"Ich bitte um Verzeihung." (I beg your pardon.)

An impeccably-manicured brow pitches into a severe point with the younger woman's curse, though the expression lacks any modicum of actual commitment to the austerity it might otherwise intend. Rather does she place her attentions unto the parade of expressions as they press and pass against the supple features of the Were at her side. Remarkably few were the individuals privy to the knowledge of Anastasia's historic lineage and so to bear witness to the emotive response heralded by such a profound secret was... amusing in a darkly-satisfying manner. Such youth did Calliel have that she might still find surprise, find wonder, in these details; it could not be denied that such youthful gaiety was somehow refreshing to Anastasia, who had spent the greater majority of this "afterlife" in the presence of immortals such as Alexander, for whom so much of the world's enigma and luster had become tarnished.

The Russian woman gives pause at her charge's query, having not intended to peel back the orderly veneer that had for so long, and for more reasons than one, served as a buffer betwixt the outside world and this closely-guarded little tale of woe. Truly Anastasia had anticipated a not-insignificant handful of queries on behalf of the younger woman, for who could truly contain themselves in the presence of such a positively delectable revelation? But much had transpired on the evening of July 17, 1918, not all of which should or would bear repeating...

"He found me in the chaos. Perhaps you shall ask him how," she muses, the finality of the statement, though austere, does not bear the notes of anything related to unkindness. It was, after all, a question far more suitable for Alexander to provide the answer to. Calliel's statement, however, coaxes a miniscule chuckle from the Russian woman. "Yes, that they did. In retrospect it was quite amusing, I have to admit." It had taken Anastasia quite some time, two or three decades at the very least, to discern the humor from the salacious farce that was the parade of would-be doppelgangers, not one of whom could have ever actually been appropriately convincing to anyone with intimate knowledge of the Romanov family.

The Dark Hunter's sage eyes wander once more to the sprawling canvas and the faces that had so long ago been immortalized upon it in paint and ink. So unwavering is the expression upon her face that it might have been presumed that she had not heard the young blonde's question. How had she endured? A seemingly simple inquiry deserving of a multitude of responses, though none of which does she proffer up. Another in a series of tales that would not be told this day. Instead does she pose her own question, eyes never wavering from the portrait of her beloved dear ones. "Tell me, Calliel, what other choice might I have had? Hmm?" Her tone, albeit somber, is not unkind. "Sometimes there are things that we simply must do... and I know I shall see them again, someday."

Rather content to allow the conversation to drift into a contemplative oblivion, Anastasia is somewhat taken aback by the youth's final (perhaps) question. Further pitching of a brow as she turns her eyes towards the Were who lingers beside her. "You do know your history," she issues, a note of praise settled upon the words as she offers them. For this, Anastasia decides, Calliel shall have the answer she seeks. "I was eventually able to see my grandmother, yes... but by that time a disease of the mind had scraped bare the slate of her memory. In the end she only ever told me that I reminded her of someone."

Anastasia retreats a step from the painting then, the subtle clicking of her heels echoing through the marble hall once more. "Come, let us move on."

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia