Revolution and Rising

by Ripley Proserpina

There were rules. He understood them. He’d made a wish, and he’d been cursed. It was how it went.

  But there were rules to war as well.

  Or there had been until Aleksandr had made the Hunt. All of this chaos; all of it could be traced back to Aleksandr and the horror he wrought.

  What sort of men were desperate enough to blow up hospitals, farms, and themselves? The sort who had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  Anatoliy shoveled another pile of dirt onto the bodies of his men. Angry, he shoved the end of the shovel in the earth.

  It became more and more clear to him how damaged Konstantin was. Save Konstantin? Such a thing might have been possible before Aleksandr, but after? No. There was no saving a country where men blew themselves to smithereens.

  There was no hope here.

  Across from him, Dara continued to shovel dirt into the hole. Sweat poured off his body, soaking the shirt he’d rolled up to his forearms. His jacket lay in a heap alongside Anatoliy’s.

  Picking up his shovel again, Anatoliy dug at the pile of dirt. Together, they worked in silence until the earth heaped in a mound above the graves.

  Dara threw his shovel onto the ground, and without a backward glance, swept his jacket off the ground and stomped into the camp.

  Anatoliy watched him until he disappeared and then reached for the shovel Dara had dropped. With both ends stuck in the ground, he stared at the mound.

  It had been a long time since Anatoliy had prayed, and he wondered if he even remembered how to do it.

  When he’d commanded a large unit of men, a chaplain had accompanied them. That priest would say the prayer over the bodies of soldiers before they were shipped home, or if that was impossible, buried in the field.

  There was no chaplain to say a prayer over his men, and though he didn’t know what his men believed, Anatoliy couldn’t leave them here without doing something.

  Automatically, his hand went to his forehead, chest, and shoulders before he bowed his head. With all his heart, he prayed his men found peace and happiness wherever they were, and he thanked them for their honor. They had kept him from going mad when he was a beast. In those dark times, they’d treated him like a brother, given him the camaraderie that made him feel like he had a soul buried deep in an animal’s body.

  Thin arms wrapped around his waist, and Polya laid her head against his back. He wrapped his arms around hers, chin touching his chest, as he sucked in breath after breath.

  The wind blew, and with it came Polya’s voice. “Bless them and keep them, forever and ever.”

  He turned in her arms, careful not to graze her back as he embraced her. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked. The short strands of her hair blew across his mouth and he pushed them beneath his chin.

  “You needed me,” she answered simply.

  They stood like that a moment longer, but when the wind picked up and he felt her shiver, Anatoliy stepped back. “Back to bed.”

  Rather than argue, she took his arm.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “I made it here.” She grimaced at the ground when he peered at her but snuck a peek at him. “This is as far as I’ll be able to go, but I needed to be with you.”

  He covered her hand with his palm. Her skin was icy beneath his. She wore unlaced boots and a heavy coat two sizes too big. It had to be torture on her back, but she merely pressed her lips together and focused on each muddy step.

  They came to the medical tent, and he paused. Groans sounded from inside. Anatoliy could make out a line of people trudging from the town toward the tent.

  Prince Pytor stepped out from inside and frowned at them. “You need to stay in bed.”

  Polya brushed past him, and Anatoliy followed. Inside, the smell of blood and sick washed over him, and he gagged. This was no place for Polya. Despite the open flaps, it felt as if illness hovered in the air.

  He imagined it attaching to Polya, infecting her.

  Rows of cots held injured people. Some of them were soldiers, but most were civilians from the town. Anatoliy found himself staring at each one.

  Were they truly innocent or were they revolutionaries waiting to take advantage of their distraction before pulling the pin on their grenades?

  Polya lowered herself to a cot between a sleeping soldier and an old man. All the strength she’d shown walking seemed to disappear, and she collapsed, pale and shaking, onto the bed.

  Placing her hand beneath her cheek, she stared at the sleeping soldier and then glanced up at Anatoliy. “Which ones?” she asked, eyes filling with tears. She glanced away from him, wiping her face with her hand. “Dara?”

