Final Song of the Firebird
Fiction - by Jennifer Brinn
Rurik's hands brushed along Tatiana's arms as she arched them above her head. He leaned with her as the violins chased the woodwinds up the scale. Together they spun across the stage, small leaps becoming larger with every measure. Around them swirled the rest of the company, every step a counterpoint to the prima ballerina and her partner. He'd locked down his own song until sometimes he forgotten he'd once been akin to a god.
Tatiana's powdered-white face showed only the emotions of the part. On any other stage, in any other performance, she'd have abandoned herself to the dance, to the music. And he’d be nested within the part of him where he pretended his magic still had a place.
Tonight that respite was not to be.
The audience in the small theater in the outskirts of Moscow was clogged with Party members and KGB rather than ballet followers. If they liked what they saw, the company could dance on tour around the world, as the pride of the U.S.S.R. The pressure had built for months, and Tatiana had pushed herself hard. Every step she took echoed with a hidden weariness from too many late hours and long practices.
The corps de ballet swirled around them on the tips of their toes. The music swelled, as fine an orchestra as the Soviet Union could produce, and Rurik sighed into it, reaching into the trill of flutes, his arms weaving the visuals produced by the violins’ bows, as if on the notes alone he could fly. As if he had wings again.
A close spin, a flutter of kicks to the percussion's beat. Dip, jump, bow, bounce. A hand extended to catch his partner—only she was a step behind. A quick hop closed the distance, but under her makeup Tatiana's face was flushed. Too many late nights, pushing herself too hard, and still she hoped she would dance in Paris. It was in her eyes.
Rurik's feet wouldn't be at home on French boards. If the company was chosen, this was his last dance.
The violins vibrated notes so pure they stole the breath, and then it was Rurik's steps that kept the beat. Three leaps across to Tatiana's side. His hands on her waist as they spun. She quivered against him, her arms arching above her head. Apart then together, they moved as one across the stage. This close, his senses alive in the music, he could detect the underlying problems with Tatiana's health. The long hours with little rest that robbed her of her strength. The ankle that never healed quite right from a sprain. The cramps that rode from her toes through her thighs, products of over-worked muscles and not enough good food. She hid it all beneath her natural talent, but the importance of the evening picked away at her nerves.
One note from him would prevent disaster. It was a small thing. He'd done it before, rarely, spending from the one great song that was his life force, his immortality. The key to his rebirth. One second to decide before his hands left her hips. A pure burst of song, lost among the trill of the flutes. The spotlight would hide the flush of light that shimmered around him. One note wouldn't reveal wings and fire. Not now, in this place without gods or magic.
Was there enough fancy in the audience's eyes that they would ignore that tendril of smoke that glowed as it wrapped itself around the ballerina's waist? Would they assume a prop's emanations that curled down her legs to infuse the ribbons on her shoes? Would they even notice that in that tiny moment when Tatiana arced over the stage she might be flying?
Her landing barely vibrated the floor as her foot struck and her ankle held. She swept away from him, invigorated, glissading into a perfect pointe.
Applause and curtain. All that was left was waiting.
A rap at the door announced visitors. He rose to answer it, expecting Tatiana or perhaps the dance master with the news, but it opened before he crossed the room. A man and woman entered, both dressed in official state uniforms. They greeted him with the standard "we're all comrades" phrasing but the sword and shield pins on their lapels said they were anything but the usual. KGB. Rurik stilled as if he were a bird in a tree, spotted by a bear just out of hibernation and hungry.
"I am Liudmila Fyodrovna and this is Nicolai Petrovych," the woman said. She was small and thin as the dancers’ barre, but her voice filled the room with just a hint of a Kiev accent. She was descended from the Rus, Rurik's people, and despite her position as a State official Rurik couldn't ignore the kinship to her. He nodded a greeting but didn't bother to introduce himself. They'd know already.
"You weren't at the announcement." The man was a hand-span shorter than Rurik, with close-cropped hair and beard. His accent was the bland maybe-Moscow typical of those who moved up in the agency. There were hints underneath that said Nicolai didn't speak Russian from birth but later, as a child.
"Why would I be?" As always, he kept his voice a whisper. Yes, Tatiana had encouraged him to come despite his legendary hatred of the sterile meeting room and its close gray walls. He'd even been tempted to be there, to feel her joy as her dream to dance in Paris became real. Yet he couldn't, in the end. He didn't want his last memory of the company to be of a cage.
