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“...What can I do
When history’s my cage?”
- Tears for Fears, “Memories Fade” (1983)
—
October 3rd, 1990
Berlint, People’s Republic of Ostania (de jure)
Berlint, Federal Republic of Tomainia (de facto)
They stay at the Desmond mansion for the unification ceremony.
It had been Damian’s idea, not Anya’s. Even now, after all this time, she still can’t stand crowds, even if her nosebleeds have gotten better. Not that it would’ve made much of a difference given the headache that was sure to follow the cheering and shouting of the jubilant masses as the Ostanian flag was lowered for a final time. The design of the newly resuscitated nation had not been decided on yet; Damian’s government contacts knew nothing beyond the fact that it would not be the old imperial standard. No need to give even a sop to the reactionary elements of a state would be erased from world maps after today, even if the finer details about integration would take far longer than an afternoon. She’d considered protesting, of telling her husband that putting a good foot forward by having him (and by extension her) in attendance would be a good symbolic gesture but he’d deferred.
Anya and Damian huddle in one of the drawing room’s in their home’s eastern wing. None of the servants - a fact that she’s still getting used to, even after all this time - are around today to bother them. The Desmonds had let the hired help have the day off to celebrate with everyone else; some were even going to be seeing family members who had been separated from them for the first time in years by the once stringent security checkpoints dotted along the border. Today is a day of many things for the two of them, even if Anya is certain that their thoughts couldn’t be further apart from each other (a fact she has not bothered to check given she hasn’t read Damian’s mind since they’ve been married).
Her spot at the old piano in the rear of the room, close to a window overlooking the vast, almost palatial estate she’s inherited, is one she’s come to cherish. As much as she’d failed playing it the first year at Eden, she was glad she’d given it another go. She’ll never be able to forget the way Papa’s eyes had widened in surprise, then crinkled at the edges in approval or Mama’s ruby red pupils shimmering and sparkling underneath the music classroom in delight as they listened to her play, being told by her teacher that she was quite gifted, and that perhaps they should consider furthering her education once she graduated at university. Her fingers glide across the keys as a somber yet hopeful dirge fills every crack and crevice between her and Damian. Anya’s eyes occasionally flit over to the device sitting on a freestanding table a meter or so away, the reel-to-reel recorder whirring.
She indulges Damian in the strangest requests. Anya’s way of admitting mea culpa , perhaps, for all the times she asked completely bonkers things of him when the two of them were younger, such as a limited edition Bondman action figure here or an expensive peanut cake there. Anya is dressed to impress for their impromptu party of two. The robin’s egg blue slip dress sits pooled around her designer heels, tapping rhythmically against the feet of her station and her hair has been done into a fine bun, done up with pins she’d inherited long ago from a certain once famous assassin. Really, if it weren’t a formal event at a music hall she wouldn’t have bothered to do makeup but the glum, pathetic expression on Damian’s face this morning had convinced her to give it a go. After all, someone had to properly celebrate between them. Might as well be her.
Dull light fills the room, green, red, and blue spilling out from the face of the cathode ray tube-filled box that stands nearly to the ceiling, illuminating the Desmond scion, standing stock still as he watches with baited breath. The Reichstag , once a proud and imposing symbol of national might, looks as bleached and washed out as the scanlines that occasionally track across the screen. Despite the turnout - one of the largest political events ever, from what Papa had told her earlier this morning - it feels like a private funeral for one of the most feared governments this side of the eastern half of the continent.
Several more minutes tick by and then it is done. The dregs of Ostania’s armed forces, side by side with their Westalian counterparts, begin to fold the cloth and it disappears from view. The notes flowing underneath her fingertips come to a stop. The heir before her slumps his shoulders, the camel hair suit’s fabric stretching with the movement, as he runs a hand through his well-combed chestnut hair, ruining his own handiwork. For a moment, there is nothing but the muffled chatter of the newscasters, and the whine of equipment. He holds up a hand, motioning to Anya, and she follows his unsaid command. As she goes to turn off the object closest to her, Damian presses the stop button on the VCR near the stereo system.
“I guess,” he says simply, turning to look at Anya, “that’s that.” Even though the broadcast keeps going he does not bother to look back at it. There will be enough wall-to-coverage in the coming weeks and months that Anya is positive the two will be sick of it by the end.