  All she’d known was that the men of his squadron had died, she didn’t know who.

  “Tall Marat,” he answered, and cleared his throat. “Boris. Lev.”

  Her eyes shut, squeezing tightly, and she gave one quick, jerky nod. “So many.”

  Yes. He couldn’t answer. His throat had closed until he could barely breathe it felt so tight.

  “I will write to their families,” she whispered, tears coming rapidly now. They spilled over the bridge of her nose and across her hand. “I’ll write to each so they know how brave they were. How kind.” She must have thought of something, because she smiled. “How funny.”

  His men were all those things. With her words came memories of good times with his men. Times sitting around the fire and telling stories. It hadn’t all been pain and heartache. He’d learned about the souls of his men, and each and every one had been of the highest caliber.

  “That is a good idea,” he said finally. “I will as well.”

  Polya’s eyes closed, but she nodded. “I’m sorry, Anatoliy. I think I’m going to fall asleep again.”

  He bent and kissed her bright hair. “Good,” he whispered. “Get well. I’ll return soon.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  24

  The News in St. Svetleva

  Things had changed in the weeks since King Aleksandr had died and the Hunt had ended. The newspapers, once controlled by Pytor’s trusted circle of friends, no longer published stories about the brave princess and peasant-friendly prince.

  Those men, the ones who sipped brandy in Pytor’s study, were gone. Some of them had left in the early days after Aleksandr’s death. They’d seen a change in the Capital, and read it for what it was—anger.

  Knowing their positions were tenuous, they’d packed their bags and left in the dark. Newsrooms, printing presses, all of it was abandoned.

  But not forgotten.

  In the king’s jails, the prisoners languished. Guards, unpaid and bored, stayed home after opening the cells. From those cells, weakened in body but not in mind, poured the early architects of the revolution.

  And those architects remembered the newspapers. They’d read the headlines about their compatriots and their horrible deaths.

  When they stumbled out of the black stone prisons, eyes blinking against daylight they hadn’t seen in months, they remembered the power of the words they’d read. Together, they trudged across the snow-filled streets and across the frozen river toward the universities and the abandoned presses.

  And they wrote their stories.

  Soon, the newspaper rooms were full again, and the presses were printing bitter smelling papers, with even more bitter stories.

  The true disparity between those royal and those commoners was clear now. The abandoned mansions, homes, palaces, had become hunting grounds for the citizens of the capital. Wide-eyed, they’d trekked through marbled, gilded rooms and wondered at the way some people lived. While they shared bedrooms with grandparents, parents, brothers, and sisters, the royals had suites devoted to them. Room after room for one person!

  The citizens of Konstantin hadn’t begun to imagine the amenities the royals had enjoyed. Stores of food and cellars stocked with wine emptied quickly, but each bottle and jar held in desperate hands didn’t just represent a meal
for a hungry family.

  No.

  It represented a thousand nights of empty tables and empty bellies and sick children and starving babies.

  All of that guilt could be heaped in one place.

  On the heads of the aristocracy.

  There weren’t many royals left in Konstantin to feel the wrath of its citizens, but those who snuck away too late, or too visibly, were put in their place—beneath the ice of the St. Svetleva River, or in a snow-filled gulley.

  The newspapers had their story. “While St. Svetleva Starves, Royals Feast!” Perhaps only one citizen in fifty could read the article, but the pictures told the story.

  The revolution was here. It no longer bubbled beneath the surface of Konstantin but rose like the tide. It was inevitable.

  With no fear of the Beast, or the king’s soldiers, citizens formed committees and made plans. They infiltrated the king’s guards, encouraging them to abandon the royal family. Soon, only the dowager queen was left in the palace. Her son was dead, her generals gone, and her children and grandchildren scattered to the winds.

  Or beneath the soil.

  Princes Leave Dowager for Foreign Shores. Take with Them the Treasure of Konstantin.

