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"For the last time, who are you?"
His voice seems too loud, seems to carry too far, and he's lucky, some small part of him fleetingly thinks, that no one has come running or interrupted, given the scene here. Lucky, too, that he's gotten a chance to try to persuade her to change her story. Had anyone else been sent after her, he knows they would have taken the shot upon one glance, where she is and the way she's dressed and the announced press conference — rumors that still never end, even now that he's traveled across several countries — speaking for themselves. He knows who she is as surely as she does now. He thinks maybe he always did, deep down, from that moment in his office he first got a good look in her eyes. All he needs, though, is one reason not to go through with this, not to follow his orders, desperate and determined in equal measure. It isn't too late. She could say she's someone else and leave with him. He could— Well, he'd have neither the heart nor the stomach to turn her in, but it would be easier to say that he couldn't find her, and it wouldn't matter all that much in the long run, because she'd have been no one after all.
She won't, though. Gleb knows it before she even says a word, sees it in the jut of her chin and the glint in her eyes and the way she steps towards him, standing straight, the same proud girl he saw behind the gate so many years ago. Even when she seemed like nothing more than a frightened streetsweeper, he thinks this was there somewhere. It's just been allowed to surface now. She's where she's supposed to be. And that's what he can't let stand, for the good of Russia, for his father's memory, for everything he's spent years fighting for.
"I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov," she replies, unflinching. He sets his jaw, steels himself, his pistol feeling three times as heavy as it should at his side and when he lifts it to cock it, readying himself for what he knows has to come next. Kill her if she is Anastasia, bring her back if she isn't, those were his orders, and he's never disobeyed one before. He's never so much as thought to.
He won't let himself now.
"Be careful what a dream may bring," he says, the same caution he'd issued her that day in his office, when this was all still pretend. This time, though, he doesn't know which of them he's really talking to, her or himself. It is real for her. She wouldn't be standing here in a gown and a tiara otherwise, getting ready to come forward with her grandmother and tell the press who she is. He's the one who's been deluding himself, thinking that there was some way to get out of this without being where he is right now, blinded by the feelings for her he knows he shouldn't have. He steps forward quickly, pointing the gun at her again, heart pounding in his chest, fury in his blood, though at who or what, he can't tell anymore. "A revolution is a simple—"
At once, he stills, frozen with his pistol aimed at her throat, an inch away from finishing the job. It's as far as he'll ever get. She still hasn't wavered, but he has, even while standing rigidly in place. Her family and his orders be damned, pulling the trigger seems suddenly impossible, something he couldn't do no matter how much he tried to convince himself it would be worth going through with it. She's a Romanov, yes, but she's Anya, too, the girl who'd started at a backfiring truck, whom he'd been unable to help looking for on the Nevsky Prospect, who's occupied so many of his thoughts since then. She's standing tall before him, ready to face the death that somehow evaded her ten long years ago, and he thinks somehow, that makes it even harder.
Gleb exhales unsteadily, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, closing his eyes briefly as he shakes his head, then finally lets his arm fall back to his side. "I can't," he says, barely able to get the words out, though they leave him unwillingly. He has to turn away from her, can hardly manage to stay on his feet, dropping to a crouch and staring at the gun in his hand for a moment before he all but throws it on the ground. "I can't. Oh, God."
He can't breathe, either, or at least feels as if he can't, loosening his collar as he gasps for air, her name leaving him on an exhale. The room suddenly feels stifling; then again, he's hardly aware of where he is, where he's broken into, solely for the purpose of what he couldn't go through with doing. It's only her touch, achingly gentle, her gloved hand against his head, that starts to bring him back to himself.
"I mean you no harm, Gleb," she tells him, as if he's ever thought otherwise, as if she wouldn't be well within her rights to pick up his abandoned pistol and turn it on him. This undeserved kindness, he thinks, hurts all the more. He should never have come so close to killing her. He should never have faltered in doing so. It's really very simple, Gorlinsky told him over the phone when he issued his orders, but it's never been that. Were she someone else, maybe it would have been. Maybe he'd be on his way by now, slipping out during the commotion that would have ensued, neither looking back nor losing a moment's sleep over what he'd done. Maybe if they'd sent someone other than him, he could have lived with the outcome, quietly grieved for Anya while knowing that Anastasia's death would be for the best, for the good of the country. Where he's wound up instead is a different matter entirely. He's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, neither an easy weight for his conscience to bear.
Whatever this is resembling forgiveness from her ought to make that easier. It doesn't.
She starts to draw her hand away, and on a moment's impulse, Gleb stops her, catching her fingers with his and grasping them tightly. "I believe you are Anastasia," he says, what perhaps may have spoken for itself but needs to be put into words anyway. It's an acknowledgment that he knows he was wrong earlier, trying to get her to stop playing games, and that it isn't for any disbelief that he hasn't followed through with what he came here to do.
That, and the fact that he knows what he's just done. When he finally brings himself to look up at her and sees the small, sad smile she wears, he knows she knows it, too. There's no way he walks away from this unscathed. Had he simply come back empty-handed — had he convinced her to return with him and claim to be no one — it would have been easy enough to spin. He saw all those press agents waiting, though. Very soon, the whole world will know that she's Anastasia Romanov, alive and well and reunited with what family she has left, and his superiors will know that he let her live.
He knows what they do to people like him. He's been a part of this regime since he was old enough to be given a uniform and a weapon; he's well aware of how it works, has been a part of too many of those decisions himself and never blinked. Maybe that's why he knows, too, that he won't bother running. For years, he's practically defined himself by the cause, devoted himself to ushering Russia into a better future. Now he's committed perhaps the biggest act of treason possible. He ought to face the consequences of that.
Anya — Anastasia — takes his hand in both of hers now, and with that same damned gentleness, asks, "What will you tell them?"
Though it won't make a difference one way or another, it's a good question, one he doesn't yet have an answer to. Pulling away from her, he reaches for the pistol he'd left on the ground, staring at it for a moment before he tucks it away again. Difficult as it still is, he turns to her again, mirroring that same sad smile. "That I was not my father's son after all."
For years, he's wondered what he would have done in his father's position, if he'd have been able to go through with it, too. Now he has his answer. It's neither the one he would have expected nor the one he would have wanted, but in this instance, he thinks it's the right choice. There's nothing else for him to do. He doesn't think he would be able to stand it, her death on his conscience, her blood on his hands. At least, whatever happens now, she'll get to live.
Standing straight, Gleb faces her directly and holds out a hand. She takes it gently, and he shakes it once, letting the touch linger while he speaks. "Long life, comrade," he says, calm and official, as if they'd only just now met, as if, mere minutes ago, he hadn't been holding her at gunpoint, as if he hadn't fallen in love with the one girl he shouldn't have. Despite the fact that it goes against his every instinct, he means it, too. Maybe he won't get to have one, but she might. He shouldn't find solace in that, but he does.
Even so, he can't stay here, looking at her, any longer. Neither can he bring himself to wait for a response. Instead, he turns, resisting the urge to glance back at her over his shoulder one last time as he leaves. It won't do any good if he does. His decision will still have been made. He'll still feel about her the way he does, and he'll still be facing the same fate when he returns to Russia. Drawing this out won't help either of them. She has a life, a family, the press to get to. He has very little — just a bullet, probably, with his name on it.
Something happens, though, as he walks out. The room changes, becoming unfamiliar, and while Gleb tries to write it off at first as the product of his being somewhere he'd never seen before today and not exactly in his right mind, too distracted and disdainful of this luxury to bother taking in the sights, but it becomes increasingly apparent instead that he isn't where he was a moment ago. When he looks behind him, there's no sign of the room where he left Anya, which is in itself troubling. He needs to leave before anyone else can see him, and he can't do that if he doesn't know where he is. There are already a handful of people around, anyway, and not the sort he'd have expected to be in the Dowager Empress's entourage, all dressed strangely, a far cry from the aristocracy, coming and going through what looks to be the lobby of a building. It should be a relief. Instead, it's all the more confusing. Rather than letting on as much, though, or asking for help, he stays where he is, surveying his surroundings. Whatever is going on, he doesn't need to draw undue attention to himself. He just needs to make sense of where he is and then be on his way.
