- "Q.E.D." Part 33
He spoke perfect, textbook Russian, which stood out amongst the
local dialects. The young man with him spoke almost no Russian
at all, and would look questioningly at his older companion when
addressed directly. The two of them sat side by side on the train
speaking softly, sometimes in English, sometimes in Greek,
sometimes in silence, a shared look sufficing for dialogue.
The conductor regarded the pair with a detached curiosity. The
two of them had to be tourists, he thought, yet they had the look
of men returning home after a long absence.
Nikolas stared out the window, watching the groves of pine trees
create green smears against the white snow, spreading color,
like warm blankets, over the bleak vista. Evidence of the
southern Ural's mineralogical wealth appeared as great scars on
the landscape, as the strip mines created an image of suffering
which, to Nikolas, seemed appropriate.
Stefan tried to concentrate on his book, but he was all too aware
of the satchel in his lap which contained the cremated remains
of Alexie Nicholaevich Romanov: ashes of a page torn from the
history texts, awaiting its final resting place.
"How much longer?" asked Nikolas.
Stefan regarded his son with an indulgent smile, "I would say
that we are about fifteen minutes closer to our destination than
the last time you asked that question."
"Sorry," Nikolas replied. "I guess I'm getting a little weary of
all this travel."
"Yes," Stefan agreed, closing the cover of his book. "Things do
seem to move much slower here. It is a vast land, like the
United States, and at times it seems to be connected by mere
threads."
"You've been there before, haven't you? To Ekaterinburg?"
"Yes. But at the time of my visit, it was called Sverdlovsk, after
a Bolshevik who ran the party's underground operations in the
city during the revolution. I was there before you were born,
back in 1977. I wanted to see the Ipatiev house before it was
demolished."
"What was it like, the house?"
"Although it was considered small by its once-royal inhabitants,
it was an imposing structure, composed almost entirely of rigid,
straight lines. The bars were still on the windows, and a lone
guard stood sentry, as if he were trying to keep watch over the
secrets the house contained. No one had lived there since the
executions, and I was struck by a feeling of utter loneliness, as
if the house itself bore the blame for the atrocities committed
within its walls. It seemed to look forward to its death, as it
stood in silent anticipation to its demolition."
"It must have been difficult for you to see it."
"It was... difficult. Yet, it was comforting at the same time. I
felt an odd kind of kinship for that house. We seemed to
understand one another." He smiled. "But, at the same time, I
was grateful that we were not to share the same fate."
"I like this." Nikolas replied, after a long silence. "I like talking
to you in this way, without all the subterfuge, without all the
secrets... "
Stefan looked down at the satchel. "I wanted to tell you about
your great-grandfather years ago, as soon as you were old enough
to understand. But... I had carried that secret with me for so
long, that, at times, I felt as if it would consume me. I started
to think that if I were to share it with you, that I would be
sharing some kind of deadly malignancy, and that it would
consume you, as well. It was a misguided attempt to protect
you." He paused, and looked at Nikolas, the corners of his mouth
offering a weak smile. "As to the other secret, when I
discovered the truth in Switzerland, I wanted to run through the
halls of the hospital, proclaiming the fact that you were my son,
over and over again. But the spectre of the Cassadine legacy
still loomed over us, and I could not bring myself to diminish
your position in the family."
"Didn't it occur to you that my 'position' didn't matter to me?
Couldn't you have considered my feelings before making that
decision for me?"
"I was more concerned with your safety. As things stood, I was
the disposable one. I wanted to keep it that way, until I could
deal with my mother." He reached over and squeezed Nikolas'
shoulder. "I have nothing but the greatest consideration for your
feelings, and from now on, I want to hear of them... often. Please
believe me when I say that learning the truth of your parentage
did not change my feelings toward you in the least, because I
could not have loved you more than I already did. You were
always my son, in every sense of the word. The blood test was
merely a formality."
Nikolas smiled. "Thank you... father. I have to admit, I'm still
not used to saying that word, but I like saying it, nonetheless.
And about sharing my feelings, that goes both ways, you know..."
Stefan laughed. "What? I have just spent the last ten minutes
baring my soul to you... are you not sated yet? I think that you
already know me better than anyone: better than Alexis, better
than your mother."
Nikolas raised his eyebrow, in a direct challenge to his father's
newfound candor: "Did you love my mother?" he asked.
This time, Stefan answered the question with no hesitation:
"Very much, Nikolas."
The tall white cross stood on the raised lot of land where the
Ipatiev house used to be. It looked like the marker for an
enormous casket, a gravesite for the long-suffering building.
The ground around it was a patchwork of snow and dormant
grass, as the city of Ekaterinburg balanced itself on the cusp of
Spring.
The two men were not the only pilgrims visiting the site that
day. There were others: the infirm, who believed the site held
healing powers, the newly married, who believed the site held a
promise for better days ahead, and the descendants of those who
lived nearby in 1918, who felt the need to remember and the
desire to forget.
Nikolas and Stefan waited patiently for their turn, and
approached the cross, each man clutching his offering of flowers
and prayer beads. Their other offering would have to wait until
the area was deserted.
Stefan passed Nikolas his flowers, and held out his hand. "I'm
afraid I'll need your help to kneel. My injury has not quite healed
yet."
Nikolas grasped his father's hand and supported him as he knelt.
It was a small action, but to Nikolas, it held a great promise, and
he hoped that his father would not hesitate to ask him for his
help ever again. Nikolas knelt beside Stefan, and the two men
began reciting the Requiem in the Old Church Slavonic. And,
while only one of them understood the meaning of the words,
they both understood the meaning of the moment.
The two men rose after leaving their offerings, and made their
way past the small queue of people waiting for their turn to bear
homage to the past. Some noticed the fine tailoring of their
expensive clothes, an anomaly in this working class town. Some
noticed their bearing: proud, upright, unashamed, an antithesis
to the guilt which permeated the atmosphere of the place. And
some noticed their eyes, freshly washed with tears; they looked
vaguely familiar, but they were unable to place where they had
seen them before.
The half moon lay low in the sky, casting a long continuous
shadow behind the two dark figures. They approached the cross,
which now stood unattended. This site was considered sacred by
some, and as such, required no further protection.
Stefan opened the small box, and the two men scattered its
contents, watching the tiny particles dance in the wind. They
both felt a sense of freedom, as the dark specks journeyed
through the air, perhaps to come to rest side by side with those
of Anastasia, scattered there years ago.
"I would like to change my name," Nikolas announced abruptly,
breaking the long silence.
"What would you like to be called?" Stefan asked, and then
added: "You realize that using the name 'Romanov' would draw us
more undue attention."
Nikolas laughed. "Oh no, not my last name," he said, "and it will
hardly be noticed, except by those who may have heard my full
name before. From now on, I would like to be: Nikolas Mikhail
Stefanovich Cassadine." He smiled at his father, "It is, after
all, the truth."
And for a moment, Nikolas feared that he would be crushed in his
father's sudden embrace. "I shall never underestimate the value
of the truth again," Stefan said.
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