"Don't you care if your company is worthy of representing the Union like the Grand Ballet itself?"
"They worked hard. You'll will grant it or not. As befits the Union. My presence doesn't change that." Not like the past when a single trill could affect the course of a war or bring two Muscovy princes together in peace.
Rurik sat down at his dressing table. The magic of the stage, illusions in bright paints and glittering powders, sat in neat rows in front of him. He dared not look in the mirror. What could it show him? His true self, the body of flame, with feathers that shone like they were made of gold? The graceful arc of his beak? The tail, so long and proud that it left curls of fire on the ground as he passed?
Or would he only see what he was now, a worn-down dancer whose career was about to leave him behind? Even Baba Yaga was barely more than the loud fishwife at the corner market. All of them, hidden or withdrawn into the Nine-Tenths Land, abandoned by the people they'd given their souls to.
"The Company Ballet will perform a tour of the world," Liudmila said. "Show off how much better our dancers are than any the West can provide. You will be leaving shortly for Canada."
"Not me. I have no desire to travel outside Ru—outside the Union."
"Of course you don't," Liudmila said. She found a pitcher of water on a side table and poured a glass. She set it in front of Rurik. "Though you should want to put the rest of the world to shame."
"I don't care about what the rest of the world thinks. They should come here if they wish to see us."
"We need to prove it. We need them to see that on the dance stage, we've beaten them. We've won."
"Ballet isn't a competition."
"Everything's a competition."
Nicolai held up a hand. "A true patriot would do what is required by their country."
"You can't call me unpatriotic if I don't want to leave."
"We have paid for your training and your life here. You don't go, you lose it all. Very well, you stay here. As will the rest of the company. Since they won't perform as required, the entire troupe will be considered criminals. They stole from the State."
Meaning exile to a gulag in Siberia. If they were lucky. Prison would destroy most of the dancers. Delicate Svetlana was so thin she'd never survive the harsh Novosibirsk winters. Georgi was hardy, but his spirit would break easily. And Tatiana's dream would die and not be reborn.
Just a little song could stop the threats, let Tatiana go dance across the world as she was meant to. It was worth the risk that they'd know him for what he truly was.
Flames flushed his human skin. They'd be dancing now in his eyes, seen by those who truly believed. The essence of fire, the heat of transformation and purification, filled his mouth. Sweet smoke scented the air. The music of the ballet infused itself into his breath. He opened his mouth to speak.
Liudmila grabbed up the glass of water on the dressing table, still full and untouched.
The first note stunned Nicolai but not her. She dashed the water into Rurik's face. The fire fled him as he choked on the liquid. Steam and smoke scraped at his lungs, strengthening the cough.
"Now, now. No need for all that." She was the one on fire now, blazing with the truth of a Believer. She knew him for what he was. She knew what he was and was willing to use it against him.
"Very good," Nicolai said. "I almost believe it myself."
"You don't need to believe," Liudmila snapped. She smiled at Rurik. "He is going to bring us the glory we ask for."
The carpet beneath Rurik's feet was more colorful than the gray of Moscow's airport, but it was false cheer. His legs trembled, giving his steps a jerky motion that brought laughter to the other dancers. He laughed too, as false as the ground beneath him. Not home. Not where he belonged.
His fingers tightened around his one carry-on bag, its only contents a change of clothes in case his luggage was lost. The KGB handlers would take care of the cargo of costumes, makeup, and assorted props that traveled the world with them. To prevent contraband, of course, though the stated reason of protecting the assets of the troupe was probably also true.
The troupe gawked at Calgary as they traveled through unfamiliar streets to the hotel. Another cage for delicate birds under guard. Gilded with plush fabrics, excited staff, and fancy mini-bars they were forbidden to touch. Rurik, being one of the leads, had his own room. Not even an agent stationed with him. They guarded the stairs and elevators instead.
Nicolai and Liudmila arrived shortly after Rurik had settled his bag on the floor of the closet. He let them in and waved for them to sit, as if they needed his permission to perch on the uncomfortable chairs that huddled around a small table. Liudmila did so, but Nicolai remained standing just inside the doorway holding a briefcase.
"You weren't brought here just to dance, Rurik." Liudmila said. "The Union has a special task for you."
"I can read the signs as well as any amateur fortune-teller."
Nicolai smiled. "I'm sure you can." He pulled a file out of his briefcase and passed it to Liudmila, who handed it to Rurik without looking at it. "This is Aleksi Mikaelovich."
Rurik took the folder and flipped it open. A young man's face stared out of a grainy picture. Neatly typed forms detailed the man's life, but Rurik ignored the pages. If it was important, Nicolai would tell him. The man didn't seem like the type to leave crucial information to mere paper.
"He's a chess player. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
"If he doesn't dance, I don't know of him." It was hard to tell from the picture if this Aleksi was Rus or not. The way the Union moved people around he could be from anywhere. Not that it mattered. He glanced at Liudmila. "Is he representing the Union's glory? Chess is properly competitive."
"Amusing," she said. "No, he doesn't play for the Union anymore."
Nicolai shoved off the wall and stalked to the mini-bar across the room. He opened it and cursed the lack of good vodka.
Rurik waited until Nicolai had turned back to him before he spoke. "He defected."
"Yes."
"Under your supervision?"
"You don't miss anything, do you, Firebird?" Nicolai's affected ease had melted away. "Which is good, because you will bring him back to us, along with the Fabergé egg he stole."
"How did—" Rurik cut off his questions. Nicolai's rage blazed like a conflagration hidden just under the surface. This Aleksi had the gall not just to steal himself from under the man's watchful eye, but he had taken something Nicolai valued. This was more personal than simply recapturing a lost citizen. Even a chess champion wasn't worth the manpower. But to lose twice to the same man? That was what drove Nicolai.
"Do you want him or the egg?"
"Both, preferably. Use your pretty voice to lure him to me before the performance."
There was little security at the conference center where the chess tournament was held. Since Rurik was a man alone, even his Russian accent didn't raise any alarms. Didn't they worry that the Soviets would steal their prize back if they could? They'd sent him for the egg if it wasn't possible to get the chess master. They'd had no idea he could walk in and find Aleksi just by reading the event map.
The room Aleksi played in was filled with other matches. The large room was well-lit, yet darkness hovered in the air with the silence that swallowed the games. Hands tapped buttons on clocks, their clicks too weak to do anything but keep time. The pieces waited for hands to move them, patient and ready, but the soft-backed mats they rested on held the players' secrets like each was a miniature Kremlin.
Rurik headed for the observation area. The industrial carpet picked at the bottom of his shoes, its slightly sticky grab no more enthusiastic than the empty decor. He took a deep breath. Relaxing wasn't an option. Singing, screaming, to fill the room wasn't an option. He forced his feet, so light on the boards, so heavy in these foreign shoes, to get him to where he could see his target.
Aleksi had changed over the past few years since the picture had been taken. His hair was longer, and he wore clothes marked with American logos. The glasses perched on his nose were brown-rimmed rather than black. Next to the double clock that kept time was a small American flag. His opponent was from Canada. Out of curiosity, Rurik scanned the games until he found the red and gold of the Soviet flag. Flags were symbols for men, not spirits, but even with the KGB and its soulless Union, it was like touching a piece of home.
Rurik returned his attention to the game. Chess was ancient, with a power all its own as if the game itself was mystical. The players believed in it, some even playing out of nationalistic fervor, lending a whisper of magic to the room. Rurik had played some over the centuries of his many lives. Maybe once free from this KGB gilded cage he'd take on a new life as a chess player. He'd just be careful to never be good enough at it to attract their attention again.
Aleksi was Rus. It was evident in the Slavic lines of his face. Some distant ancestors had ridden the Viking longboats into northern harbors and then marched east across the great forests to settle deep among the long winters to thrive despite the challenges the Moist Mother Earth laid out for them. Aleksi's people had survived rusalka and bears and deep ice that reached in with cold that could snap bones and shatter the will. The man who casually hopped his knight across the board still had a place inside his heart for house spirits and the mysteries of the gods.
A queen slid three spaces. A pawn advanced. A check, a dancing king, a dodge with a bishop, and then finally the opponent was forced to concede. Rurik met Aleksi at the door to the great hall.
"Well fought," he said in Russian, letting only the tiniest hint of his power into the words.
Aleksi's eyes narrowed. Sweat dried on his brow but the fatigue evaporated with instinctual fear. "Thank you," he said in English.
