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this is uncomfy

As soon as I returned back to Saint Petersburg with the intention of staying there until the end of the October, I found that my family was packing their things for France. They told me that the tension between France and Russia was too dangerous, and that staying in a country that we're at war with would not be such a great idea. I had no chance to say goodbye to all the places I discovered with Alexei by my side, not even by looking through the windows of the coach towards the train station, as they were shielded by black curtains for protection or whatever word my father used. There was no room for sentimentality. My family pretended as though Russia was an abuser from which we were only trying to escape to benefit our own security, and they shot down any words from me attempting to convince them that war does not change the makeup of the landscape or of the general population. Thus we returned to our home in Paris, but it felt too artificial without Alexei there. I have made few memories in Paris, while I feel as though my entire life led up to what I experienced in Saint Petersburg. Now that I am gone from where my soul exploded into color, existing is a dull activity of bleak greys.

My parents were obviously curious as to why I was back from the army so soon when they knew for a fact that Napoleon hadn't quit yet, and I was forced to reveal the partial truth that I left out of my own volition to get help for a wound because I knew that my parents would be furious if I were to show up on a list of the dead or come back to them with a serious injury. I didn't mention, however, what propelled me to flee from Borodino instead of towards the medics specifically there for the military, or just continue fighting. They didn't ask, though I could tell that they were a bit suspicious anyway. Lourdes above all was just relieved that I came back in one piece and that my only injury was a minor one -- while I didn't give a single shit about my parents, I missed Lourdes dearly, even if Alexei was the primary topic on my mind. I worried less about my sister because I knew that her fate was sealed as a safe one, and that she would be with my parents in a secure part of civilization.

Back in France, I have become an outcast. I am no longer known as the polite and charming son of Monsieur and Madame Renaud. I am no longer known as someone worthy of standing on the same level as any stranger I see on the street. I am no longer even known as Olivier, for no one bothers to learn my name. They only stick around long enough to insult me for crimes that they do not understand at all.

When I attend those monotonous balls with my family, no one is interested in my time in the military. What I expected from the news that I would be joining the army is that our noble acquaintances would swarm me with questions about it, but now that I've been consorting with the enemy, they couldn't care less about what I have to say. As far as they know, there is no explanation to be shared, so they encourage my silence with dirty expressions thrown my way. The only time that they are interested in me is when they approach my father and whisper about how unfortunate it is that I am their son. Sometimes they don't even have the courtesy to try and whisper what they have to say. I am aware that my father is utterly ashamed with me and how I've affected the reputation of this fine family, but there's nothing I can do about it. I don't let it get to me anyway. I have never owed him anything, not even a perfect record to maintain a superb social standing.

But sometimes I feel ashamed of myself, too. I fought so hard for a love that I then stole away with a slight implementation of pressure on the trigger of a gun, so easily taken. I betrayed my country for a boy that now rots alone in the middle of an unidentifiable forest somewhere that I don't even remember, a few thousand kilometers away from here. I flew too close to the sun and then drowned myself in the sea almost on purpose. I am labeled a coward by people that I have never met, and I was willing to overlook that minor detail as long as I would be with Alexei, but now he's not even here, and the torment continues anyway. I am insulted with nothing to show for why I risked it.

Maybe it would have all worked out better if I had just waited it out, even if the chance of death was higher on the battlefield of Borodino. Maybe I could've survived and made it home to Alexei, and he would be the only one who would have to flee, but his name wouldn't be circling around Russia like mine is in France, because his social standing is drastically different from mine. No one would remember his name, which I would usually find horribly unfair because of how it overlooks all of his remarkable qualities, but now I realize that no one would remember his fleeing along with it. The universe aligned to bring us together at the old woman's cottage in the woods, where we rejoiced for the first time in three months. We were convinced that the universe had finally worked out in our favor, but maybe the universe shouldn't have brought us together. It may have worked out better if it hadn't.

This is apparently a typical stage of grief -- pondering what I did wrong and pondering what could have fixed it, forever persuaded that it would be better if only I had done something differently, never accepting that maybe there was no way to divert the predetermined course of events. I should know that this way of thinking is incredibly unhealthy, especially when I'm struggling to get over my grief, but it is a natural part mourning, and my mental will isn't going to magically remove these negative thoughts from my head. I should give myself time to recover while still telling myself not to dive so deep with my conspiracies about what the universe screwed up.

Quite frankly, I have no clue how to return to what my life was like before I met Alexei Kozlov that one evening in the Saint Petersburg streets. The universe aligned for us there -- this is certain -- but it seems that it was only there. The universe did not align for us in other situations, instead aligned then for our demise. I have to live in this demise now, but I don't know how to carry on with it, how to escape it. I just want to be happy -- that's all I've ever wanted in fact. I really do. But I don't know how, and it's killing me.

Lourdes doesn't know how, either. I am cognizant that all she wants to do is help me, but there is no way for her to truly understand what I'm going through, what I've already seen. She has never been to war, has never been forced to kill her best friend, has never woken up sweating from a nightmare with tears already descending her cheeks, has never had to deal with the guilt and haunting memories of what she has done. These kinds of things are hard to explain and hard to replicate. Lourdes is trying her very best to guide me through this, which I appreciate beyond words, but there is only so much that she can do, and sadly it isn't enough. She is terribly concerned about me as well. She attempts to hide it, but I can see right through her, and I know that she is crumbling inside, too. She hates to see her dear brother like this, and I hate that she has to. If only I could put on a brave face for Lourdes to keep her in the same joyful spirit that she is usually in. But it won't work, because she already knows.

The day she asked about Alexei was the most difficult day to appreciate her eternal presence. Her assumption was that he had stayed behind in Saint Petersburg and that we were perfectly content with the long distance, agreeing to send each other frequent letters to keep in touch. How perfect that would be in comparison to how things actually played out. I wish I hadn't told her the truth, but eventually it would come spilling out anyway. I shared with her the tale of what had transpired from the day I left him to join the army, to the day we found each other in the old woman's cottage, to the next day when I was required to give him up as nothing more than Russian scum, as an enemy of France. It was at this point that she understood why I was acting the way that I was and still am, and many tears fell. Oh how she adored Alexei, even without saying a single word to him or receiving a single word from him. Her agony placed inside me the pain of all the bullet wounds that I missed by fleeing from the battlefield.

This is how war tears a human apart. I have been stripped of my dignity, of my freedom, of my clear mental state, and all that is left is a shell of a man that used to be so confident but that now cannot taste even one droplet of liberation from my burdens. I am no longer sure of anything about my life. I cannot see the world accurately, as if the war abducted the color from my eyes. I have no prospects, no ambitions. I spend my days by the window of my bedroom, thinking yet not thinking at all. If I had any sense of self before, it has now departed and allotted me the dire question of "where has it gone?" but not enough energy to actually do anything about answering it. By forcing me to enlist in the army, I have lost everything that makes me who I am, and there is no way to find it again. Is this the legacy that my father wanted me to carry on?

~~~~~

A/N: damn what a chapter amirite

very introspective if I do say so myself

but we're not over yet, my dudes

~Dakotake-me-to-church

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