InsaneJournal

Anastasia was probably not well enough to be up and about, but there was no time for healing now. It was a strange feeling, getting up and walking around of the empty rooms she had found in the house she had been moved to when she was unconscious. The only time in her life she had anything near this volley of injuries was when she had given birth, and after that ordeal, she had lain in bed for days, pampered and doted on. There was no time for that now. It was a testament to strength of character she didn't know she had that she hadn't curled up in a ball and cried.

The Ministry had fallen. Iago was dead. Though she knew that it was not a prank or a cruel joke, the truth still had an aura of unreality about it. Anastasia was still waiting for him to arrive in this room, unharmed, and insist she got back in bed. That he would tell her he would have vengeance on the terrorists who had very nearly killed her (it did not matter that the country was theirs now, they would always be terrorists to her). He would tell her what to do. Never before had Anastasia been forced to make decisions this important for herself. She had always had a father to default to. A husband. The only things she decided were draperies and carpet swatches and dresses.

As much trepidation as she felt, she was sure that Iago would have known what to do in this situation, but it occurred to her as she stood there, still dressed in some sort of nightclothes, that even after almost twenty-five years of marriage, she had never really penetrated his thoughts or understood what it was that made him tick. Not on the deepest way that meant she would be able to predict what he would do in this situation, which was so unfamiliar and jarring. She regretted this now. She should have had fifty more years to understand. Unwelcome tears were welling up in her eyes, but she did not want to cry. There was no time for tears. She had to make a decision.

What would have Iago wanted her to do? His devotion to the Dark Lord had always been unwavering, that she knew, but now the Dark Lord was dead. This thought was as unfathomable as the idea that her husband, who had always walked away from these battles relatively unharmed, mind and body still intact, had been bested. The Cause had meant everything to him. But with the Dark Lord dead, how was the Cause to continue on? How were they to regain what they had lost with Rodolphus and Iago dead, Walden, Atticus, and Aeneas captured? The younger generation would never be able to -- not now.

They had taken everything from her. Everything that Anastasia had held dear -- her dignity, when they had captured her and cut off her fingers and mocked her with explicit posters; her home, which they had burnt to the ground with her clothes, books, and centuries-old heirlooms, and, more importantly, she realised now, memories she had treasured -- photographs of her wedding day, of her son's birth and younger years; her adopted country, which they had stolen back, somehow; and now, her husband. She had never bothered to tell him how much she had cared, not since the early days of their marriage when she was foolish enough to think that being a wife meant to be epicly in love. She had never told him how much she really depended on him for support, not just the material things he provided, but his guidance. She regretted their arguments now, few as they had been. She regretted the things unsaid.

The only thing that she had left was her son. In the midst of her loss, she somehow managed to recognise that this was the most important thing. They had not managed to take Demetrius. Beyond the fact that she loved her son more than anything else, she knew that he was the future. He would carry on the Cause. He would continue the Mulciber line. That was what Iago would have wanted, wasn't it? A grandson, who would insure that their blood would remain pure.

But as soon as they regained their foothold on the Ministry, there would be more arrests. They might kill more in the taking. No. That was not acceptable. They would not take Demetrius from her, too. He would not die, and he would not go to Azkaban. The two of them would leave, today, if they could. If Corbina would consent to come with them (for the first time, Anastasia saw the good side to her future daughter-in-law fighting actively for the Dark Lord -- surely they would want to imprison her, too, as she had not been a mere bystander), she would come, too. If not, there were other pure women. There were girls in Greece who would be suitable. Demetrius may not like it, but he had one duty left, and that was to carry on his father's legacy. He could not do that from Azkaban, or with a girl imprisoned in England.

Yes, they would have to leave. She knew that Iago would not be pleased to see them running away from England, from everything he had worked so hard for, but that all had been lost, hadn't it? The Mulciber family was, Anastasia decided, most important. After all, their families were the base of the Cause. Without them, they had nothing to fight for. They could go to Greece. Her family would harbour them there, and they could move on from there if need be.

She found that she had been so lost in her thoughts that there were tears untended to on her cheeks, and she wiped them away ungracefully. There was the matter of how to leave Britain, but the uneasy answer seemed as clear to her as much as she did not want to admit it. There was an irony in it as she remembered how vehemently she had attacked Chloris Burke for wanting to leave the country by Muggle means. But she had wanted to go for the wrong reasons, where Anastasia was quite certain she wanted to go for the right ones. She didn't dare try to go by Portkey or Apparition. The terrorists would be watching those means of transportation. The Muggles had ways of moving from place to place. Surely there was some sort of boat that would take them to France. A boat she could handle. She had gone sailing as a girl. From France, they could use magical means to arrive in Athens.

There was the matter of Muggle money, but she felt that Demetrius would be able to help her there. The world was swarming with Muggles, and what did it matter if one more of them lost their money, or went missing? They were just Muggles. Demetrius was infinitely more important. They would dress simply, no robes. If anyone asked questions, they would pretend to be foreign, which was not that much of a trouble, after all. Anastasia was foreign.

This plan firmly cemented in her mind, she called the one Mulciber family house elf to her, and he arrived with a sharp crack. The instructions were given in a hollow voice. He would collect some of her clothing, some of Demetrius's, and Corbina's, too. He would bring them to her here. That was all there was to do. She didn't have the strength or the courage to do these things for herself. With the helf dismissed, she stood for a minute by the window, looking out onto the green landscape.

She would be glad to go. A strange feeling of discomfort was washing over her, and suddenly, emotions she hadn't felt since the first years of her marriage were overwhelming her. Hatred of this wet, cold country. Homesickness for Greece, for her family. Grief, and, most pronounced, uncertainty. She had hated England when she first came here, and she hated it now. She hated its weather, she hated its quaint hedgerows, its green fields, its bad food and stuffiness. More than anything, she hated its terrorists and its war. If those foolish Muggle lovers had just accepted their lot as they should have, none of this ever would have happened.

Wiping more tears from her eyes, Anastasia walked away, not bothering to feel regret for the country she was leaving, which she had grown to feel at home in, for a time, at least. There was nothing left for her here. There was nothing left worth fighting for.