Rurik had never made a study of other languages. But Aleksi was of his people, and he heard the meaning of the man's speech from a place deeper than words. He let Aleksi pass by without stopping him. Too many people for him to sing without a crowd seeing his power, and it wasn't as if the chess player would keep the egg with him at the table. But Aleksi turned and waved him forward.
"It's been a long time since I've spoken with someone from home." Loneliness warred across his face with the fear. "I won't go back there."
Rurik nodded, knowing that he'd have to make a lie of Aleksi's words. He kept every hint of power out of his voice. "You must want to know of home."
"Yes." Then he shook his head. "No, it is no longer home."
Rurik heard the lie in those words. How had Aleksi had the strength to live so far from where his true heart lay? "Perhaps you can give me news of your new home?"
"Then let us eat and talk."
Aleksi took care to make sure they were never completely alone as he led Rurik down the street to a restaurant. It specialized in steaks and was apparently a local favorite. The place was full of noisy diners sitting under stylized cows from Western movies. When the host was frowning over available seating, the temptation to use a little power to encourage cooperation coiled under Rurik's skin, but he kept his mouth shut. He couldn't tell if Aleksi was a true believer or not, and even if he saw the power for what it was, whether he could put a name to it. Still, too much danger lay in being recognized.
A perky waitress chattered to them as she led them to a table. Rurik couldn't understand her English words, but Aleksi spoke with confidence and through their homeland connection he found he could grasp the gist of the conversation. He didn't feel he needed to add to the small talk, however, and maintained his silence until they'd been left alone with their menus.
Menus he couldn't read. Aleksi shot him a sympathetic look once he noticed the furrow Rurik knew marked his forehead.
"You can tell me what kind of food you like, or I can—"
"I am happy with whatever you choose." Rurik's need for actual food was minimal anyway, as long as he had music.
"Back home, what is your favorite?"
"Apples," Rurik murmured, wistful.
"They might have a pie." Aleksi shook his head and set down the menu. "But that's not why you're here. Either the Union sent you, or you're here on curiosity. Which is it?"
He could answer with lies, sweet as honey, basted with the power that made men believe. That's what Nicolai wanted. But Rurik could do that at any point. His weapon was not one dulled by time or circumstance. It didn't require anything but that the listener hear his song. So why not enjoy speaking to someone from home, someone not clothed in sterile government rhetoric?
"I am here with the ballet." Truth, not the whole of it, but enough.
"And your keepers let you out alone?"
The waitress reappeared to take their order. Aleksi navigated the translations without too much trouble. Calgary was neither Aleksi's native home nor even his adopted one, yet he spoke and moved with an ease that Rurik hadn't known in what felt like centuries. Even in dance on stage in Moscow, Rurik was barely comfortable in this human skin. The music let him forget on occasion, but it was always there. He was a fire banked far too long.
"So I ask again," Aleksi said after the waitress had retreated, "where are your handlers?"
"I—" More lies dancing with truth on his tongue. He held onto the darkest part. "They don't need handlers to keep me in line. They threaten everyone and everything I care about."
"That's what they always say."
"That's because they always hold the keys to the cage."
Aleksi accepted the salads from the waitress, thanking her in English before returning to Russian. He changed the subject. Through the rest of the meal they compared chess and ballet, avoiding the very topic Rurik needed to discuss. Yet Rurik was reluctant to bring it back up. An echo of sadness clung to Aleksi, but the man loved his game. Whose side he was on seemed so incidental to the intricacies of gambits and counter-moves that took on a musical cadence no matter what language Aleksi used.
Slipping back into the hotel proved easy, although Rurik hadn't expected Tatiana to be waiting outside his door. She stared at him, dressed as he was in clothes with American tags, skulking as he was down the hallway from the elevator. She was a prima ballerina, used to pretending on the stage, so she smoothed the hurt and betrayal from her face. It didn't hide the pain at her core. That struck him as if he'd been kicked by her powerful legs.
Puzzled, he froze. The power he'd been rippling around him like a feathered cloak fell away. Her flash of white-hot anger boiled across the space between them.
"I'm not trying to leave," he whispered.
The agent at the end of the hall, next to the stairwell, suddenly took notice of them and spoke into a radio. Nicolai and the others would be here within moments. He needed to heal the damage he'd done. So raw, her emotions were opened to him to read. Tatiana had always been one of his favorites, true Rus in the center of all those plucked out of distant places that all waved the same hammer and sickle flag. Ruled by the same government, but not Rurik's.