  Princess Lara Abandoned by Prince Pytor. Hides with Dowager in Imperial Palace.

  The stories were too good not to share, and so the revolutionaries took their papers into the pubs and read the stories aloud. Soon, St. Svetleva was a teeming pit of rage, searching for an outlet.

  Scenes of Torture from the Palace

  Students Describe Horror of King’s Prison

  Generals Abandon King’s Army

  Citizens Rise Against Oppressors

  New Citizen Government Formed

  Government Blocked by Soldiers Loyal to Traitor Princes

  Revolution!

  And miles away, on a trip that only weeks before may have taken mere hours, Prince Pytor and the king’s army hunkered down—oblivious.

  25

  There is No Anatoliy Without Polya

  Anatoliy could feel Polya’s gaze on him. It was a weight on his skin as much as her hand in his.

  They’d buried the men, taken whatever mementos for their families were left on their remains, and gotten back to the business of revolution.

  Polya sat upright, her arm along his, fingers entwined, but every so often she’d waver, jerk, and tense.

  “You need to lie down,” he told her again.

  “I’m fine for now,” she answered. It was the same answer she gave him two minutes ago and five minutes before that. No matter how much he prodded or hinted, she wouldn’t leave him.

  And the truth was, he needed to be alone.

  Anatoliy closed his eyes as the thought struck him. It felt like the ultimate betrayal, wanting space from the being he loved more than anything, but it was too much for him right now.

  He didn’t deserve her compassion. He didn’t deserve anything except guilt and shame because he let his men die.

  Along his waist, Polya’s tail snuck around his hips to rest across his knees. With a jolt, he stood. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, unable to miss the flash of hurt in her eyes. He deserved that, too. Heap it all upon his shoulders, it still wasn’t enough.

  Pytor glanced up from his place near the fire and sipped from the metal flask in his hands. “Kapetan?”

  “I—” There were no words.

  “Go,” Polya said quietly. Her eyes held the understanding he didn’t deserve. “See Dara. I’m going to do as you suggested and lie down.”

  Carefully she stood. Pytor shouldered Anatoliy aside to wrap an arm around hers. Anatoliy let him, even though his teeth clenched in response.

  What was wrong with him? Pushing her away and pulling her back was cruel. His hand curled into fists at his sides, and he stepped back.

  “Goodnight,” he said, bowing his head and spinning on his heel.

  Like earlier, he knew Polya’s gaze was on him.

  The camp was quiet tonight. The men spoke in hushed voices or stared into the fires. There was no doubt the same thoughts assailing Anatoliy, bothered them.

  What sort of war was this?

  In Anatoliy’s life, there were two things he cared about—his men and Polya. He would die for them. No question. He would kill to keep them safe. No question.

  What sort of men cared enough about Konstantin to give themselves up to the abyss in order to take out a handful of the kingdom’s soldiers?

  Anatoliy had never imagined this. What ideal was worth giving up their families, their future, their lives?

  The night was warm, and the snow melted into slushy piles or seeped into the ground. Everywhere was boot sucking mud and muck. It weighed down the bottom of Anatoliy’s coat and the hem of his pants.

  Fitting. But it didn’t touch the heaviness in his chest weighing down his entire being.

  Avoiding the center of the camp, Anatoliy headed toward dim lights of the town. Dara would be there, hidden among the buildings. He wouldn’t be able to stay in the camp with all the reminders of the camaraderie they’d shared with their small squadron.

  And Dara wouldn’t be alone. The other men would be mourning, too.

  The guards and borders erected earlier were gone now, blasted apart or taken apart so people could fight, or hide.

  Even in the muted night, shrouded with clouds and heavy with unfilled snow, Anatoliy could make out the crater of the hospital.

  At least he had Polya.

  Immediately, he slammed the lid on all the feelings threatening to erupt from the image of a world without Polya. And he’d left her. Just now, he’d left her in the camp, injured, with only her traitorous father and mad uncle for company.

  The town was quiet. Too quiet. Where were the mourners? Where were the wailing voices of the mothers who’d lost sons or husbands?

