Chapter Text
III
Time passed, it was the morning after Christmas and everyone in the mansion was still asleep until high noon—or at least until the alcohol left their systems. Like a household tradition, they had a celebration the night before, which meant the Count spending his money on supplies and ingredients needed for the banquet. And per request by the residents—the best wine and champagne were served during the feast, and, at some point, during a drinking game. It was a riotous occasion, but it was something that Comte welcomed in his house. That celebration served its purpose in making it into one of his core memories—he would remember those wild hours of mirth and pleasure-seeking just for the way his family was living the highest point of bliss. He wanted it for them, and so he contributed and participated from the sidelines, looking over them as he usually would. Until a certain Italian challenged him on who could empty the most bottles before passing out on the dinner table.
When he woke up, he started cursing Leonardo under his breath for peer-pressuring him, which didn’t help the headache that suddenly pounded his skull. Just then—the door opened, and Anastasia appeared. Comte did not overlook the mischievous grin that plastered on her face as she strolled to his bedside like a fairy child who had done some minor chaos in her trail.
“Did I wake you, my darling?” she asked while pushing away the swoop of hair from his eyes.
He groaned. “The headache did, but I’ll be fine.”
“Do you need anything? I could make you some tea if it could help.”
“Maybe later, Ma Chérie,” he took a closer look at her—she was dressed elegantly in her favorite white muslin dress that was decorated with cultured pearls. She put on her cosmetics, and her hair was curled and tied with a satin ribbon. He looked at her neck—she was wearing the necklace he gave her as a Christmas present, and he could smell the whiff of ambergris and saffron from her perfume. In short, she dressed as if there was another celebration.
“You seem… too content, sweetheart.”
“What, I can’t be too happy to see my husband?” She said coquettishly, lying her head on his pillow so it was easy for her to gaze into his eyes.
“Not when you say it in that tone—I am inclined to believe that you did something,” he said, returning the same playfulness in his voice with a smirk.
“Ah! I’ll have you know I am not like your boys,” she tapped his nose. “At least I did not cause some serious damage.”
“So, you did do something.”
“I didn’t say I deny it.”
“You naughty girl! What did you do?”
Biting her lip, she said, “I told Sebastian and Leonardo to give me the day off because you and I are going somewhere.”
Comte chuckled, “And did they believe in you?”
Anastasia blushed, “Only if you tell them. And I don’t mean to say that to skip work or my studies, I would rather just want to spend the after-party with you.” Then she pouted, “Unless you have a busy day ahead, then I’ll—"
“Now, why would I prioritize anything else over you, Ma Chérie?” He pulled her into his arms, making her lie on top of him while he brushed her dark hair. He would also very much prefer to skip his paperwork for the next day and pamper his wife. After all, the after-effects of the party were still fresh, and the adrenaline was still running high. “What do you have in mind for us?”
“Well, since the weather is a little bit better than yesterday, we could go horseback riding,” she answered, clinging to his sleeve while watching the branch trembling gently against the winter wind.
“Horseback riding? To where?”
“Anywhere!” she said enthusiastically. “We don’t have to go shopping or anything like that. Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been to before.”
Comte smiled at her and caressed her face. “I don’t think there’s ever a place where you’ve never been to, Mon Ange. If I take you to one place, it will feel like I am just taking you to another corner of your home.”
“It is all thanks to you, Abel,” she said, shifting herself higher until she was hovering above him. Pecking his lips and lightly touching the tip of her nose against his. “But I don’t think I have explored every corner of your world as you may have thought.” She looked down at his golden eyes, wondering if they were blessed by Aurora’s kiss as they glimmered in the afternoon sun. “I know there is something more out there, and I want to see it.”
Comte deeply adored her—no doubt fascinated by her honesty and tenacity in her pursuit to know him better. That part of her never changed, and he smiled at the reminder that this was the woman he married.
“Well then, Ma Chérie—you should get your coat.”
Comte left some instructions to Sebastian while he was preparing their horses. He also told Leonardo that he and Anastasia would probably ride out of town. To where specifically—no one knew. Before they left, Anastasia saw Dazai and Arthur peeking through one of the windows. She made a gesture that meant she still had her eyes on them even during her absence; they just gave her a thumbs-up while making a blank expression. A moment later, they rode off.
They did pass through every street in Paris. The cold wind swept through their tangled hair, hooves treading on the snow, the flutter of their coats, the rush of adrenaline in their veins—it almost felt like a competition, never mind who became the winner in the end as long as the excitement lasted. At some point, they reached an open road.
“Are you ready to head back now, Anastasia?” Comte asked while patting his horse.
“Uh-uh! No way!” she replied breathlessly. “Let’s go for another mile, then we’ll go home.”
Comte laughed in amusement and agreed to her deal. She went before him, but before he could catch up, he stopped his tracks halfway and turned to the wooden area to his right.
Anastasia turned around and saw her husband in an immobile state. He was staring at the woods like it was an ancient entity he encountered once in his life. She did not know what was happening to him—he looked almost afraid. Did he sense that someone was watching them? Were they in danger?
“Comte? Is everything all right?” she called.
He promptly turned to her, “Yes, dear. It’s just that—there is something odd about this road.”
Anastasia went to his side and there was indeed a trail that led somewhere further. “Do you think it is safe?”
“…I think so,” he answered (well, it almost sounded like a question). His sight not leaving the set of trees that lie on the deepest end.
“Should we go and check it out?”
Comte nodded his head.
They went in silently.
While Anastasia navigated this unfamiliar place, Comte was experiencing a sense of déjà vu. He looked at the way the branches loomed over the ground, how the roots coiled in the dirt, how the snow contrasted the black barks—he had seen all of these before. Then, there was the smell of mint—all of those memories when he was a boy came flooding back to him.
“Comte, there was a mansion over there!”
In what was considered as a cruel twist of fate, he was led back to the place he never knew he would see again. On the other side of the woods, there was a mansion that was far greater than the one they had back in Paris—it almost resembled a palace, which made sense since its former master wanted a “copy” of his house back in Moscow. Great as it was, it stood there like a withering flower in the dead of winter. The walls were no longer white like they used to be, as the entire facade was covered by soot. The pillars that held up the entry were cracked, and the stairs were decorated by moss. The windows were all shattered, and some of the doors were barricaded with rotten wood. On the side, a statue of an angel fell from its pedestal and smashed its head on the ground, decaying into the earth along with the rest of the house.
Comte got off his horse and moved slowly to the entrance. He recognized the same pathway he took when he was a boy, how he would run in that same yard while his godmother watched over him. He let his hand graze upon the marble surface of the pillar—recalling how they used to be the size of colossus in his youth. Through the threshold, he could already see the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, He kept telling himself to retreat, but the idea of revisiting this part of his past was very tempting, and his own foolishness got the better of his logic.
He turned to Anastasia apologetically, “Forgive me, Ma Chérie—but I need to see something in here. I won’t take too long—"
She shook her head, got off her horse, and took his hand. “I’m going with you.”
He squeezed her hand.
Inside, the rundown state of the mansion was even more palpable. Every corner was filled with black tar and mold. Shards of porcelain and rubble were scattered on the floor. The carpets and drapes were torn apart. The diamonds on the chandelier were fogged by cobwebs. And some of the furniture was toppled over. As they walked up the stairs, the foundation creaked lightly under their footsteps. When they reached the second floor, they were greeted by the foreboding shadows of the sculptors, lining up from the east wing to the west as if they were the last sentries to guard this wasteland.
There was a broken chandelier, lying in the middle of the ballroom, cracking the glass dance floor below. The paintings that were once hanging on the walls left only a mark on their wake, except there was one that was abandoned on the side.
Comte crouched down and straighten that painting—it was a woman, with skin as white as death, light hair, and eyes as blue as the sea. She was wearing a wedding dress, a wintergreen wreath on her head, and diamonds around her neck while looking desperately at someone on the side in helplessness. Anastasia couldn’t see his reaction, but when she read the name at the bottom of the golden frame—Duchess Maria Fedorova—she gasped.
Comte only stared at it in solemnity, hoping that his silent prayer could be reached in Paradise where she might be resting. He looked down and there was a small box peaking behind the frame. When he picked it up—his eyes couldn’t believe it.
“Comte, is that—?”
“Yes… the very same…”
It was the duchess’s music box. Even in age, its golden embellishes never lost their luster, there was hardly a crack on its blue paint, and the key was intact in its place. He opened it, showing two bears positioned in a waltz, and the lid had an illustration of swans spreading their wings. He tried winding the key, but no matter how many times he attempted—it was jammed in its place, rendering it soundless the entire time. Comte felt his last chance of hope being snatched away from him when it was already in his grasp. On the other hand, he knew it could still be salvaged by either Leonardo or Isaac, but his impatience and desperation overwhelmed him at that moment.
Still clutching onto the memorabilia, he started to look around the ballroom as if he were expecting a voice to turn up.
“Here… everything happened in here…” he murmured, wandering in the hollow room like a soul stuck in purgatory. Everything was silent, the only sounds that occupied the space were their breaths and his footsteps. The ceiling was so dark he hardly saw the murals over them; it used to be a well-lit room, full of chattering, and tireless dancers.
He remembered how the chandeliers looked like pixie dust in the air. The small sizzles of champagne in the tall glasses. Masked faces moving in circles. The sway of the men’s tailcoats and ladies’ skirts across the floor. The sound of laughter and smiling voices while they spoke. His mother and father impressed the rest of the guests with their footwork on the dance floor. Maria’s daughters, who were all dressed as cygnets, were doing a simple ballet that they had recently learned at the side. The musicians played one piece after another as the audience would request an encore.
When the crowd dispersed from the dance upon the end of the Glinka’s mazurka*, a boy with golden hair and sunshine eyes trotted his way to the duchess with the brightest grin on his face. Maria was only twenty-seven at that time, but her sickness slowly drew out the youth from her body to the point that it physically hindered her. Since the beginning of the night, she had been sitting on her chair, watching her children and her friends prancing around like merry horses in the white light. Her husband was nowhere to be seen at that moment—so, she was left in this position where she only felt the coldness in her solitude. But when she saw her beloved godson, dressed as a bear, coming in her direction—she felt a comforting warmth enveloping her as if his presence alone was magic.
“How do you like the dance, my little Helios?” she asked with a weak smile on her face.
“I love it, Mama. But I don’t think I did well with the mazurka.”
Maria laughed, “You don’t need to worry about that, child. You will master it eventually, just like how you mastered the foxtrot within a week.”
His eyes turned serious all of a sudden, “But what about you, Mama? Don’t you want to dance, too?”
“You know I couldn’t dance for too long, child,” she brushed a strand of hair away from his face. “I mean I could, but I don’t think I could last. I’m simply happy that you are all happy.”
“… I would rather have you dance with us,” his chin started to tremble. “You told me that tonight is your last night with us.”
“…Yes, I did tell you I am going back to Moscow tomorrow,” she said, looking at him piteously. “But I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
The young boy only stared down at his shoes, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his parents talking to one of the nobles. “…I wish you could dance with us just for tonight. You keep saying that you are ‘happy,’ but you always look like you are ready to cry… and when you said ‘soon’, it almost sounds like you are not coming back… I don’t know when we will see each other again…”
The way he spoke sent shivers down her spine; there was something heartbreaking and melancholic in that child’s voice. And the look in his eyes reminded her of someone in desperation—it reminded her of her own eyes whenever she felt the overwhelming painfulness in her isolation. Had this boy been that lonely in his life? Did he realize that he was bound to survive in a life full of expectations and judgment? He was too young to know the bitter realities of the world. At least, they should let him be a child for a moment. But if that’s the case, she would do in her power to shield him from that suffering.
“Of course, we will see each other again!” she explained in a lighter tone. “You have to understand that I have to go back to Moscow so I can find a cure. That way—we could spend more time together. We could take a hike into the alps, hold parties, go to an opera—whatever you name, we could do it together as long as I could walk properly with you.”
He looked at her for a short while before he started blinking rapidly and avoided her gaze. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes had this glaze as if he were trying to hold himself from crying in front of her. Her only response was her touch, holding his little hand in hers. It was comforting, but the sight of his golden skin against the pallor of her worn-out hand only hurt him so much—a small drop of tear fell on her skirt.