"Tatiana—"
She trembled. "I want to dance in Paris. Please don't ruin that."
"That's why I'm on the tour!" Where were his wings that he could beat against the cage bars? Frustration coated his skin like a sheen of sweat, and he knew it tumbled out like the words that carried it. "If not for Paris, if not for you, I'd be home in Russia, where I belong."
Tatiana bounced on the balls of her feet. Rurik's emotions swirled around her like smoke, and she breathed it in before he could stop her.
"We aren't stupid, Rurik,” she hissed. “We know they have you doing something for them." She held up her hands. "No, don't tell me. I can't dance in Siberia. You should be their trained bear and be done with it so we can get back to the ballet."
Suddenly her voice was loud. (narrative sections moved to clarify attributions throughout this passage.) "I think we should try the new lift in practice.” Rurik hoped he was the only one in the hallway who heard the bitter undertone. “If it works, we'll bring even more glory to the Union."
"You're very diligent,” Nicolai said, drawing even with them, “but now is the time for rest." His gaze flickered over Rurik but then focused on Tatiana. "Might I escort you back to your room?"
They left without another glance. Rurik opened his door. He propped it open by leaving the chain between the door and the jamb and settled in to wait for Nicolai, who returned with Liudmila after a few minutes.
Rurik gave his report in a barely audible whisper. Nicolai and Liudmila seemed annoyed to have to lean in to hear, but they didn't ask him to speak up. He didn't mention any of the substance of his conversations with Aleksi, keeping details to a minimum.
"You spoke with him over the course of a dinner, and yet neither he nor the egg is here with you." Nicolai's voice was tight but even. He turned to look at Liudmila. "I thought you assured me—"
"Comrade, I—"
"He didn't have the egg with him." Rurik let a tongue of power flicker in his words to cut through the tension. Liudmila believed in Rurik, but she also believed in her Union. For the second time in a few brief minutes one of Rurik's people was so angry with him it ached in his chest. He tried to wrap a cage around his own emotions. "I could have claimed one but not the other."
"You could have convinced him to go get it," Liudmila snapped.
Rurik couldn't find a good answer to that. Instead, he went to the mini-bar in search of more vodka. A shallow, fake piece of home when home didn't belong to him anymore.
Liudmila cursed. Nicolai snarled at her to be quiet. Rurik couldn't read him the way he could one of his own, but Nicolai's intensity sang forth. Threats bubbled on the man's tongue, and only his calculations kept his demeanor in check.
"The tournament and the ballet last all weekend. You'll invite Aleksi to the ballet and we'll take him there."
"What if he won't come?"
"You'll be more convincing. And tell him to bring the egg." Nicolai took the bottle from Rurik's hand and gave it a sneer before tossing it in the trash. "You do it, or your ballet will need a new prima ballerina."
"You'd punish her to get to me?"
"I thought that was clear in Moscow." Nicolai pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This may make it easier."
The envelope held a single ticket to see the ballet. It wasn't the best seat in the house, but it would be on the aisle, where the KGB could sweep down and snatch their prey.
"And," Nicolai added as he opened the door to leave, "make sure he brings the egg."
Aleksi was playing against the Soviet player when Rurik returned to the chess competition. His opponent was from one of the far-flung provinces of the Union. If he'd ever known of Rurik's kind, it didn't show. Rurik stood apart from the crowd, not following the game itself. The players told him what he needed to know. The tension clouded the air around the table. The Soviet's handlers were waiting on the sidelines, as apart from what was happening as Rurik. They paid Rurik no mind at all. He'd have found that interesting if he hadn't expected it. Why would Nicolai tell them anything? He didn't need human agents. He had his trained bear ready to dance for him.
The match ended in a draw. That's all Rurik could hope for as well. As Aleksi left the tournament room, Rurik fell into step beside him. Aleksi greeted him with a weary hello. A discourse on anything else would have been appealing, but Rurik couldn't afford that.
"I brought you a ticket for the ballet. You should come, it will clear your mind for your matches tomorrow." The lie was hollow. Rurik spoke at normal volume but couldn't summon the power into it.
Aleksi shook his head. "No, sorry. I don't know anything about the ballet. I need to focus on my practice."
Rurik slowed his pace until the crowd leaving the room passed them by. He closed his eyes and pictured Tatiana, and what Nicolai would do to her. Even if he left her unharmed, when her dreams died another piece of himself would die along with it. That had to be fuel enough for the fire. He played the music in his head, the Firebird ballet he'd inspired so many years ago. Someone had to fly free. He had to choose.
"Are you well?"
Rurik opened his eyes. Aleksi chose to leave. Rurik didn't, couldn't, agree with Nicolai's determination to pull him back into the fold. "Do you have the Fabergé egg?"
Startled, Aleksi stepped back. "I don't—"
"You do." It was written in the sudden panic on his face. "Maybe that's all Nicolai really wants. He doesn't need you back, no matter the fool you made of him."
"He's not getting either." Aleksi kept backing away, ready to run as soon as he saw a clear path.
Rurik stilled him with a note. "Just give me the egg to give back to him." His power rumbled underneath the words.
"No." Aleksi's voice was a whisper. "No, it was my family's. He stole it. I just took it back."
A family story wove itself in Rurik's mind. Aleksi didn't know how it came to be theirs, a fleeting image of a favored grandmother as a young woman at the Winter Palace, before the fall of emperors. Back when magic could be worn openly. Taken by the KGB, waved tauntingly before a boy. The boy who then stole back his family's honor and escaped his own gilded cage.
Rurik made himself speak, his pain turned to power in every word, spending more notes of his song than he needed to, just to get it all out before he wavered. "You will come to the ballet tonight. You will bring the egg with you."
Fire danced behind Aleksi's eyes. He nodded, took the ticket, and left.
Even the music couldn't get into Rurik's head that evening. The steps were automatic, without poetry, his attention on the seat where a bewildered Alexi sat. Only the supernatural grace of a being of myth kept Rurik from stepping on the toes of the company as the ballet progressed through the first half.
As the dance reached the sequence of lifts just before intermission, Nicolai and Liudmila slipped into the theater like upyr, the hunting undead of home. They moved slowly, deliberately, their feet unwittingly paired with the beat of the music. Every part of Rurik wanted to reach out, by will and power, and slow the musicians, still their bows and trills, halt the drums in mid-strike.
He didn't.
He lifted Tatiana, barely aware of her in his hands, following the steps by rote.
Nicolai bent to speak to Aleksi. Rurik lost the beat.
The throw was off, too fast. Tatiana gasped. She stretched back, trying to adjust, but she took the full force of the landing on her weak ankle. The crack broke the music like a gunshot.
Her scream tore through him colder than any Russian winter. Her pain throbbed through him and out in a wash, jangling the last few notes from the orchestra into silence.
Rurik dropped to his knees, one last glance to the fearful Aleksi as he was dragged towards the exit. He attempted to speak, but his voice was an eagle's scream. The curtained walls tried to swallow the sound, but it was more than could be muffled by mere cloth. The audience flinched, their fearful words without meaning but loud, so loud.
He bent to Tatiana. She sobbed, hugging her leg, bone protruding and blood dripping, running along her skin, dyeing her shoes. On any other stage, this would be the last time she touched the boards as a dancer.
But this was Rurik's stage. He'd failed her. He'd fix it.
He took her leg in his hands, the pain echoing up and down his own legs. He sang, softly at first, picturing her as she should be. Dancing for tsars and gods, not for mortals who wielded her like a weapon.
Voice rising, he reached for a song so ancient it came from ancestors who'd crossed mountains, transforming themselves from boating raiders into the Rus. The notes vibrated through skin and muscle and bone, filling in the cracks, pulling together the tendons, cleansing flame burning away the injury.
Rebuilding the way the ancients did, shaped by winters and wars into the strongest people they could be. The Rus had forgotten who they were. Rurik's songs never would. They'd rise again from the ashes with inner fire. Just like Tatiana.
She burst into flames as his song filled her. Every weakness, every ache, every deprivation stripped away. She still screamed, for even Rurik couldn't take away the pain of the burning. Her voice a counterpoint to his song, part of it, the pain of history, of frail mortal choices.
The song ended, the last notes reforging her anew. She stared at Rurik, her face tear-stained, even as the memory of pain faded into smoke.
"Dance as if you can fly, always, Tatiana," he whispered. The spotlight finally cut out, leaving him alone in a faint glow that came from his skin.