His voice seems too loud, seems to carry too far, and he's lucky, some small part of him fleetingly thinks, that no one has come running or interrupted, given the scene here. Lucky, too, that he's gotten a chance to try to persuade her to change her story. Had anyone else been sent after her, he knows they would have taken the shot upon one glance, where she is and the way she's dressed and the announced press conference — rumors that still never end, even now that he's traveled across several countries — speaking for themselves. He knows who she is as surely as she does now. He thinks maybe he always did, deep down, from that moment in his office he first got a good look in her eyes. All he needs, though, is one reason not to go through with this, not to follow his orders, desperate and determined in equal measure. It isn't too late. She could say she's someone else and leave with him. He could— Well, he'd have neither the heart nor the stomach to turn her in, but it would be easier to say that he couldn't find her, and it wouldn't matter all that much in the long run, because she'd have been no one after all.
She won't, though. Gleb knows it before she even says a word, sees it in the jut of her chin and the glint in her eyes and the way she steps towards him, standing straight, the same proud girl he saw behind the gate so many years ago. Even when she seemed like nothing more than a frightened streetsweeper, he thinks this was there somewhere. It's just been allowed to surface now. She's where she's supposed to be. And that's what he can't let stand, for the good of Russia, for his father's memory, for everything he's spent years fighting for.
"I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov," she replies, unflinching. He sets his jaw, steels himself, his pistol feeling three times as heavy as it should at his side and when he lifts it to cock it, readying himself for what he knows has to come next. Kill her if she is Anastasia, bring her back if she isn't, those were his orders, and he's never disobeyed one before. He's never so much as thought to.
He won't let himself now.
"Be careful what a dream may bring," he says, the same caution he'd issued her that day in his office, when this was all still pretend. This time, though, he doesn't know which of them he's really talking to, her or himself. It is real for her. She wouldn't be standing here in a gown and a tiara otherwise, getting ready to come forward with her grandmother and tell the press who she is. He's the one who's been deluding himself, thinking that there was some way to get out of this without being where he is right now, blinded by the feelings for her he knows he shouldn't have. He steps forward quickly, pointing the gun at her again, heart pounding in his chest, fury in his blood, though at who or what, he can't tell anymore. "A revolution is a simple—"
At once, he stills, frozen with his pistol aimed at her throat, an inch away from finishing the job. It's as far as he'll ever get. She still hasn't wavered, but he has, even while standing rigidly in place. Her family and his orders be damned, pulling the trigger seems suddenly impossible, something he couldn't do no matter how much he tried to convince himself it would be worth going through with it. She's a Romanov, yes, but she's Anya, too, the girl who'd started at a backfiring truck, whom he'd been unable to help looking for on the Nevsky Prospect, who's occupied so many of his thoughts since then. She's standing tall before him, ready to face the death that somehow evaded her ten long years ago, and he thinks somehow, that makes it even harder.
Gleb exhales unsteadily, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, closing his eyes briefly as he shakes his head, then finally lets his arm fall back to his side. "I can't," he says, barely able to get the words out, though they leave him unwillingly. He has to turn away from her, can hardly manage to stay on his feet, dropping to a crouch and staring at the gun in his hand for a moment before he all but throws it on the ground. "I can't. Oh, God."
He can't breathe, either, or at least feels as if he can't, loosening his collar as he gasps for air, her name leaving him on an exhale. The room suddenly feels stifling; then again, he's hardly aware of where he is, where he's broken into, solely for the purpose of what he couldn't go through with doing. It's only her touch, achingly gentle, her gloved hand against his head, that starts to bring him back to himself.
