It did not come to pass in the way that moments of this magnitude generally do.
There were not a multitude of eyes squared upon them to bare witness to what was to transpire, merely those of Anastasia herself and the ever-vigilant eyes of her uncle. Nor would there come any momentous celebration or other festive public acknowledgement of what had happened here. And yet it was no less prolific, no less rewarding to a woman who had dedicated the vast decades of her immortal life to avenging all of those who had known harm at the hands of this maniacal charlatan and righting scales that had so long been askew. And so it is only right that a sigh should escape the lips of the Russian Hunter for so magnanimous was the weight that had, finally and forever, been lifted from the place it had occupied upon her soul for all of those long, long years.
The tender caress of her uncle's hand and the whispered words he offers are met with the slight inclination of the Duchess' head, and yet she maintains a confident certainty that the elder Fae is aware of her gratitude. Anastasia had never been given to the whims of grand displays of affection or emotional intensity, perhaps yet another reason why Alexander and herself were so well-suited to one another's company. But no less certain, no less absolute, was the gratitude afforded to her treasured companion.
The jest of the Fae at her back coaxes the most minute traces of a simper to the brims of her lips despite herself. She had come upon the realization so very many years ago that there truly did not exist a scenario in which her blessed uncle would forgo the allure of impish humor and the perhaps even more insistent compulsion to share it with whomever happened to be present. He was so very unlike her in this manner and yet all the same did she confess some small measure of admiration for it. "Come now, Matteo, it adds a bit of character," she offers, lifting the weapon within her hand as if to consider it in its current, foul state. Though before she may prod him further the Duchess is approached by the priest who had, until now, busied himself with gawking at the disarray that had once been his precious cathedral. Gently does he extract the hilt of the weapon from betwixt Anastasia's bloodied fingers, coaxing a quizzical expression from the youthful-looking woman. With due care does he carry the weapon over to the pool of holy water traditionally used to perform baptisms, encasing the sword in the linens of his garb to rid it of the rapidly-congealing blood before cleansing it in the pool of blessed liquid. He returns it to the Hunter with the reverence of a practiced holy man, her whispered gratitude ended abruptly with a stern shake of his head. "Pozhaluysta, ukhodi," Please, just go, he responds, the defeated look etched into the drawn lines of his face leaving no space for rebuttal.
"Spasibo," she offers, turning towards her beloved uncle to return to him his treasured blade before ushering them both from the ruin of the once-immaculate cathedral. "Not a word of this to Alexander, Matteo. Not a single word."
Anastasia Romanova
Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia