Anatoleâs Apprentice Prologue, Interlude 1: Do Not Stand Over My Grave And Weep, Part 3
â´ď¸ PART 3: LEAVES FROM THE VINE â´ď¸
3.8k words. In which everyone has to confront something they lost.
CW: Recollections of mild violence towards the end.
Characters featured: Cassiopeia Cassano, Consul Valerius/Valeriy RadoĹĄeviÄ -Cassano, Louisa De Silva, Aelius Anatole
Lore guide: âTolyâ and âLily are nicknames the R-C use for Anatole. âLilyâ comes from Little; âUp the stepsâ is Vesuvian slang for rich people/people who live in the Heart district; âChainmailsâ is slang for the Guards
What to catch up with Anatoleâs Apprentice series? You can do that here.
With this piece, Anatoleâs apprentice adventures end, for now. Thank you very much for reading about them âĽ
Two voices spoke in within his darkened bedroom in the Palace as Anatole slowly came back from his fainting episode. How embarrassing. It had been at least a year since the last time he passed out because of a poorly attended migraine, but he would take fainting in public before riling himself up into a panic attack.
He began to stir himself awake, feeling the after effects of the migraine still in his temples.
The voices did not go; they were in the room then. He didnât want to alert them of his rousing, but the more he tried to make out what they were saying, the more obvious it was to him he needed fresh air and a gallon of water. He made a vexed, pitiful sound as he tried to sit on the bed and the room around him went quiet.
âIt is better if I left,â one of the voices said.
âThe least you could doââ
âDonât tell me how to handle this Cassiopeiaââ
Cassiopeia snorted. âYou handling anything would be the real surprise here.â
âYou have no idea what Iâm going through, so why donât you keep your opinions to yourself?â
Recognition danced around Anatole as he feared the owner of the voice would slam the door shut. By the whisking sound of cut air, he was about to, but decided against it on the last minute. Anatole felt eyes on him, but when he tried to turn to look, all he could see was the door closing very carefully, with a quiet click. If Anatole was more awake heâd say it sounded like someone who didnât want to leave. He wasnât, however, so instead he focused on sitting up.
The voice that stayed, Cassiopeia, brought a chair close to Anatoleâs bed, the legs of it scraping against the floorboards. She was a handsome woman, with a wide smile, deep brown skin with a bronze undertone; had there been more light in the room, Anatole wouldâve been able to see the freckles on her face very much resembled his own. She had expressive eyebrows, and her tight curls were put together in an up-do, with jewellery accents clipped on the side of her head.Â
Anatole recognised her as the woman he had seen in an echo the day he arrived at the palace, the one wrapping her arm around a younger version of himself in encouragement. She had looked happier there; now she looked tired behind her welcoming, warm, smile.
She offered him water. âI figured you would like something to drink, does this happen often?â
Anatole accepted the drink, taking tiny sips from it. âIt hasnât happened in a while. I live with it just fine, most of the timeâŚâÂ
âThereâs no need to be embarrassed. Now, Iâm not trying to trespass any boundaries, so you donât need to explain anything you donât want to, Tolyâ I mean, Dear, but if this happened to my daughter, or say, a nephew of mine, I would ask them if thereâs any medicine I could procure for them.â
âHow did you just call me?â
âHm? âDearâ, is that alright by you?â
âNo, you called me âTolyâ. My, I know... there was someone who called me that, but I canât remember.â
Cassiopeia acted none the wiser. âDear, youâll make yourself indisposed once again.â
Anatole stared at her, until he begrudgingly accepted his defeat and drained his glass. âYou neednât worry, I promise I can handle it myself, Iâve already interrupted you enough.â
She insisted, her voice resonating with fondness Anatole didnât know how to receive. âI know you can, but I care, we care. The Council is at your disposition, you know? Even if the Consulââ
Anatole grimaced as he remembered his confrontation with him. It had gone the opposite of how he wanted to. Running his hands through his face, he groaned into them, though he soon regretted it as the sound didnât please his headache. âThe Countess is going to be so angry at me.â
âI donât think she will, and either way, I would gladly vouch for you. He shouldnât have done that, even if heâs carrying a terrible weight, it was wrong,â
she paused, looking towards the curtained windows, focusing on a tiny beam of light that came when the outside breeze moved the drapes. âI closed them for you, I didnât know if light was something youâd appreciate it or not right now. Would you like me to open them?â
âPlease. Sunlight makes me feel better.â
Anatole thought he heard her say that she knew it did, but he didnât acknowledge it, suspecting Cassiopeia would deny it again.
 âIâm not trying to justify my cousin, but Valeriy has been through a lot lately. He isnât the same man he was four years ago, and the Gods know we have our hands tied.â
As recognition dawned on him, his headache became worse. It moved right between his eyes, a piercing pain accompanied by the laughter of a child hanging from a tree branch as they threw themself into the arms of a man with long, soft hair.
He hissed in pain and before he could stop her, Cassiopeia was preparing him a migraine tonic. Later, when Anatole was left alone once again, he would realise he never had to explain to her his late Aunt Parisâ recipe for migraine tonics. Cassiopeia already knew it.
Right then, however, the knowledge slipped from his mind.
Before he could strain himself any further, Cassiopeia told him to lie back and drink his medicine, compelling him to rest. Anatole insisted it was fine after taking all of the concoction with one swift chug.Â
âIâm used to it. I promise itâs fine. Asra has always been there for me since this happened to me,â he said with a vague hand gesture, avoiding any further explanation about his memory loss, migraines were safe enough, memory loss? He wasnât sure. âBut Iâve also been well, mostly on my own. With Antu. Asra does what he can and we fend for each other.â
Anatole petted Antuâs fur; Cassiopeia told him the Raccoon, whom she affectionately called âlittle beastâ refused to leave his side.
They sat in silence as the tonic began working itâs magic, until a sob came out of Cassiopeia. She promptly excused herself, trying to calm down. Anatole was almost reminded of himself and the echo of a woman about his age, that looked a lot like Cassiopeia only both her eyes were green. Her name danced in the tip of his tongue.
âYou donât know who I am, do you?â
âNo,â Anatole apologised.
âThat is most alright, you ought not to apologise, Anatole. I am Cassiopeia Cassano, councilwoman of this City, and know that if you ever find yourself in need of a friend, I am here for you.â
Cassiopeia looked at him with sorrow. He could feel it too, inside himself, as something told him these people had once been very important to him but remained unable to recall how, why or when. Not knowing was going to drive him crazy, so against his common sense telling him not to do things that would make his headache worse, he asked:
âThe person who was with you when I was waking, was it⌠was it the Consul?â
She hesitated.
âYes, that was Consul.â
Anatole felt like he did after he had talked to Asra in the fountain and that man had called his name â those feelings of sorrow and disconnection taking hold of him again, as whatever had happened to him slipped through his fingers once more. âI knew him, didnât I? I knew both of you.â
âI shouldnât,â
âCassiopeia, please. He looks like me when Iâm angry, and, and I keep seeing echoes of myself when I was younger, a being younger that I donât remember, but youâre both always with me and we lookââ
âHappy?â
âProud. I walked into the Palace and everyone knows my name, but acts like I shouldnât be here and I saw you both walking me in and you looked so, so proud of me. This is not the first time Iâve had a dèja vĂş like that.â
âWe wereâ she said with a defeated sigh, tears once again threatening to overflow her waterline. âWhen it came to the Court, you were our rising sun.â
Cassiopeia stood up. âYou ought to rest, I have talked too much. Iâm sorry, I know how much you hate not knowing but I need some answers for myself, too.â
He didnât know what had compelled him to speak, which he was used to by now even if he hated it âhe liked knowing what was about to come out of his mouth, thank you very much. He didnât regret it, though, because he could tell Cassiopeia wouldnât think ill of it, nor use it against him.
Anatole could do little more than thank her, taken aback with the intensity and sincerity of her words. Yet, despite her original word, Cassiopeia betrayed herself and said:
âIs there anything else you almost remember?â
âSo many things I cannot name, nor place, nor put to shape. How am I supposed to carry out an investigation, if I myself barely know where I came from?â
Councilwoman Cassano walked back to the side of Anatoleâs bed like he was on fire and she had to put him out. Forgoing the chair completely, she kneeled by the bedside and took his hands in hers. She was crying now; Anatole found himself crying to.
âThe moment you feel overwhelmed you stop me, is that clear Young Man? Good. Your name is Aelius Anatole RadoĹĄeviÄ De Silva, you were born in Bgraz, in the Federative District of Ilvaska, in Balkovia, during a Civil War. Your family is as Blakovian as it is Vesuvian, but also have blood from the AlzoreĂąos because that is where your mother was born. And you will be able to do this because youâre not alone, and because we will not leave you alone, and because you have always, always found your way.â
She left the room shortly after, leaving Anatole to realise that his name on her lips felt the same way it felt when Asra said it: full of sorrow but also full of love. Nadia arrived not five minutes after, so Anatole would have to think about that later.Â
Cassiopeia couldnât go home yet, she had worked to do. She did try to find Medea, but she was nowhere to be found. She remembered her and Anatole were almost attached at the hip when he had first been alive, so perhaps she would know something. Some dreadful feeling found its way to her gut, because that was indeed her nephew, the one who had died. She knew it in her heart, she knew it like sheâd known the guidance of the Moon and the protection of the Sun.
She didnât know enough about resurrections and necromancy, but Valerian did. Sheâd have to speak with the old Cassano patriarch as soon as she was home, maybe heâd know what to do, and it would all sort itself out. For now, though, she continued her day knowing that at the very least, her wonderful nephew was alive.Â
At the other side of the City, Doctor Louisa De Silva was going through her day. It was one of those days when she simply had to move, unable to tolerate being cooped up inside. Seeing people, talking to people, anything to feel like a real human again.
She had to admit those werenât the only reasons. Walking and running errands helped her think, and she had much to think about.
Amparo was hiding something from them. Call it motherly intuition on Louisaâs part, but she knew she was. She might be depressed, and she might have been incredibly absent from the world around her for longer than a year after Anatole had died, but Louisa had never been stupid. She had suspected it for a while, snippets of conversation and certain behaviours drawing her attention. Then, Antu had gone missing almost permanently and whenever he came back, the raccoon seemed oddly chiper. Too chiper for a creature that had been wallowing in itâs own sorrow.Â
Then, certain things went missing from Anatoleâs rooms. Books, clothes, quills, beddings, his harp. How Amparo had managed to relocate it without anyone noticing, Louisa didnât know, but she knew her sonâs harp was gone and it seemed suspicious that both Amparo and Valerian had had an explanation for it. Lastly, there was the issue of Vlad having claimed to see Anatole two days ago.Â
Louisa knew about magic like one knew of history. While she couldâve learnt, she had never felt the need: Paris was the magician out of the two of them, and there was always Vlad, even if, as an alchemist, his tether to magic was different than for most peopleâs. Be that as it may, Vlad had been âseeingâ their son for a while now, even if recently it had stopped. It began with sleepwalking, Vlad covering lengths of the Palazzo, because âAnatole needed himâ.
Once he made it to the street, crumbling when he was told what he had done. He thought he was losing his mind, something Louisa understood. Nothing would ever compare to the pain of losing Anatole, but Vladâs sleep walking seemed like a cruel twist of the universe. Her husband acted as if compelled, saying he could hear Anatole in his dreams, needing to go find him, because his boy needed him. Louisa thought it was just nightmares at first. Now, she wasnât so sure.Â
Someone bumped into her in the South End apothecary she was in, pulling her out of her thoughts.Â
There were plenty of Apothecaries around Vesuvia of varying qualities and exclusivity, though Dr. De Silva had her favourites, this being one of them. Today it was particularly busy, the humdrum and talk in both accented common, and half-and-half (the way Vesuvians called the back and forth change between Dialect and Common tongue) hitting her with full force now that she had become aware of them, peopleâs voices around her and the sounds from the streets no longer white noise.Â
A middle aged lady was gossiping with another of the Apothecaryâs clients.Â
âSo I told the wife, you wouldnât believe whom I saw Mazâ Ilya with, and bet you what, she didnât believe me. Remember the RadoĹĄeviÄ boy?â
âWho?â
âYou know, the Cassanoâs blond new blood, whatever was his name⌠the one who worked with Mr. Stick-up-the-assâ Councilwoman Cassanoâs nephew, you know the one⌠Aleli, Anar??â
âAnatole?â
âThatâs the boy!â
âAre you sure you werenât drunk? Heâs fucking dead.â
âTell you he isnât! Heâs alive as the two of us, walking around with Ilya Dââ
âDonât say his name, you idiot.â
âNo oneâs listening, relax, anywayâ he was walking around with⌠you know, just like they did before the plague. I know surviving that made us all a little loose up here, but I know what I saw. Alive as you and me, I tell you. Nothing mortal can kill the bastards they said, and Iâm starting to believe it.â