  It was as if in the fighting, everyone had died and the only person left was Anatoliy, haunting a town of ghosts.

  A dog skittered in front of him, leaping up to scratch at Anatoliy’s legs. Amazing. The dog’s bright brown eyes met Anatoliy’s and his mouth opened in a wolfy grin, tongue lolling to one side.

  Anatoliy dug in his pocket, pulled out a piece of hard tack, and pitched it to the dog. Teeth snapping, he caught the food and then trotted away, happy with the outcome.

  “Why are you not in camp?” Dara’s voice was low and rough. The smell of smoke drifted toward Anatoliy’s nose, the end of a cigarette flaring bright and then dying.

  “I needed to get away,” he answered.

  Dara sat on a stone stoop, arms resting on his knees, cigarette loosely clutched between his fingers. “Couldn’t stay there either,” he finally said.

  Anatoliy nodded, even though Dara’s gaze was fixed on the street at his feet. Like an old man, he lowered himself next to his friend and sighed.

  “They had families,” Dara said, and Anatoliy nodded again. He knew that. He remembered Lev’s mother and sweetheart meeting them at the train station years ago. Tall Marat had a wife in the north, and Boris, a son he hadn’t seen in years.

  All of it because of Anatoliy.

  If he hadn’t made a selfish wish, his men wouldn’t have been so long away from the people they loved. It was his fault they died, and it was his fault they’d died without seeing their families one last time.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, and Dara grunted.

  “The guilt is not yours. It is another thing to lay at the king’s grave, may he burn in hell.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he is,” someone said nonchalantly.

  Out of the darkness a pale white face appeared. Anatoliy’s breath caught, and for a moment he expected to see the sallow skin of the priest, Father Stepan.

  But it wasn’t him. It was Prince Evgeny. He pulled a tin from his pocket before seating himself on the other side of Dara and holding it out. “Cigarette?”

  Dara flicked the stub in his hand and took the case from Evgeny. Precisely, he removed the paper, spri
nkled in the tobacco and then when Evgeny offered a small flame, lit it.

  “My brother is singularly to blame for all of this,” he said after rolling his own cigarette. “The man had an affinity for destruction.” He met Anatoliy’s gaze and held it. “I am sorry about your men. I blame myself for having them guard. If I had known such a thing was possible, I’d—” He stopped abruptly. “I don’t know what I’d have done. I never imagined it.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing before,” Dara answered.

  Anatoliy glanced away from Evgeny, unable to hold the black-eyed gaze of the man any longer. Something about it sent a shiver down his spine. The orange light from the burning cigarette and the moonlight cast a shadow on him that left his face skull-like, a living corpse.

  “Aleksandr’s cruelty drives men to do things they’d never believe themselves capable of. The anarchists have become revolutionaries and they have nothing to lose. Their families are starving—if they have them. They have no jobs, no hope for jobs. Aleksandr took every spare coin they had until there was nothing left except a hole in their belly.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” Anatoliy asked suddenly. It was all well and good to know Aleksandr’s brothers saw him as the amoral tyrant he was, but so what? What good did it do now?

  Evgeny gave a laugh. It was brittle sounding, and held no amusement. “From his birth, our brother was spoiled and protected. Any evil he did was blamed on others. My father encouraged it, and my grandfather, whose own ability for cruelty could rival Aleksandr’s, encouraged it. They saw nothing wrong with how he governed.”

  “The army would have supported you,” Anatoliy said. Had any of the princes come to them, there may have been a chance.

  “Would they?” Evgeny asked and coughed. “Doubtful. The generals may have hated Aleksandr, but he kept them in clover.”

  “How?” Dara asked. “Don’t forget we were in the army.”

  “And were you ever without weapons? Blankets? Food?” Evgeny countered.

  As much as he’d like to deny it, they had been well cared for. Anatoliy had seen soldiers who had suffered, but they’d been their enemies. Boots with holes. Wan faces.