A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

Mikhail was glad that Semyon Repin had picked rapiers. He missed Nastasya and pistols were too quiet.   

Not the actual gunshot of course. The moment before the shot--that was silence. That required bravery. Mikhail had never been interested in bravery.  He was interested in avoiding the boredom that was existence. His father had been a general in the army, General Vsevolod Piskovatsov, then a timber lord, so successful that there was nothing for Mikhail to improve, no function for him to serve. Mikhail had made the unfortunate discovery that only when his life was in danger was it worth keeping.   Perhaps it was not so unfortunate after all--it kept him interested. If he hadn't discovered dueling, he'd probably have been dead--drowned, hung, or brains across the dining table--long ago.               

Repin had been easy to provoke. He was of the kind who walked around with a chest so full of air that they could float on the Volga. This time, Mikhail had thrown in a “So can you tell me a little more about your mother,” during a discussion of horse sales.  It was a crude tactic, but effective with Repin’s sort. Mikhail had obtained his challenge, and was here once more.

Of course "here" had followed him many places; St. Petersburg,  Novgorod, Moscow, a few in Berne and Geneva when he was passing through.  But Mikhail would always come back to the timeless place, he and his sword, Nastasya.  He had trained too well with her.  He had crafted a beautiful relationship, he had to use it, he had to.  

It was all that Mikhail had to do.  Otherwise, what were his years of practice worth, what were they worth?  Otherwise, what was anything worth?  Nastasya's purpose was to kill, he could not starve her.

He’d have joined the military, but he wasn’t interested in glory or discipline.  The art of killing, that was all there was, just life and death entwined in breathing metal.  Nastasya was more alive than he was, that was why he needed her. She reacted to the outside world. How cruel it would be to prevent something with a purpose from executing it.    

Those who stopped at first blood called him sick. He made a name for himself as a duelist, a troublemaker, even a murderer.  He changed his name, then again. The most difficult part was creating new contacts and avoiding the old ones.  So far, he had been lucky.  He knew it was only a matter of time, but then so was oblivion.  He’d made an effort to forget his old names.  As if he would care, the family disowned him after his first three kills. But at that point, it was too late to give it up; he was addicted to the thrill of it. He stole the majority of his mother's jewels and eloped with Nastasya. It was not Mikhail Piskovatsov but Mikhail Goncharov dueling Repin. No--it was Mikhail Antokolsky. Bah. He'd find out soon enough.   

If he died, he could come back from the grave to read what name they wrote above it. That is, assuming that he could find it. This thought pleased him as he stepped out of the carriage into the field. The cloud cover sprawled like a drunk, promising a deluge over his head but not quite ready to give it. Maybe at one time he'd have been struck by the poeticism of it.   

A horse galloped up behind him. Was it his second? No, that fool Dubrov would have worn a hat.  What kind of idiot volunteered to be a second for a man he'd met not two months past? Dubrov, apparently, with his youth and bouncing step and matching scarves and gloves. He probably thought today would be great fun. Repin then? He squinted.  Indeed, it was.  To his disappointment, he found that his heart hardly quickened.       

Dubrov appeared, then Repin’s brother. Mikhail had never paid much attention to Repin's brother.
The seconds were silent as they inspected the weapons.  Dubrov's hands jittered and his eyes were wet. Mikhail paid no attention.  Repin’s face was pale too, which irritated him. Dubrov was not yet twenty-five, he could still be excited by this life. Repin should know better. What right had he to care? Like most Russian socialites, he was an inflated, hypocritical, bumbling, glass-smashing, heathen in an expensive coat. If he died, it would hardly be a tragedy.

Mikhail snatched Nastasya. His nerves began to tingle--so there was something human left in them.  Mikhail smiled. Repin spat, misinterpreting the smile.  

“You’re scum.”  Mikhail’s grin deepened, and turned dark. At some point they must have saluted because the battle had begun.

Mikhail had known woman, but none like Nastasya.  No human was like Nastasya. He became her and she became him, and the both danced with Repin in a way so glorious that it must be right. Something from her whispered to something in him and the wordless ecstasy of combat dawned. Words dissolved with Nastasya. All was motion, motion was life, and life was good. Repin jerked as they circled, eyeing Mikhail’s point.  He was not free in this medium. Brawls and honor duels had not prepared him for the higher form of fighting. His attack was brewing. Nastasya, the darling, stopped it and retaliated, barely missing Repin’s wrist.   

A beautiful rhythm began, with Nastasya flitting into Repin’s area of insecurity, causing wild overreactions.  This man truly was a heathen. The swaying built a tempo, waiting to be pierced.  And--ah, not three minutes into the round, Nastasya dragged Mikhail deep into Repin’s chest. Duels never lasted long.  The blood was everywhere and he was screaming, but it was all right, natural, musical.  Maybe he was dead, did it matter? The world was better without his sort.  

Repin’s brother rushed over, Dubrov too. Dubrov was white--was this the first time he'd seen blood?  

“Are you alright?” Mikhail wiped Nastasya down, absorbed in her glint.

“Quite alright.’  He looked up with Dubrov, and would have smiled, save for something in the other’s eye. Had they said first blood?  Glancing around, he realized that even the driver of the carriage looked horrified. Repin's brother was shaking. As he wiped the last of the red from Nastasya’s skin, Mikhail realized that it would be time to move again once he finished with the second Repin.   

tsarina