“Guess it is,” she admits. Her gaze flits over Damian, studying him with the practiced precision of a spouse who’d lived so much with someone else that seeing something amiss would be as easy as knowing her own body’s aches or pains. Much as he’s tried to make himself look presentable to her, he’s a wreck. A mustache has begun to creep its way across his upper lip, his honey-colored eyes vacant, and if she were brave (and cruel) those deep bags reminded her of Demetrius and…
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, interrupting her train of thought. “I look like shit. I’ll freshen up later.” The crystal glass gripped tightly between his thin fingertips is raised, and he knocks back the whiskey within it, the ice cubes clinking against one another. “It’s just… I can't believe it’s all over.”
Damian, much like Papa, like Mama, and even herself, is a liar. In a sense it will never be over. Yet Anya wouldn’t be telling the truth if she were to tell him that a part of her is glad that she’ll never have to look at a constant symbol of her country of birth ever again outside of museums she’ll only pretend to care about for charity events. Those thoughts, however, stay only in her mind as she gets up to waltz over to her confidante. He pauses as she approaches, and gives her one of those stupidly soft, gentle smiles that when she was younger had taken her by surprise but now she takes for granted. “I know that’s not how you wanted to spend your afternoon, but it meant something to me. I just…” he pauses, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in uncertainty, “...felt like there needed to be one Desmond there to act as a pallbearer. I’ll have to find someone to put your piece to the footage, but I’ll get it done.”
“Hard to believe you wanted to do all of that for a country you hated,” Anya says, a chuckle escaping her lips as she absentmindedly adjusts Damian’s tie. “I’m pretty sure you’re putting more effort into this than you did footage for our wedding. Part of me feels a teensy-tiny bit insulted, you know.”
A short, barking laugh makes its way out of Damian’s lips as he rolls his eyes, swatting away her working fingers softly. “What can I say, I’m the brooding artist that my great-great-grandfather was. Skipped several generations, but inspiration finally came back to me. Most women would be grateful to be married to someone as brilliant as that, wouldn’t you say? Besides, I think it was Emile who recommended me to the videographer anyway.”
“When did I say I’d forgiven him?” Anya said tartly, taking her own turn to roll her eyes. “If you’d gone with the one George had mentioned, then…”
“There’s no way you were going to let Glooman pick an aspect of the wedding and you know it.”
“I seem to remember that he was nearly your compromise pick as best man because you couldn’t decide between Emile and Ewen.”
“Bill wasn’t available! That was the only reason!” Damian said, somewhat exasperated, the boy he’d once been briefly surfacing before he submerged again just as quickly as he’d come. “Besides, you dated him at one point.”
“Had someone I know been a bit more punctual in asking me out, I wouldn’t have had to.”
“Had to? My, my… hadn’t known you were tha t hard up back then for some company.”
“Shut up,” Anya says, though it’s without venom and she smiles in spite of herself. Part of her didn’t want to admit aloud that, as corny as it was to say now, part of her had been drawn to the whole ‘misunderstood poet’ thing he’d had going on then in college and she was glad that they’d at least parted on good terms. Little compatibility and he’d found someone else within the following week… though Becky’s appalled look every time Anya’s then relationship was brought up may have also played a factor. Much as her husband didn’t want to admit it, his (distant) cousin always was on his side.
“What’d Pops say earlier?” Damian asked, changing the subject as he walked away from Anya, taking his handkerchief out of his breast pocket with a snap, placing the navy blue square down onto the rich oak of his side of the room at a table next to a well-worn paperback. “Do your parents want to do anything to celebrate?”
“Papa’s always speaking out of both sides of his mouth,” Anya said with a resigned sigh. With age, she’d been hopeful that her adoptive father would relax and just her and Mama especially know what it was he really wanted. Bad habits die hard, Anya supposed. “I think that even though he says they’re okay he really means Mama is and that he’d probably like to go somewhere later so we can all reassure him this isn’t a dream.”
“Sounds just like him,” Damian says, voice coated with sympathy. “Can’t blame him either. I, uh, remember reading before how hard it was for some soldiers to return home after a war.” He walks over to her again, standing next to her as he reaches down to give her hand a quick squeeze, rough calluses moving across her dainty skin. “Maybe… maybe we could give everyone a call later and turn it into a party. Your uncles, aunts, Demetrius, mother. Surprise the two of them, you know? I think they’d both enjoy that.”