The audience in the hall blinked in confusion. Rapt, awed, a little afraid, a little joyful. They didn't know what they'd seen, but there was a current of hope there. They were not his people, not by blood, but at this moment, they had become his just as much as Tatiana.
As much as Aleksi.
Rurik ran to the front of the stage. He leapt over the orchestra pit, following the terror that turned Aleksi into a beacon, a call for help from the bottom of his soul.
Rurik arrived as Nicolai ripped the handle of a small brown suitcase from Aleksi's hand. Liudmila was behind Aleksi, her gun pressed against his back. Around them, the street had cleared of anyone not KGB.
"Get in the car. Now!" Nicolai spun to face Rurik. He clutched the suitcase close. "Thank you, dancer."
Rurik opened his mouth to sing.
"Don't," Liudmila spun from Aleksi, her gun now pointed at Rurik's chest. "Don't make me do this."
Nicolai scoffed. His inability to believe filled the air as if it were a shield. "Ignore him. He's done his duty to the Union."
He shoved Aleksi in. Aleksi's disappointment, the icy wind of his betrayal sapping his soul, hit Rurik like a spike.
"You can't have him." He no longer whispered. His voice echoed on the walls.
"We already do. And my egg." Nicolai waved a hand at Liudmila and the other agents. "Let's go."
Rurik met Liudmila's gaze. He reached out, a breathless hum, looking for the part that believed.
She shook her head. Her eyes widened, her left hand rising as if to block out the sound. For a moment, all the sound was just Rurik's plea.
"No!" She screamed the word, her hands tightening as she fired as fast as she could pull the trigger. Her belief in the Soviet Union struck with the bullets.
Nicolai yelled something, but Rurik could only hear the wrong anthem in his head. The pain was hot, sticky, like a summer heat wave that couldn't be escaped.
He let go of his mortal trappings. His cry was larger than an eagle's, deeper than a bear's roar. Flesh fell away into fire. Wings kept so long folded unfurled. The heat drove back the other KGB agents. If they shot at him, Rurik didn't notice.
There were empty spots on the Firebird's chest, dark patches where the bullets had done their damage. Even that pain was lost among the flames.
Talons dug at the sidewalk, ripping away concrete. The Soviet Union, their lack of gods and spirits and all that made up the land and the blood, had pushed away Rurik's world.
Liudmila's strength wavered, her belief swinging back to Rurik.
"You would use me, throw me away for temporal power?" His long neck swiveled so he could see her. She backed away from him. He snapped his beak at her.
He severed the link between them. She was no longer Rus by blood or soul.
Her gun clattered to the ground. She fell away, her tears lost in the roar of his flames.
Nicolai had frozen in place, faced with something he couldn't imagine. It might have broken a lesser man. The other agents had, fleeing or falling to their knees, unable to understand, the madness taking them. Some might recover, but they weren't Rurik's to care for.
"Release Aleksi now."
Nicolai edged towards the car. "You're dying."
"We all die, even gods. Though what rises again can be friend or enemy."
Aleksi shoved Nicolai. He tumbled out of the car, grabbing for the suitcase. His soul burned with belief.
The number of notes Rurik had left was dwindling. More smoke than fire rising from his breast.
So he sang.
This time, it was more recent. It wasn't an anthem, or anything ever performed. It was the songs of prayers, all the voices of the Soviet Union that still reached for the spirits, calling for help in the dark of the night, looking for hope and solace that their lives lacked. The cries of the dead, the laughter of the living, the hopes, the nightmares.
His song drowned out the military anthems, the righteous speeches, everything that bound Nicolai to his beliefs. Flames made of words, made of notes, burned through him and remade him. Made him see the truth within him, within the Soviet Union.
Nicolai collapsed on the ground.
"Put him in the car," Rurik said once his song ended. It left him empty, quiet. "Nicolai will never be able to look in the fire and not know the pain he causes. It's part of him, it always is, but now he will see it."
"What will that do?"
Rurik shook his head. "Help him, I hope."
A cough racked him. Cold crept up his skin. The cold of the dying fire, not of welcoming winter.
"Someday maybe there will be a place for true music at home again."
"If that times comes, what do I do?"
"Bring my ashes back to the soil walked by your ancestors and listen for the song."
Aleksi took the egg out of the bag and unwrapped it. He opened it, revealed the compartment inside. Rurik nodded to him.
Reaching deep down to the place born in the winters of home, he found the life-giving fire, took one last breath, and sang his death.