âAnd what? Youâre going to tell me you reached the fucking Cassano so you knew him personally, and thatâs why youâre so sure? Theyâre better than most of that lot, but they left the âGrave long ago. Youâre imagining things.â
âListen, my brother knew him. I described the guy to him, and he said that was either Aelius Radosevic or someone who looked a lot like him. Heâd know what I was talking about, heâs part of the unionââ
âYou know the âNothing mortal can kill a Cassanoâ is just a saying right? Theyâd have to be witches or something.â
âHow do you know they arenât?â
âHow do you know a dead man went around walking?â
âI bet he was never dead, and they had to hide him from the Goat voiced fuck we had for a Count.â
âTake out the âoâ and youâre spelling him right out. If you were in the Raven you were drunk as hell, am willing to bet. No other witnesses, I fucking bet.â
âThe chainmails got in, the bird sang.âÂ
âOf course, Tilde,â the person the lady, Tilde, was talking to said. âTell you what, if the manâs alive Iâll eat my shoe, but be ready to take a fall about that because I am willing to bet he was just like every other Up the Steps bastard in the end, if he is in fact alive. Chickened out, like his coward uncle andââ
âHey!â Louisa yelled. If she didnât startle herself with the volume of her own voice, it was only out of how angry she was, the more she heard this person go on. âThatâs my son youâre talking about. Anatole was my son.â
She acted on impulse, anxiety and anger making her blood shake and her pulse rise up. There was a lot she could understand from others, but not this. Not the defamation of her sonâs character, not when Anatole had given his life away for Vesuvians, not when Anatole had arrived shaken and yelled at by the Courtiers so many times, not when she could remember how his shoulder bled that one time Pontifex Vulgora dug their gauntlets on his skin.Â
Not when Lucioâs neglect had murdered her son. She had already lost enough to tyrants to withstand this.Â
The shop around her went quiet as the middle aged lady recognised her.Â
âYouâre Doctor De Silva! Youâre that woman whoââ
The person she had been speaking to before interrupted her. âWas he? So is he dead or is he alive?â
Louisaâs reply died in her mouth. Did she really know the answer? She thought she did. She thought that awful letter from the nurses of the Lazaret had been enough proof of the death of her son, but if he was alive, then how? Anatole would never run away, she knew her son, running away from love and duty was not something her son would ever do.
Something broke inside of her as she remembered how Anatole had fit between her arms. Angry, hot tears began rolling down her cheeks. Whatever way she looked, it made the person backtrack.Â
âLady, are you okay?â
âWhat kind of question is that? How dare you offer me pity after you have the audacity to speak of my son that way. You should have more respect for those who gave their lives to save others amid the Red Plague.â
âOh, is this about gratitude? Isnât it always with you high and mighty bastards?â
âHey!â Someone else intervened. âThe Cassano are on our side, and you know that, leave the Doctor alone, she heals our children for free. Arenât you going to apologise?â
âNo,â the person said.Â
âI donât need them too,â Louisa added, shooting them a deadly glare before turning to the other lady, Tilde. âYou must have been mistaken, my son is very much dead and buried in the Lazaret, but it is nice to know someone still thinks about him.â
âI donât mean to poke, but are you sure, Miss? Thereâs talk about him working directly for the Countess now, so it made sense to me. About your height, scar over his nose, looks a lot like the Consul and a lot like you too. Same front teeth.â
The other person scoffed again. âYou saw his teeth now?â
âShut up,â Louisa barked at them. âSorry, Tilde, you might be mistaken.â
âI know Iâm not, you should look into it, Miss. Ask my brother about it, he has a shop three streets down.â
As the argument ended, the shopâs awkward silence gave way to the same humdrum as before. Louisa received her order and left the place, not without stealing a look at Tildeâs direction, who was offering some leeches to the Apothecary to examine. They swung their head towards Louisa, making Tilde turn: with her thumb, she pointed left, in the direction Louisa could only assume was her brotherâs shop. With so many things in her life, Louisaâs body knew what the right thing to do was before her brain could catch up, and only like a mother who knew the right way to love her child could, she asked on every shop three blocks to the left of the Apothecary until she found Tildeâs brother.Â
Amparo would have so much explaining to do.Â
* * *
He no longer knew who he was. After Amparo came forward to all her family and his nephewâs friends, per theirs, Milenkoâs, Cassiopeiaâs and Louisaâs insistence, he had seen Milan summon Asra Al-Nazar from the pond in the Winter Garden. Well, not âsummonâ, that was a strong word, but rather called, and Al-Nazar had answered.Â
He had to listen to them confirm what he had been dreading: that the apparition in the shape of his Anatole, the one he had thrown wine to under the hawke-like gaze of the rest of the Courtiers, and who then had confronted him, knowing information about Valeriy who no one outside their family knew, was not an apparition. He wasnât witchcraft. He was real. Real as they all were.
Asra Al-Nazar, against everything Valeriy thought the magician would consider forbidden, made a deal with an entity to give half his heart to Anatole, so he could live once again. The cost had been his memories, locked away deep down into himself.Â
Yet, Asra had crumbled into Milenkoâs arms as he explained how somehow he remembered, but he couldnât make him remember. âI only make it worse,â he had said.Â
Instead of staying in the room, Valeriy had walked away. When there was nothing more to say and Cassiopeia asked him if he saw it now, he had felt his throat close. As fast as he could he got away from the scrutinising weight of his family, as the man he used to be and he had wanted to bury resurfaced.Â
Valeriy RadoĹĄeviÄ had begun agonising with his nephewâs death. The last tendrils of control he had slipped away. So when the Devil offered him a way out after years of looking at him over the shoulder, waiting for him in the lonesome hours and cold dead-ends, he had struck the final blow to the man his family expected him to be, and the uncle whom Anatole had once loved.
He had always been a difficult man, but what he had become now, if his family knew⌠they would never forgive them. It seemed easy before, when Anatole was dead: what a better way to self-destruct, what a better way for his life to slowly end. Let the grief that had always been part of him eat him up and spit back the cruel carcass of the monster he was starting to become.Â
Now, as the realisation that Anatole was indeed alive, Valerius realised this mask he had crafted for years, the mask which was nothing but the coffin of the man he once couldâve been, was starting to break. Out of it, Valeriy Radosevic began to resourface, like an overflowing well, a spring, or a reminder of dawn.Â
Did you name yourself after the Sun?
Yes, Uncle Val. Do you think itâs fitting?
Very much so, Lily, darling. Youâre my favourite sunrise.
He found an empty remote room, slamming the door behind him. In the room there was a mirror and when Valeriy looked into his own reflection, he didnât see his eyes but Matilda Cassanoâs. Instead of the sandy-grey eyes he had inherited from one of his grandparents, he saw the unforgiving yellowish of his dead biological mother.Â
Though he was four when she died, part of him could remember enough: the abandonment and the constant tension between Matilda, Valerian and Iovanus, or between Matilda and Mircea and Florentino. The former was a RadoĹĄeviÄ, the brother of Matildaâs husband, Valeriyâs biological father, Kresmir. The latter was a Cassano, Matildaâs first cousin. They had married each other and only a year older than Matilda herself, had stepped up where Vladâs and Valeriyâs biological parents had failed.Â
Though he was four when both of them died, he knew enough. The cruelty, the anger in his brotherâs eyes. His brother, the father of his nephew, had taken better care of him as a baby than his parents ever did. If Valeriy had survived during his first infancy when no other adults were around, it was because of Vladislav and Vladislav alone.Â
In the mirror, a cruel half-ram creature with the eyes of his mother smiled back at him. It spoke back to him in his own voice: âProud, at last, of what you chose to become?â
Valeriy took his hands to his face and so did the creature. While he only touched his soft, human skin, the monster in the mirror touched fur. Making himself of the first blunt object he could reach, he threw it to the mirror and as it broke, he broke down with it.Â


