If there’s one thing about herself that Anya is annoyed with, it's how much growing up has affected her. She will never, ever take for granted how many blessings she’s received in the form of family, friends, opportunities, and literal material wealth. All the stuffy know-it-all adults had been right that it put things into perspective. However, despite that, the four walls that she wakes up in every day now don’t feel like home. Damian does, but the place they live in does not. Perhaps it never will. For a long time, she’d searched for the reason why, and had come up with nothing. Now… Now as her mind wanders back to the lowered Ostanian flag she thinks she finally understands.
“I miss them,” she says suddenly, looking down at him, not even sure where she’s going with her confession or what she’s hoping to hear in response to it. “All of them. It’s stupid to be nostalgic for people you can walk to, or take a car ride to see, but sometimes I feel lonely since I’m so used to them being there that when they’re not…” she trails off, words failing her.
“Stupid?” Damian asks, tilting his head as he stares up at her. “No, it isn’t. You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve, Anya. When someone cares about you, it’s not the same to know they’re simply there for you; you want to be able to feel it too. I understand.”
Damian does, more than all the others. Even her parents. When he looks at her, it fills Anya with something completely unnameable - beyond companionship, beyond love - to the point where it feels like she’ll burst. The air suddenly feels hot and stuffy, even though the nearby fireplace isn’t lit, and the coolness of the early October air leaking ever so slightly through the drafty windows. Her cheeks heat and, she’s sure, are nearly matching the shade of her hair. Somewhere along the way, the bratty boy who had made her tear up on more than one occasion from his snide remarks had found exactly what to say. When did she let that happen anyway? Anya couldn’t remember, but she’d always be grateful that she’d always kept her faith that someday he’d see reason.
Anya chooses to stiffly nod, turning away from him as she does so, trying not to cry. “I wish you could’ve done so sooner.” It’d taken her a long time to forgive Melinda and Demetrius, but she’d made her peace with them in the end. They were victims too in their own ways. But not him . Never him . One of the first things she’d changed had been to scrub every photograph, every portrait, of the man from their world, something she noted that none of the longtime workers had objected to when she’d brought it up.
“...Same,” Damian says after a moment’s hesitation. Anya can hear the footsteps behind her, she can feel his eyes staring at her, but he doesn’t close the gap. “What’s done is done. For you, for me, and all the rest. We’ll find some way to carry on; we always have.”
How annoyingly stoic. Frequently, Anya wishes he’d be the firecracker he used to be. Quick to let the world know his thoughts, damn the consequences. Anya has become terribly domesticated herself. She can’t be mad, and that’s the worst part of it all. He’s right. It drives her up the wall how often he is.
“The party sounds like a great idea. I’ll call them in a few minutes. Just let me collect myself first, okay?” She spins, her dress swishing around her, and she hits him with a smile that causes a boyish blush to creep its way across his pallid cheeks. “Don’t worry about me. Please. I’ll be fine. Just another mission for Agent Starlight, you know?”
Damian pauses for a moment, expression searching, but evidently he finds what he’s looking for. He crosses the room, the well-polished floor causing his shoes to squeak, as he leans up to give her a kiss. Even now, they’re somehow always utilitarian and endearing at the same time, a trait she wonders if he shares with Papa. Then, just like that, he gives her a trusting nod and moves past her, retreating towards the exit. “Don’t be too long. You know how much I don’t like talking to restaurants. I know, I know,” he says with a wave of his hand, “they don’t like us splurging on them, but today’s an important day. It’s the start of the rest of our lives. We should finally live a little.” Then, as if he hadn’t said something profound, her Sy-on Boy leaves, hands in his brown suit pockets and out the ornate door, and leaving her with her thoughts.
For a moment, she sees them all. As they were when she was a five-year-old pretending to be six, when she’d been at university years later, and everything in between; it’s a time lapse of all the people she’s known since Papa scooped her up from the orphanage, from when Mama had joined their family, and her circle had become complete. They beckon for her, gesturing towards the door to follow Damian, but she halts warily. There is nothing to be afraid of anymore; she should be at peace. Yet it all feels too good to be true, a feeling in her gut that says even though one chapter has finished, there’s another waiting for her on the next page. But as she stands there, watching the sea of faces watch her, she thinks she understands at last. This is the thing that Papa promised her and every other child when he agreed to take over Operation Strix so long ago.
The freedom to not know what comes next.
Anya smiles.