefit. Or Konstantin’s benefit. Anatoliy believed Pytor didn’t see the two as mutually exclusive.

  Polya had been through too much. Even in the darkness, Anatoliy recognized her exhaustion. Her wool coat was sodden, and her boots scuffed and cracked. Dara had moved them double time through the forest, and who knew what they’d come upon.

  “You don’t owe him anything.” His voice came out harder than he meant it, and from the corner of his eye, he caught Dara’s wide stare.

  “I want Dara and your men to be safe,” Polya said. “They were going to bring me to Bishmyza, but I think they need to go to their families. This is a revolution, Anatoliy.”

  He nodded. All the years he’d spent under Aleksandr, he’d seen the people trying to rise. His death had been the perfect opportunity for that revolution to begin. As of yet, however, he didn’t know who was on which side.

  Only one thing was certain—Pytor would do whatever it took to rule, and because of that, Anatoliy feared for Polya.

  “Polya,” Dara interrupted his train of thought, “it’s not safe with your father. He—”

  “I know.” Anatoliy glanced at her. She stared at her boots, eyelashes a dark fan across her pale cheeks. Loose strands of her hair blew across his face, and he swept his hand through it, tucking it around her back.

  “Dara and the men should go on. I’ll go with you to my father. He should know I’m alive, and then we’ll leave.” Polya lifted her gaze. It trailed like fingertips across his face before she smiled. “I can’t believe you are real.”

  What did the revolution matter when they’d found each? Anatoliy kissed her temple, and she cupped his cheek.

  “I can go back to them, but Dara and the others must go home. How long has it been, Anatoliy, since you’ve been home?” His name on her lips made his breath catch.

  “Years.” Though the truth was, he had no home to return to. Not like Dara, who had parents and grandparents, and cousins. Or Lev, who despite his baby face, had a wife in the country.

  “We’re not leaving you, Anatoliy. You can come back to camp. Ask us, and we’ll tell you. We won’t abandon you.” Dara crossed his arms, daring him to disagree.

  Anatoliy knew better than that. He would make his case over time, because like Polya, he believed the men needed to protect their families. As he’d traveled with the squadron and the princes, he’d considered what he would do if Polya wasn’t at Bishmyza and he was forced to march to St. Svetleva.

  There was no telling what state the capitol was in. If the unrest he’d seen among the soldiers, men who’d been drilled and trained to obey, was a measure of the people’s state of mind, then ordinary citizens would be riotous.

  “We’re not leaving you,” Dara said again. “But if you want to give the men the option, return to our camp, and offer it.”

  At his side, Polya dropped her hand into his, entwining their fingers. It was difficult to concentrate on anything when she touched him. It was so hard to believe he’d really found her. Immediately, he became aware of her, and he lost the thread of concentration.

  “Come on then,” Dara said. For a brief moment, he lowered his gaze to their joined hands. A smile curved one side of his mouth, but just as quickly it disappeared. He turned his back on them, leading the way under a curved branch, heavy with snow.

  Next to him Polya shifted. “They have missed you.”

  Nervousness made his stomach clench. In a short while, he’d come face to face with men who’d watched him do unspeakable things. They’d seen him as a beast, when he’d lived as a bear. Even if he’d been made that way by Aleksandr’s cruelty.

  As if she could hear his thoughts, Polya leaned her head against his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. They aren’t angry.”

  Anger wasn’t what he feared. It was judgment, or disgust. Forcing himself to step forward, he squeezed her hand in silent thanks and followed Dara through the forest.

  Dara led the way silently and swiftly. Polya, even though she was used to his pace, struggled to keep up. It wasn’t that she couldn’t breathe, or her muscles ached, but Anatoliy captivated her. Every other step, her feet placed carefully so as not to make too much sound, took her attention away from the man at her side. Despite his hand in hers, she had to check every second. Was he still there? Had he disappeared? Was he a figment of her imagination?

  But each glance showed her the same thing. Anatoliy.

  Polya bit her lip to keep from crying, and she sniffed a deep breath through her nose. Everything was different now. She was not some weakling, buried in misery. Anatoliy was here.

  Albeit without fur or fangs.

  If ever Polya doubted magic, Anatoliy’s reappearance proved it existed. Not only was he alive, but he was the man she dreamed about. During the Hunt, in those brief respites from exhaustion,
she’d had nightmares about bombs and blood. Out of the fire, came a voice, and it had soothed her.

  When Anatoliy had spoken to her, using the voice the magic had silenced, it was the voice from her dreams. And when she finally saw his face, it was the soldier of her dreams as well.

  He’s real. The words repeated over and over in her head, and joy bubbled up in her chest.

  What did it matter that Konstantin was at war and she’d run for her life through the forest? Anatoliy was alive.

  A low whistle sounded ahead of them, and Dara whistled in return. A second later, Anatoliy echoed the whistle, and almost at once, the men materialized from the shadows.

  Polya wished for daylight so she could see their faces better. As it was, the moonlight illuminated slivers of their faces, disbelief and joy at war.

  Lev was the first to speak. “Kapetan?”

  Releasing her grasp, Polya tried to move away, but Anatoliy quickly snagged her hand. If he didn’t want her to move, she wouldn’t. She’d only thought to give him space should he need it.

  “It’s me,” he said, and the soldiers moved closer. They studied him closely, examining his uniform, his face, and then glanced at Dara as if to ask, is this real?

  If anyone could understand their amazement, it was her.

  “It’s him,” she whispered. “It is truly him.”

  Her words seemed to give them the permission they needed to move forward. As one, they crowded him. Their voices lifted in excitement, and then lowered quickly as they realized they spoke loud enough to be heard by anyone who might be searching for them.

  The ebb and flow of volume reminded Polya of summer, and the low rush of water in the brooks babbling near Bishmyza.

  “How is this possible?” Boris asked. He clapped Anatoliy on the shoulder, gazing at him in wonder.

  “Whatever the demon did to make me a bear, I believe he did to make me a man again,” Anatoliy answered.

  Demon.

  For as often as Polya relived Anatoliy’s death, she had not lingered on the Hunt. Or Father Stepan.