From the background, the musicians started another piece—this time, it was softer, requiring the participants to dance slowly, which was the antithesis to the previously vivacious music. He refused to partake in the dance with the other children, and instead—volunteered to accompany the handicapped woman beside her. In thanking him, she thought of an idea and took out the music box from her purse.
“I know I said I couldn’t dance with you, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t.”
She winded the key—the two bears started to twirl and in came the bell-like sound of a lullaby.
He stood while she sat, holding her hand as if they were positioning for a waltz. They started moving their arms to and fro while they sang together.
Dancing bears, painted wings
Things I almost remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
He turned under her arm while she smiled blithely. Any time now, this boy would become a young man. She could see it, and she could see herself watching him grow in the sidelines, captivating the entirety of Paris with his golden touch.
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully
Across my memory
She got up from her seat, cradled him in her arms, and moved slowly with the music.
Far away, long ago
Glowing dim as an ember
Things my heart used to know
Things it yearns to remember
And a song someone sings
With the faltering strength in her knees, she sat down, still carrying the boy in her arms. From the crook of her neck, he looked and saw the face he would remember for the next one hundred years…
Once upon a December…
“Abel?”
As if waking up from a deep sleep, he jolted around and saw Anastasia standing five feet away from him. He looked around, realizing that he was sitting on the other end of the ballroom with the music box still in his grasp. He was back to reality where the lights no longer flicker in these empty halls, and everyone had left, sailing to the Elysian Fields. All of these, the crumbled edifice of the past glory, were nothing more than rubble. It could be repaired, but it would no longer be the same without the souls that once inhabited it. ‘Everything passes,’ Dazai was right. The past was a dream, melting away like snow in the rain.
Then there was Anastasia, slowly walking to him with an outstretched hand. Of course, she was there—she was always there for him. But he only dragged the poor woman to his own pathetic state. He realized how much of a fool he was to let her see this side of him—her husband, who was supposed to be the stronghold of their house. What did he do while he was in that unconscious state? Did it matter? No! He showed her enough of himself that could never be unseen. He thought he deserved punishment for his selfishness. They were laughing earlier, but then there they were—him on the floor while she could only watch him turning into a lunatic.
And yet, what he received was not condemnation—she kneeled down and wrapped her arms around him.
Anastasia would never forget the night her husband told him about the story of the family he considered his own. She couldn’t imagine the depth of his despair until she saw his ghost-like form wandering in that ballroom while repeating the only melody he remembered. She herself had lost two mother figures in her life—she knew what it was like to lose someone, she knew what Comte was going through. For a man who had lived for so long and had experienced nearly every chapter of history, the past will always haunt him to the very end. He would forever be tormented by his own immortality—an eternal sea of mourning after watching one life flicker away like a candle in the wind. That’s what she understood about him, and she acknowledged it. The best course of action was to help him alleviate his pain, to remind him of the present, and to be lost in their own happiness. She just loved him too much to abandon him like that.
The warmth of her body and the beating of her heart against his ear were the sweet reminders of her being alive. It was her gesture of love and promise that he would have someone to accompany him in his moments of loneliness. Comte had no other choice but to give in, pouring out all the remaining tears he held back from the beginning, filling the silence with the sobs of a man who finally admitted he was hurt, until he finally dropped the music box to the cracked floor.
They stayed in the same place for a while until she helped him to his feet. Without saying a word, Anastasia took his hand and led him into a slow dance, humming the same lullaby he played on that violin. A moment later, he decided to take the lead while also humming the same song with her. They moved across the room as if the gilded sun waltzed with the brightest star in the gray heaven. There were no other guests to accompany them to their dance, not even a musician or the music box itself was playing their song. It was just them—she let herself glide as her skirt was floating above her ankles. He held her close by the waist as he sang.
Far away, long ago
Glowing dim as an ember
Things my heart used to know
Things it yearns to remember
And a song someone sings
Comte felt immense relief in Anastasia’s caresses, returning the same affection with the sweetest kiss. Ah! The smell of mint was replaced by the scent of ambergris and saffron. The waltz was over, but neither dared to part.
Both eyes—gold and silver—stare at each other with longing. Yearning to spend the rest of their lifetime—their future—in each other’s embrace.
Once upon a December…