"I mean you no harm, Gleb," she tells him, as if he's ever thought otherwise, as if she wouldn't be well within her rights to pick up his abandoned pistol and turn it on him. This undeserved kindness, he thinks, hurts all the more. He should never have come so close to killing her. He should never have faltered in doing so. It's really very simple, Gorlinsky told him over the phone when he issued his orders, but it's never been that. Were she someone else, maybe it would have been. Maybe he'd be on his way by now, slipping out during the commotion that would have ensued, neither looking back nor losing a moment's sleep over what he'd done. Maybe if they'd sent someone other than him, he could have lived with the outcome, quietly grieved for Anya while knowing that Anastasia's death would be for the best, for the good of the country. Where he's wound up instead is a different matter entirely. He's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, neither an easy weight for his conscience to bear.
Whatever this is resembling forgiveness from her ought to make that easier. It doesn't.
She starts to draw her hand away, and on a moment's impulse, Gleb stops her, catching her fingers with his and grasping them tightly. "I believe you are Anastasia," he says, what perhaps may have spoken for itself but needs to be put into words anyway. It's an acknowledgment that he knows he was wrong earlier, trying to get her to stop playing games, and that it isn't for any disbelief that he hasn't followed through with what he came here to do.
That, and the fact that he knows what he's just done. When he finally brings himself to look up at her and sees the small, sad smile she wears, he knows she knows it, too. There's no way he walks away from this unscathed. Had he simply come back empty-handed — had he convinced her to return with him and claim to be no one — it would have been easy enough to spin. He saw all those press agents waiting, though. Very soon, the whole world will know that she's Anastasia Romanov, alive and well and reunited with what family she has left, and his superiors will know that he let her live.
He knows what they do to people like him. He's been a part of this regime since he was old enough to be given a uniform and a weapon; he's well aware of how it works, has been a part of too many of those decisions himself and never blinked. Maybe that's why he knows, too, that he won't bother running. For years, he's practically defined himself by the cause, devoted himself to ushering Russia into a better future. Now he's committed perhaps the biggest act of treason possible. He ought to face the consequences of that.
Anya — Anastasia — takes his hand in both of hers now, and with that same damned gentleness, asks, "What will you tell them?"
Though it won't make a difference one way or another, it's a good question, one he doesn't yet have an answer to. Pulling away from her, he reaches for the pistol he'd left on the ground, staring at it for a moment before he tucks it away again. Difficult as it still is, he turns to her again, mirroring that same sad smile. "That I was not my father's son after all."
For years, he's wondered what he would have done in his father's position, if he'd have been able to go through with it, too. Now he has his answer. It's neither the one he would have expected nor the one he would have wanted, but in this instance, he thinks it's the right choice. There's nothing else for him to do. He doesn't think he would be able to stand it, her death on his conscience, her blood on his hands. At least, whatever happens now, she'll get to live.
Standing straight, Gleb faces her directly and holds out a hand. She takes it gently, and he shakes it once, letting the touch linger while he speaks. "Long life, comrade," he says, calm and official, as if they'd only just now met, as if, mere minutes ago, he hadn't been holding her at gunpoint, as if he hadn't fallen in love with the one girl he shouldn't have. Despite the fact that it goes against his every instinct, he means it, too. Maybe he won't get to have one, but she might. He shouldn't find solace in that, but he does.
Even so, he can't stay here, looking at her, any longer. Neither can he bring himself to wait for a response. Instead, he turns, resisting the urge to glance back at her over his shoulder one last time as he leaves. It won't do any good if he does. His decision will still have been made. He'll still feel about her the way he does, and he'll still be facing the same fate when he returns to Russia. Drawing this out won't help either of them. She has a life, a family, the press to get to. He has very little — just a bullet, probably, with his name on it.
Something happens, though, as he walks out. The room changes, becoming unfamiliar, and while Gleb tries to write it off at first as the product of his being somewhere he'd never seen before today and not exactly in his right mind, too distracted and disdainful of this luxury to bother taking in the sights, but it becomes increasingly apparent instead that he isn't where he was a moment ago. When he looks behind him, there's no sign of the room where he left Anya, which is in itself troubling. He needs to leave before anyone else can see him, and he can't do that if he doesn't know where he is. There are already a handful of people around, anyway, and not the sort he'd have expected to be in the Dowager Empress's entourage, all dressed strangely, a far cry from the aristocracy, coming and going through what looks to be the lobby of a building. It should be a relief. Instead, it's all the more confusing. Rather than letting on as much, though, or asking for help, he stays where he is, surveying his surroundings. Whatever is going on, he doesn't need to draw undue attention to himself. He just needs to make sense of where he is and then be on his way.
no subject
She can't say that she fits here, but she's learning the steps. There are quite a few ways in which Darrow doesn't resemble any city that she has ever heard of before. The technology makes her head ache and the customs are odd. Longing for Russia, both under the tsar (her father she mentally corrects) and the communists after, is an ever present feeling.
As they walk she tosses a few glances towards Gleb wondering what he must be thinking. The suit is nice, it must have come from Paris. It suits him in an odd way, though she doesn't think he would agree. The boots are much like the ones she had back home. Of course they are. A good Russian would never toss away something so practical unless it was a must.
"Me neither." Her thoughts return to the holiday brightness around her. "I know that it has been years, but even the ones from my childhood don't match this. They have so many lights, trees full of them, and everything is sold for half price. They have a lot of traditions that I had to look up." A moment passes before she adds. "They have a very helpful public library. It's two blocks from here," she explains as they come to an intersection, waiting for the light to turn.
no subject
Again, just the fact of wanting or needing that seems unnecessary, foolish, but if he'd felt out of place in Paris, that's become far more the case now. He doesn't belong in a world like this. He fought for one wholly different, and no matter what else has changed, he still believes that he was right to do so.
Reconciling the fact of that with the feelings he can no longer try to ignore for her, knowing now who she is, isn't exactly an easy task. There's nothing he regrets, though, except perhaps thinking that he would be able to follow through with what he was told to do in the first place. Had he realized sooner, had that not been the case, he wouldn't have the unshakable image in his head of her at gunpoint, how she'd looked in the moment he'd intended to pull the trigger. The rest, though— He did what he knows was right, for the good of Russia and perhaps beyond. He knows, too, with just as much certainty, that there's really only one word for what he feels for her, regardless of the fact that she is, however impossibly, Anastasia Romanov.
He won't tell her, of course. That's something to which he doesn't have the right, certainly not now, even if she asked what stayed his hand. For all his attempts to talk himself out of it, though, it's remained true, maybe now more than ever.
"And nearly a hundred years' worth of history to catch up on, I take it," he adds, glancing over at her once they come to a stop. "If even Christmas is so different, there must be plenty else that is, too."
no subject
She does not want to go to work later. Isn't in the mood to deal with grimy glasses and grabby hands, but there isn't much in the way of alternatives. A job is a job, even here. It does what it is meant to. Besides the idea of staying at home alone with her thoughts holds little appeal.
"Yes. It's quite a lot," she nods in agreement, shaking her head slightly in wonder at the vastness of it all. "Not all of the history in books makes sense here. It's oddly fixated on this place, but the others here who are from the future, our future at least, they're a help."
The light changes and they cross the street. They're almost to the train station now. It's on the block up ahead, people emptying out of it in a steady enough stream that tells her a train just arrived in. She reaches out and touches him arm to still him just outside. "You have to tell me where you live," she rushes, looking up at him. "Before I go, after you've picked up your packet. You need to tell me where they've assigned you to live."
no subject
He nearly asks why, but between the look on her face and her hand on his arm, he doesn't really have the heart to question her. If she wants to know, he might as well tell her.
"Alright," he replies, nodding once as he carefully moves out of the way of people walking out of the train station, reaching for one of the doors, though he lingers like she did before they set out for here. The smart thing to do would be to turn and walk away and put all of this behind him, but evidently he hasn't been doing much that's very smart of late. Now is no exception. "I'll tell you."