One for My Enemy

Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?” she asked him softly.

I will always love you, I will love you until the day I die— and if you’re the one to kill me, then by all means, you should know without a trace of doubt you will not have turned me away. I will have spent the final beat of my heart loving you, just as I always have. Only you, Masha. Only you, forever, I promise.

Hate and love were so very similar. Both were intestinal, visceral. Both left scars, vestiges of pain. Hate could not be born from a place of indifference. Hate was only born from opposite sides of the same coin.

If I ever decide to give my heart to you, Dima, she’d said, holding his hand palm up, then cut it out of my chest and keep it somewhere safe, where no one else can get to it. Keep it locked somewhere, she murmured, repeating the old stories as she brushed her lips against the lines of his palm: Inside a needle, inside of an egg, which is inside of a duck, which is inside a hare, which is in an iron chest—and then bury it under our green oak tree, Dima, where no one will ever find it. Keep it safe for me, Dima, will you?

Sometimes my eyes open and I know, somewhere in my bones, that I have formed myself to the shape of waking up beside you.

The past is nothing. We are everything.

Sashneka,” Marya said, “you are not incomplete because a piece of your heart is gone. You are you, an entire whole, all on your own. If you have loved and been loved, then you are richer for it; you don't simply become a smaller version of yourself simply because what you once had is gone.

Is it too late to love you, Lev Fedorov?” she asked him, her hands finding his, and he shook his head, pulling her with him. “Sasha, it’s never too late for us

My daughters are diamonds, as Yaga so often said. Nothing is more beautiful. Nothing shines brighter. And most importantly, nothing will break them.

Dimitri Fedorov, I already gave you my useless heart. Now, have everything else that matters. Have my loyalty, my right hand. Have everything that was once my mother’s and give me everything you once swore to Koschei. Give me all of you, take everything of me, and let’s see who stands against us then.

Don't forgive me...if you can't, and certainly don't love me...You'll only make fools of us both.

...she wore her love like a shield, like armor, and he ached for her; for what she was to him; for what they might have been.

We can’t curse all the men in the world, can we?” “Not in a single day, at least,

Because nobody will deny you anything the moment you stop denying yourself. Who could possibly have sovereignty greater than yours?” she asked, insistent. “Who on earth could have the right to refuse you, if you do not permit it? If this isn’t the way, Sasha, then find another one.

you don’t become a smaller version of yourself simply because what you once had is gone.

I’m keeping you from death, not letting you live. There’s a difference.

Sometimes an end is just a cleverly disguised beginning.

But by then his brother had disappeared, the bloodied sword left abandoned in a pool of crimson on the floor. Only then did Dimitri finally notice the cut across his chest; across his own heart, which for some reason did not stop beating despite the stillness where Marya Antonova’s should have been. He’d been so sure that it would, for having loved her; he’d been positive, once, that it would break, shatter, deliver itself to oblivion, all for love of her.

I could have been enough if you had ever let me.

Write me a tragedy, Lev Pedrov," she whispered to him. "Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart.

Marya Antonova was as mighty as a strike of lightning, and as difficult to hold. She was as captivating as fear, as undeniable as hunger, and he had loved her then—and loved her now—for all the tremor and the fury that she was.

Why didn’t you let me choose you?” he asked hoarsely. “I would have gone to you, Masha, if you’d asked. You would’ve only had to ask, and I would have chosen you over everything.

She was the sun, the moon, and the stars. She was fantasy incarnate, and she had chosen him.

It was no whispered confession. It was no gentle murmur in the dark. It was the truth, plain and bare, and she wasn’t vulnerable for having said it. Instead, she wore her love like a shield,

Are you afraid?” “I’m not afraid,” Sasha said, and as with all her daughters, Yaga believed her.

Whenever you’re ready. When you’ve finished making heaven and earth your domain, come back.

At best, Dimitri Fedorov was Marya Antonova’s greatest weakness. At worst, she was his.

(This one is not for you, he knew, but please, please, may I borrow her from someone else’s fate? May I have her until her stars change, or mine? May I worship her until I die, and may I give her all of me, for better or worse, or worse, or surely worse?)