Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov & Irina Rozanova, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Irina Rozanova, Shane Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Predicting the future, Inspired by Apollo's Curse of Cassandra (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Irina Rozanova Lives, Curses, Ilya Rozanov Predicts the Future, Irina Rozanova Predicts the Future, but nobody believes their prophecies, Ilya and Irina-centric, Grigori Rozanov's A+ Parenting, sideways thinking your way past a magical curse, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Special, escaping your terrible marriage, Political Asylum, Ilya Rozanov Speaks Finnish, Changing Last Names, BAMF Irina Rozanova, Suicidal Thoughts, explicit descriptions of suicide plans, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, and is well aware he has no fucking choice in the matter

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-05 Completed: 2026-08-03 Words: 13,263 Chapters: 5/5

How Shall I Tell the End

Summary

In Ancient Troy, a princess of the city and priestess of Apollo was struck with a terrible curse. The prophecies she Spoke would always be accurate, but none would ever believe her but the one deemed Listener.

Cassandra, Princess of Troy, is not the only person to fall victim to this curse. Hundreds of descendants share her burden. Irina Rozanova is one such descendant. And due to the nature of the curse, none can ever know but her ruthless, ambitious Listener of a husband.

Until her son speaks a truth so damning and so powerful, it makes her doubt. And maybe, just maybe, makes her brave.

Notes

Somebody on Reddit said there weren’t enough Irina Lives fics. And I can’t resist a good Magical Realism idea, especially if it means I can also nerd out about Ancient Greece.

Chapter 1: Before: The Truth

Ilya Rozanov learned very early that most people are liars. They preach and preach about honesty and fairness and all that nonsense, but turn around and lie and cheat all the same. And they’ll do it to his face. 

Alexei, saying he saved the last sleeve of cookies so Ilya would waste five minutes climbing around the pantry looking for where Mama tucked them away. Katerina from school saying she liked him and wanted to kiss him, only to run away giggling to her friends when he closed his eyes and leaned in. Mama, when she told Papa she’d cleaned the house top to bottom after Ilya had seen the maid service van drive off when he got in from hockey practice. 

People lied all the time. The worst lie, however, was when they claimed that if Ilya told the truth, they’d believe him. Half the time, Ilya could get away with a lie and the adult would be none the wiser. But then there were the times Ilya couldn’t lie. When he had to Speak. Those were the worst lies he was ever told. When he told the Truth, Spoke it so clearly and accurately there was no way it could be disbelieved. And then they did it anyway. Even after what he Spoke came to pass, they would look him right in the eye and lie. 

The first time this happened, Ilya was six. His father’s prized sight hound, Tuzyek, was Ilya’s favorite thing in the world. He would come home from after-school hockey practice tired and happy, then spend an hour cuddled up on the floor with Tuzyek watching cartoons while Mama finished dinner and Alexei did his homework. He would’ve let the dog sleep in the bed with him, if Papa had allowed it. 

One of these afternoons, he was laying with his head on Tuzyek’s flank when he Knew. Tuzyek was going to eat the rat poison Papa put in the yard. Ilya Knew it with such certainty it was like it already happened. Ilya started crying and ran to his Mama. He had to tell her. The urge to Speak was overwhelming. 

But when he Spoke…for a brief moment, it looked like she was taking him seriously. But then her gaze went a little cloudy and she just smiled and patted his head and told him Tuzyek was far too smart to eat something he shouldn’t. Ilya begged her to move the rat poison somewhere else. She didn’t.

Tuzyek ate the poison three days later. He didn’t die, but he was very sick for a long time. By the end of it, he was blind. Tuzyek didn’t seem to mind so much, getting around the house and the yard just fine with his ears and his nose. But Papa never took him out hunting ever again. Didn’t really look at him much, either. Ilya thought Tuzyek might be sad he couldn’t go out with Papa anymore. He took it upon himself to walk him around different places in the neighborhood, so the dog could smell lots of new things. Mama thought he was being an excellent son, taking care of his father’s dog like that.

She never acknowledged that Ilya told her this would happen. That she could have prevented it, had she just listened. Little Ilya tried not to hate her for it. 

The second time was when he learned just how blatantly people could lie. Ilya was eight years old when he Knew a dam would burst on the Ufa River. He was in class and Spoke it to his teacher. The old man had just looked at him sternly, then told him to save the imagination for literature class and stop disrupting his lesson. 

For the next five days, Ilya sat and watched the news with Papa every night. If Papa was surprised by his son’s behavior, he didn’t express it. But Ilya needed to know. And then, there it was. A catastrophic structural collapse of Pavlovka Dam, on the Ufa River. The manmade lake it created, now uncaged and flooding downstream, resuming its natural course. 

The next day at school, he asked that same teacher if he watched the news last night. When the teacher confirmed he had, Ilya then reminded him of what he’d said in class last week. The old man just looked at him and asked What are you trying to prove? Are you trying to impress your friends by pretending you can tell the future? You will have to come up with a much better lie than that, young man. Like Ilya had never even Spoken at all. After that, Ilya gave up all hope he would ever be believed. 

But he couldn’t stop himself from Speaking, either. The Knowledge would crawl up his throat, into his limbs, demanding he find someone and tell them. So, he tried getting smarter about how he Spoke. When he was ten, he was in the locker room getting ready for an important game when he Knew Andropov would get seriously hurt during the game. His knee would take a bad hit, maybe ruin him for life. 

Immediately, he found Andropov and Spoke his Knowledge: You will hurt your knee very badly, he’d said. Then quickly followed it up with, If you’re not careful about your positioning on the forecheck. Perhaps by phrasing it as a maybe, Andropov would believe him. For a second, Ilya thought he saw acknowledgement glittering in Andropov’s eyes. But then they went that glassy texture and he shoved Ilya off with a scoff about how his forechecking was fine. 

It happened exactly as Ilya Knew it would. Andropov got in on the forecheck, and the opposing center couldn’t control his speed. He slammed Andropov hard into the boards, knee crushing knee against unyielding high-density polyethylene and then Andropov was on the ice in screaming pain. He snapped two ligaments. Doctors were able to repair it, but he would never play competitive hockey again.

After that, Ilya was determined to keep his Knowledge to himself. Better to be silent than to be called a liar. So when he was eleven, and he Knew that Svetlana’s mama was going to leave her father and go back to America, he found some stranger in the park and told her Grace St. Claire Vetrova is going back to New York forever. The strange lady looked at him funnily, then shrugged her shoulders and walked on. He always wondered what she thought about his Speaking. He’d never find out. 

Of course, not telling Svetlana didn’t change the outcome. Nothing did. All it meant was that he knew why she was crying when she showed up on his doorstep. He did his best to look appropriately surprised, then turned his attention to making the best blanket fort possible with his bedsheets and chairs dragged out of the formal dining room. Stocked it full of blankets and pillows and other soft things and held Svetlana tight, whispering nothings back and forth until they both fell asleep. 

But there were some times Ilya felt he just had to try. Even if he would not be believed, the idea of doing nothing was unbearable. Like a few months after the Vetrovs’ separation, when Ilya woke in a cold sweat one morning and Knew Alexei was going to take cocaine at a party before going off to the Police Academy and develop an addiction. 

Despite his parents’ best efforts, Ilya knew what drugs were. Older kids in school talked about them, trying to sound cool to even-older kids. He didn’t want to Speak this knowledge to either of his parents, but there was nobody else in the house. And the longer Ilya tried to keep it all inside, the louder and louder it got. So he stumbled into his father’s office, Papa already dressed for the day despite the early hour, and nearly shouted, Alexei will do drugs. 

His father’s ice-blue eyes snapped up, a hardening against his son’s sudden intrusion. Ilya tried to find a plausible explanation for his words, rambling about hearing Alexei talk about a party he was going to this weekend and boasting that someone would bring cocaine for them to try. His father stayed silent while Ilya spun his yarn, long enough that he began to think maybe, just maybe, someone would believe him this time. 

But Papa just took off his glasses, waved Ilya over, and gave him a hard slap across the cheek. He spent the next ten minutes chewing Ilya out about trying to get his big brother in trouble. Ilya fought off the tears until he was dismissed. He went to the kitchen for ice, where he found Mama spooning coffee grounds into a French press. She had bags under her eyes, like she hadn’t even slept. 

She asked Ilya why he was up so early. Scared and sad and hurting, Ilya Spoke his Knowledge of Alexei’s fate again. This time, he didn’t expect her to believe him.

Nobody ever believed him. 

Several months later, he was twelve years old and the days were growing short. Alexei was off at the Police Academy. He wouldn’t have leave to see his family until New Year’s. And Ilya knew that when he did see them, it would be through pupils blown wide. He was alone in the house. Mama was having a good day and went out to fetch the groceries herself. Tuzyek had died that summer. So Ilya sat on the floor, alone. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. But when he heard the sound of the front door opening, footsteps and rustling bags and his Mama’s soft voice, he Knew. And the Knowledge ripped his heart out where he sat. It crawled up that gutted space, bubbling bloody into his throat, coating the backs of his teeth. 

He ran for the front hallway like a boy possessed, the pressure on his mind to Speak, Speak, SPEAK. He reached Mama with tears streaming down his cheeks, breaths coming harsh and fast and panicked. Mama dropped all the shopping on the floor, a bag of apples rolling across the dark wood. They spilled across the floor like…

“Illyushenka?” Mama said, taking his face in her hands, wiping at his tears. His sobs made her arms shake from wrist to shoulder. “Honey, what is the matter?”

“Mama—” Ilya choked around the words— “You’re going to swallow a bottle of pills and die.”

Chapter 2: Before: The Lies

Chapter Notes

So, uh, Chapter count went up. You know that thing that happens when a single bullet point on your outline metastasizes into way more prose than you were expecting? Yeah, that happened.

“Mama.” Irina’s beautiful boy spoke through thick, red-eyed tears. She’d never seen him this panicked. Not even when Grisha put him on his knees on the brick fireplace hearth and threatened to keep him from hockey practice after he came home with a bad grade. Not that Grisha would ever follow through on that. As far as he was concerned, Ilya was Russia’s next champion. He wouldn’t compromise that an inch. 

So Irina prepared herself for any number of confessions. That he’d gotten in trouble at school. That he’d done poorly at practice and expected his coach to make a call about it. That he’d said something mean to Sveta and she vowed to never speak to him again. Nothing she could have done prepared her for the next words out of his mouth.

“You’re going to swallow a bottle of pills and die.”

Irina blinked a few times. What? That was utterly ridiculous. Where had Ilya even learned about that? Did those troublemaking upperclassmen start bragging about drugs again? 

Her Illyusha’s little hands wrapped around her own wrists. “Please, Mama,” he cried, “Please believe me!”

The absolute fear in his voice brought her back to the present moment. He was so shaken. Desperate, even. It made her stop and reconsider his words. Swallow a bottle of pills and die. 

How many times had she looked at that leftover bottle of painkillers in the medicine cabinet? How many times had she thought about doing just that? Not every day, but often enough. On those days when dragging herself out of bed felt like a hopeless endeavour, when the expectations Grisha had for her — and the bruises he left when she failed to measure up — weighed on her more heavily than the light of her children could lift. 

She’d never expected this kind of life for herself. Before she met Grisha, she was an accountant. He was a detective: white collar crimes. And one of her clients had done something stupid, despite her Spoken warning. It would have been a completely normal handoff of documentation, had she not Spoken again: He’ll kill himself before he lets you arrest him.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she waited for him to dismiss her “concerns.” But instead, he asked her What makes you suspect that? 

He’d believed her. Somebody believed her! She Spoke, and he Listened. 

Things moved very quickly after that. At first, they felt like a dream team. A woman with the power to Know things about the future, and a man in position to do something about it. The world was at their fingertips.

And then she’d fallen pregnant with Alexei. And then he’d asked her to quit her job in order to take care of the baby, just for a year or two. And then he’d insisted the household ran smoother when she was home to manage it. And then he’d wanted another son. 

By the time the trap closed around her, it was too late. A beautiful cage that crumbled off pieces of her, bit by bit. A golden chain wrapped around her throat in the shape of his fingers. 

He didn’t hit her often. But when he did, he liked to choke her. Broad hand wrapping around her neck, trying to see how much damage he could do without ridding her of her voice entirely. Because he needed her voice. With the things she Spoke in his ear, Grisha rose to new heights of power. She predicted the fall of the Soviet Union. His foreknowledge was the reason the Rozanovs survived the transfer of power where so many other families fell to ruin. She had constructed the pedestal on which he stood.

And he hated her for that. Couldn’t bear the power she held, but couldn’t live without it either. What could she do? He was police. There was no running. She was too valuable. And so, on her worst days, when the helplessness she carried pulled at her limbs, she thought about it. The ultimate escape. She thought about that bottle of pills. But she wouldn’t do it. Of course not.

She wiped more tears away from Ilya’s eyes. Opened her mouth to reassure him that there’s no way she’d leave him like that. But then his face screwed up tighter, his sobs came harder, and something inside her recognized this response.  The knowing, before the words even left someone’s mouth, that your concerns would be dismissed.

When she told her father not to go to work that day, or he’d lose a finger. 

When she told her best friend to stay away from that boy.

When she told that client he would get caught. 

Did Ilya share her Curse? 

The thought was ridiculous. Of course not. Neither of her parents had it. It didn’t work like that. She was the only one with this affliction. A cruel joke of the universe that had placed her in the hands of a monster. But…why did she feel so certain of that? Yes, as far as she knew, nobody shared her Curse. And yet, the nature of the Curse messed with people’s minds. Made them wholeheartedly believe accurate information was false. 

And this kind of quick dismissal was exactly the kind of thing she’d encountered time and time again. It would be so easy to just forget the doubt. But this was her son. Fighting her instinct, she took Ilya by the shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. “Look at me, sunshine,” she said. He sniffed some tears back and met her gaze. “Tell me again.”

She kept her eyes on his face, focusing on the sound of his voice and letting the words to blur into noise. “You’re going to swallow a bottle of pills and die.” 

He sounded completely convinced. Like tragedy had already happened, and he was the voice of Andromache singing death to her beloved Hector. 

And so she asked, “Again,” holding the picture in her mind. She imagined, like she had many times, opening that cabinet, turning on the sink, swallowing down a handful of those little white circles, and laying down on the bed to wait out the end.

“You’re going to swallow a bottle of pills and die.”

The image wavered. The words were utterly ridiculous. And yet… no. She would never do that. Irina was fine.

And therein lay the Curse’s fatal flaw. A harsh, scoffing laugh escaped her throat. She was fine? Irina couldn’t remember the last time she was fine. Fine wasn’t being unable to crawl out of bed some mornings but for the thought of her sons going without breakfast. Fine wasn’t creeping down the hallways near Grisha’s office in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice her presence. Fine wasn’t lying to her husband to avoid his wrath. Fine wasn’t his hand on her throat, coveting her Knowledge when she’d rather die than let him hear one more prophecy. 

Fine wasn’t longing for escape. Fine wasn’t so much pain she’d leave her children behind to finally make it stop.

Irina Rozanova was not fine. And in that moment, she couldn’t be more grateful for it. Because it gave her the strength to push past the Curse meddling with her perception. To part its clouds with all the power of Jove. To look at her son, so like her in more ways than she’d ever imagined, and say, “I believe you.”

Even as the words winged from her mouth, she could feel the Curse at work. Trying to convince her she was just lying to make her son feel better. She didn’t actually believe him. Irina put a hand on the golden cross at her throat, and made a vow. 

“I will always believe you, Ilya.”

Even if she had to fight every moment of her life to keep that promise. 

“But I promise you, I am not going to die.”

Her Knowledge had never spared her from the future. Her father had lost his finger. Her best friend had been hurt in ways nothing could fully heal. Her client had blown his brains out rather than risk prison. But she would spare Ilya. 

For him, she would be brave.

Bravery started with a slip of paper buried in the bottom of Irina’s jewelry box. It had lived there for almost a year, now. Pressed into her hand in that fancy hotel bathroom by the wife of an official she’d never spoken to. A small, regal woman who’d caught her reapplying concealer to her neck. 

She didn’t have to say anything. It was nothing they and countless other women weren’t intimately, grotesquely familiar with. She didn’t even have to write down a name attached to the phone number. It was understood. Take this for when you can’t take it anymore.

Irina thought she’d be able to take it. At least until Ilya was grown. But if she could use her awareness of the Curse’s methods to think her way around it, so could Grisha. She could see it so clearly, there was no need for Knowledge. Ilya, her sunshine on earth, stifled and dimmed and held so suffocatingly close. Always under his thumb; kept in place by expectation, obligation, and just enough praise to keep him desperate for it. 

The kind of cruel fate only cruel men could create.

And so Irina tucked that slip of paper into her purse, sent Ilya off to school, and took the train three stops downtown to find an Internet cafe. The number had not been listed in the phone book, but maybe these people would have a website or forum. Seated at the bulky, glowing machine, she typed the number into a search engine to see what she could find. 

There was nothing direct in the results, but the number did flag on a forum website that purported to be about gardening tips. Reading through a few topics, it became increasingly clear that the vocabulary about timing, soil quality, and weeding techniques was a coded method of conversing about much darker topics. Survival. Escape. She was on the right track. 

Making an account, she started a new thread about transplanting a pair of lily plants from too-small pots to a garden proper. How could she successfully excise the roots from their old soil without shocking them? 

While she awaited responses, she went to some actual gardening forums and posted the same kind of question. She’d likely need to come back here a few times, and if Grisha one day pulled up the IP history, it was best that everything looked as natural as possible. 

Returning to the forum, she found a few answers. Wait for the right temperatures. Work slowly. Several strongly encouraged her to call the hotline for more detailed guidance, as repotting lilies could be a very tricky endeavour, indeed. The number from the slip was advertised at the top of the screen: Need an answer quickly? Call here for real-time gardening assistance!

She committed the number to memory, logged out, and threw the slip of paper into a trash can outside the mini mart next door. She took the train one stop back the other direction, walked a few blocks, and found a payphone.

As she went to insert her coins, the gravity of what Irina was committing to hit her in the chest. In order to escape FSB reach, she and Ilya would have to leave Russia forever. No more of Ilya’s favorite Saturday morning cartoons. No more pryaniki from her favorite bakery. No more sleepovers at Svetlana’s house. No more Sundays at her favorite church. And…they’d have to leave Alexei behind. 

The reasons were stark. He was already eighteen; a legal adult. He was committed to the Police Academy, and his contact with the outside world heavily limited until graduation in the summer. And … he couldn’t believe her, even if she did tell him the true reasons. Not only because of the Curse, but because her oldest son idolized his father. Wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps. He wouldn’t be able to see what Grisha could inflict on her and Ilya. And a soft, selfless part of her didn’t want to make him try.

In saving one child, she’d have to abandon the other. The terrible, buckling hole of it in her chest took her breath and almost stole her nerve. But she couldn’t spare Alexei at the cost of Ilya. 

She would write him, Irina decided. Once they were settled wherever they went. Alexei would be his own man by then. Irina prayed with everything she had that, one day, he could forgive her for this. 

Then she dialed the number. Every time the ring went silent, Irina considered hanging up. This was an insane idea. They would most certainly get caught. But she kept the receiver to her ear until a cheery voice said, “Thank you for calling the Birds of Paradise Gardening Club Helpline! My name is Azaliya. What can we assist you with today?”

Irina did her best to keep the shake from her voice as she said, “Hello. I was on your forum earlier today, asking about transplanting some lilies. They suggested I call.”

“Yes!” the woman calling herself Azaliya said, maintaining her bright tone, “One of our moderators saw your ask! We’re very interested in helping, if we can. Can you tell me some more details about your lilies?”

“Well, I have one that is mature, and another that is still quite young. But they’re both not doing so well being kept inside. My husband likes looking at them from his office, but they’re not getting enough sunlight indoors. I don’t know why he’s so insistent, he is a police colonel so his work keeps him away from home most of the day. I’m hoping to move them outside to the garden.”

Azaliya was quiet for a long moment. “Hmm, that is a conundrum. Well, considering you have an immature plant, I wouldn’t move them until the summer. Better temperatures.”

“I understand, thank you,” Irina said. “In the meantime, what can I do to get them ready for replanting?”

“Hmm, with two plants at such different maturities, might be easier to formulate a care plan if I could see them in person.”

“Oh, that would be much appreciated. I live near Luzhniki Station. Can we meet somewhere around there?”

“Sure! Who should I be waiting for?”

Irina smiled. “You know, it’s funny. My name is actually Liliya.”

On the way back to the station, Irina popped into a flower shop and purchased two potted lilies. As she placed them inside under a patch of afternoon sunlight, she made another vow. She would keep these alive. She would keep them alive. As long as it took.

And so, she and Azaliya and however many other parties were behind Azaliya plotted their escape. They had to be very careful. The time between asking for help and actually leaving was the most dangerous. But knowing there was a light at the end of this tunnel made the day-to-day easier to bear. She became the perfect wife. Waking Ilya every morning with breakfast on the table, keeping up with the housework and the finances, doing everything Grisha expected of her.

Taking pictures each time everything expected of her wasn’t enough. 

And every once in a while, she and Azaliya would meet to discuss the care of her garden. Sometimes on payphones through coded language, sometimes in person at a cafe near the Metro station. But never for long. Irina was well aware of how far these people were sticking their necks out, helping the wife and son of an FSB colonel flee the country. 

Sometimes, she wished for Knowledge about what was going to happen. And equally dreaded it, should it come when she had no one to Speak to but Grisha. It would be the cruelest joke yet, for the Curse to condemn her right after it saved her life. And so, she and Ilya practiced. 

Ilya dove into it with the same determination he held for hockey. His enthusiasm kept Irina going. They practiced holding back the urge to Speak; a tremendous task that threatened to melt their brains out of their ears, but possible. They practiced believing each other, choosing code phrases to indicate when they should ignore their first instincts and try to notice which thoughts were their own and which were the Curse’s. Ilya picked “ace.” Irina used “lily.”

And Irina waited. Planned, documented, worried, and waited. Until the last day of the school year. Until the last hockey practice before summer break. That morning, she planted those lilies in the front garden. That afternoon, she fetched Ilya from the rink holding a duffle bag carrying three days worth of clothes, a handful of family photos, and a thick roll of cash she’d slowly accumulated over months of pulling slightly more than she actually needed from the bank.

In this way, her past worked to her advantage. Her parents lived in a small village about an hour outside of Moscow, next to a national forest. Every year, she had taken the boys to visit their grandparents at the beginning of summer break. Grisha never joined them. All it took was a little lie. According to her husband, she and Ilya were departing this afternoon. According to her father, they wouldn’t be arriving for another two days. 

Enough time to get where they were going without anyone knowing to stop her. At least, that was the hope. She hadn’t said anything to Ilya. But being told they were going to the train station with all his hockey equipment in tow put a wide-eyed, knowing look on his face. She held a finger over her mouth. They would talk about it later.

At the train station, Irina bought two tickets to Tver, as she always did. Ilya was quiet in the seat next to her, staring out the window like he was trying to memorize the skyline. Maybe he was. She was asking him to say goodbye to everything and everyone he had ever known. The least she could do was be silent as he grieved. 

They debarked and changed platforms. A man identifying himself as Jacek handed them the tickets that would take them all the way to Tapa, in Estonia. He boarded with them, entertaining Ilya by asking him about hockey. Her son’s eyes couldn’t help but sparkle as he talked about all the training he’d put in to be the best on their team at taking face-offs. Jacek himself had played hockey back in the day. They spent a solid hour comparing notes on ideal zone entries for different defensive formations. 

Irina tried to listen and nod, but she couldn’t quite hear over the pounding in her ears. She knew she wouldn’t relax until they were out of Russia. The border crossing at Narva would be the true test. The most likely point of failure. Thirteen hours until then.

After a fitful sleep in which she kept Ilya tucked up firmly against her, they were woken by the train slowing to a stop. Immediately, her breath hitched. They’d reached Narva. No Knowledge came to her. She couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse. But she had to be calm. If she panicked, Ilya would panic, and that would draw far too much attention. No, they were just a mother and son taking a summer trip to another country. 

They debarked the train and queued up to enter a small Immigration office. Irina willed herself not to shake as she approached the officer on duty and handed over hers and Ilya’s passports. Getting that document had been the hardest part. She’d kept hers valid from when she obtained one for a study abroad program during university, but justifying a passport for her twelve-year-old had taken careful maneuvering around Grisha. Ultimately, she proposed a trip to Greece to celebrate Alexei’s graduation later in the summer. Came up with a whole itinerary and everything. Alexei had always loved warm places. It hadn’t been a hard sell. 

That frozen black hole feeling had returned upon roping her eldest into this scheme, no matter how unwitting. Yet another thing she prayed he’d forgive. The officer examined her passport and seemed to find it in order. He moved on to Ilya’s. Irina almost exhaled. Things were going fine. 

Then a small hand gripped hers. Doing her best not to move too quickly, Irina turned to her son. His eyes were wide, jaw tight as he clenched his teeth together so hard he must feel it all the way down his spine. Shit, shit shit! Her poor son had been struck with Knowledge at the worst possible time. Anything that would draw attention to them, that would risk delaying their return to the train, was dangerous.

She gripped his hand just as tight, trying to steady him against the unbearable urge to Speak. Seconds stretched into eternity as the officer stamped Ilya’s passport, clicked on their computer, and returned the documents. Irina bustled her son into the nearest family bathroom, locking the door.

What did Ilya Know? Was it something about their escape? Something about Grisha? Something beyond that?

“Officer Kingsepp shouldn’t eat his wife’s chicken dish tonight. He’ll be sick for days.”

Irina pushed aside the insistence that Ilya was making up silly stories, and couldn’t stifle the laugh that punched out of her chest. Sometimes, Knowledge was paradigm-shifting. The death of a loved one. The fall of a nation. And sometimes, Knowledge was a random Estonian Immigration officer’s stomach troubles. 

The release in her spine sent big, sobbing laughs bouncing up from her lungs. Jaw freed from its rictus, Ilya started laughing with her. They laughed and laughed in that train station bathroom on the Russia-Estonia border until their faces hurt and their eyes teared up. Whether from mirth or relief, they would never really be able to say. Irina gave her son a big hug before they unlocked the door and returned to their seats. 

They had done it. They were out of Russia. But they weren’t fully safe yet.

Chapter End Notes

I thought it might be fun to list some specific inspirations behind the references and supernatural elements in my process.

1. “Andromache singing death to her beloved Hector” is a scene from Book 6 of the Iliad. (And like, one of my favorite scenes in literature ever.) Quoting from the 1898 Butler translation: “Well I do know that the day will surely come when mighty Ilius (Troy) shall be destroyed with Priam (King of Troy) and Priam’s people…for none of these do I grieve as for yourself when the day shall come on which someone of the Achaeans (Mainland Greeks) shall rob you for ever [sic] of your freedom, and bear you weeping away.”

2. The concept of using lateral thinking to make deductions about a force that specifically warps one’s ability to believe in/remember its existence is heavily inspired by various SCP articles about Antimemetic SCPs and the Antimemetics Division. Antimemes are entities that remove/edit themselves from perception or memory in some fashion, much like the Curse.

3. The Curse's "fatal flaw" is a reference to the Greek concept of the hamartia, which translates directly. Shakespeare also employs it frequently; it's defined as a character trait that enables the tragedy by being 1.) unavoidable and 2.) of a nature that gets you in trouble with the plot direction. Oedipus' pride, Hamlet's indecision, Dr. Frankenstein's ambition, etc.

4. Sometimes prophecies are about stupid, inconsequential shit. Because I think that’s fun.

Chapter 3: Before: The In-Between

Chapter Notes

If you’ve read my previous work, you know I like to throw little references to IRL NHL players. Happy hunting!

When Azaliya asked where Irina wanted to go, the possibilities were daunting. Up until then, she’d been so focused on getting away from Russia that she hadn’t thought about going to anywhere. As if sensing her panic, or perhaps practiced in this kind of decision-making, Azaliya asked her a series of questions to narrow things down. 

Firstly, they needed a country that was within 48 hours’ ground or sea travel. That was the maximum amount of time and cost she could buy herself without raising suspicions. That narrowed the options down to Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Belarus, the Caucasus, the Baltics, and Finland. Then, they needed somewhere that offered the kind of asylum they were looking for. That eliminated half the list. And finally, Irina thought about Ilya. She needed somewhere he could thrive.

She wasn’t blind to her son’s potential. Just because it was his father who believed him to be Russia’s next hockey superstar didn’t mean the assessment was inaccurate. If Ilya kept progressing on his current track, he’d have MLH scouts sniffing around by sixteen. So, Irina needed a hockey nation. All the Baltic countries had development leagues, but they were small potatoes compared to the Russian juggernaut. They didn’t get much international attention.

Finland, however…they were a Big Six country with a robust youth development structure, and MLH scouts were always on the lookout to snag promising young talent out of the Liiga. Of all their options, Finland gave Ilya the best hope of a future in hockey. 

So, though their train made its last stop in Tapa, their journey was not over, yet. 

They left Jacek behind at the train station with hugs tighter than she’d given any other stranger. The last leg of their journey they would have to make alone. Had they tried to navigate the attached bus terminal a few months ago, the unfamiliar Latin script and endless Estonian being thrown around the walls would have proved a major obstacle. 

But Irina and Ilya hadn’t just been practicing Curse-related skills. Armed with dictionaries, pronunciation guides, and audio lessons ripped from a handy website, they had been slowly teaching each other basic Finnish for the last six months. Well, Irina provided the materials, and Ilya usually picked up on them quickly and helped Irina catch up. He had a leg up on her with his English classes in school, but every night they practiced proved to Irina that her son had a much broader set of innate competencies than hockey and mischief. 

It seemed she had a potential polyglot on her hands. She was still much better than him in math, though. 

Anyway, Estonian and Finnish were about fifty percent mutually intelligible, which was enough for basic navigation. With only a few moments of embarrassment, Irina was able to exchange some currency and buy them bus tickets to Tallinn. And get her and Ilya some ice cream from a little shop in the terminal. They deserved some ice cream, goddammit.

As they scooped at the sweet dessert, Irina looked at her boy. He was growing so fast, but still small enough that his legs swung back and forth under the tall bar seating. She’d spent so much time picturing what might happen if he continued to grow up in Russia. If Grisha found out about his Curse, could he have kept hockey? What would have won out? The need for Knowledge or the need for pride? 

Sending his precious oracle out into a space where boys chased each other on knife shoes and slammed headlong into walls might have been deemed too risky. But pulling him would take away any potential of Ilya as his trophy. His golden object to parade in front of ministers and presidents. And Grisha had always loved his trophies.

None of that had to matter, anymore. Grigori Rozanov didn’t need to matter.

However…Russia did. Now that they were over the border — and the only mother soil they’d ever touch again was the dirt clinging to their shoes — the magnitude of what she was losing, what she was asking Ilya to lose, cracked that frozen hole and threatened to pull her down into icy waters. If everything went to plan, Russia would be nothing but a memory.

“Ilyushenka,” Irina said, doing her best to keep the wetness from her voice. For a moment, she was unsure what she wanted to say. Part of her wanted to give him permission to grieve. But if he wasn’t ready, she could do more harm than good by reminding him of the places he’d never see again. So instead, she looked to the future. “I know you were reading those guide books. When we get to Helsinki, what’s the first thing you want to see?”

Ilya finished his bite of caramel swirl and said, “I wanna go on that Ferris wheel in the harbor. The SkyWheel!”

Irina couldn’t help but smile, the waters warming just a little bit. It was such a child’s answer. “Oh, really?” 

Ilya nodded. “Did you know that one of the pods on the SkyWheel is a sauna?”

She did not, and she told him so, if just to keep him talking. He rambled on about how Finns loved saunas but if the windows get all steamy, doesn’t that make it hard to see? Isn’t the point of ferris wheels to see things far away? 

And then he said, much quieter, “I wish Sveta could come with us.”

Okay. So now was the time. She could do this. Taking her son’s hand, she said, “Me too, Ilyusha.”

“What if I don’t make any friends?” he asked.

“You will,” she said. “You’re so funny and smart. And you’re so much better at Finnish than me. You’ll make friends in no time.”

Ilya went quiet for a long moment, ice cream abandoned and melting on the bar. He had that pinch in his face he always got when he was working through a complicated thought. Eventually, he asked, “Papa was truly bad to you?”

Despite everything, she felt guilt at the prospect of making a son hate his father. But she was already asking Ilya to do so much. The least she could give him was honesty. “Yes, he was.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed. Even though she’d explained the need to leave months ago, Ilya hadn’t asked that question until now. “I don’t know,” Irina answered, eyes anywhere but her son’s. “I don’t know what makes people become cruel. For a long time, I thought we were meant to be together. The only person who could believe me. But just because he could Listen does not mean he deserved to Know. It took me a long time to learn that.”

Her gaze traced the shiny woodgrain of the bartop, and she willed herself not to cry. A small hand found hers, gently prying the plastic spoon from her grip. “I can believe you, Mama,” Ilya whispered. “And you can believe me. We believe each other, right?”

One tear slipped from her grasp. Irina nodded. “Yes, we do.” 

“So…we will be okay.” He phrases it as a statement. Fuck, what had Irina done to deserve a son as kind as her Ilyusha? She had to return at least some of it.

“Yes,” she said. “And once we are settled, we can send a letter to Sveta. She will be happy to know you are safe and she can come visit.”

Settled, in this case, meant, “approved for asylum and thus unable to be deported or extradited,” but Ilya didn’t need to know all of that. It was worth everything to see his blue eyes light up. It hadn’t fully hit him, yet. But eventually he would realize that any visits would only ever happen in one direction. And Irina would do her best to help him grieve that. But for now, hope and adventure prevailed.

Many hours later, Irina and Ilya sat aboard the ferry connecting Tallinn to Helsinki. The ferry was not full, maybe half the seats taken by a strange combination of families on vacation and men in gray business suits. One family in particular stood out. Though, really, it was mainly the mother. She was dressed comfortably but sharply, her dark hair held back by a claw clip. All business, but approachably so. She sat tapping away at a laptop computer while her two children (a girl slightly older than Ilya and a boy maybe three years younger) craned their heads together over a Gameboy. They were stuck on some level of a video game, based on the intermittent groans that spilled from their corner of the seating area. 

As she watched them, Knowledge stung her tongue like a thousand bees. Though Ilya was right next to her, she held it back for a few moments. Practice made perfect. In the meantime, she put her hand on Ilya’s arm to grab his attention. Pushing her own words past the Knowledge crowding the back of her throat, she said, “Ilya, I’m thinking of lilies.”

That grabbed his full attention. He gave her a nod, and she Spoke, “Mrs. Ansa Rantanen will be elected to Parliament next month.” 

Ilya sat there for a few moments, no doubt using his own methods to push past the Curse’s efforts. Once he was settled, an idea dawned in Irina’s mind, birthed fully formed like Minerva from the skull of Jupiter. She said, “Her children look like they could use some help.”

Ilya glanced over to the two kids with the Gameboy. He shot her a quizzical glance, but shrugged and left his seat. In somewhat broken Finnish, he asked the two kids what they were playing. It must have been something Ilya was good at, because he smiled and asked for the handheld. They passed it over and watched with rapt attention as his fingers flew over the controls, their little faces craning closer and closer as Ilya’s concentration sank deeper and deeper. A few minutes later, the children were cheering Ilya on as he chewed on his bottom lip. With a few more button presses, his posture unwound and he thrust the Gameboy in the air. Mission accomplished.

Even from across the room, she heard him brag about how Tetris was invented by Russians, so of course he was good at it. Ansa Rantanen had looked up from her laptop a few times during all of this, but seemed content to let Ilya and the Gameboy entertain her children while she worked. 

Irina kept one eye on them, but let Ilya ingratiate himself with the duo. Eventually, their mother closed her laptop, gave them a quick heads up, and walked off in the direction of the bathroom. Irina followed. After pretending to do business in the stall, she stepped up to the sink next to Ansa.

“Thank you,” she began, doing her best with the accent. Ansa looked at her as she continued, “My son was very bored. Thank you for letting him play.”

Ansa smiled, then said something Irina was pretty sure was a thank you to Ilya for helping her kids get past that level. They had been stuck on it for an…hour? Two hours!

Irina widened her eyes in an appropriate gesture of surprise. Then Ansa asked, “You are from Russia?” 

Irina nodded. Ansa followed up with a question about why they were traveling to Finland. 

Okay. Here was the important part. Irina turned on the sink and kept talking like nothing was amiss. “Moving.” As she said it, she pulled up the sleeve of her long blouse to keep the water from soaking it. This had the secondary effect of revealing the aging yellow bruise encircling her wrist. The shapes of thick fingers were still…evident. Her gold wedding ring sparkled on her right hand; a complementary color match for the line of purple pressed into the thin skin over bone.

Ansa sucked in a sharp breath. Irina kept her eyes on her soapy hands and let the woman collect her thoughts. Eventually, she asked, “Is your husband joining you?”

“No.” Finally, Irina let a little bit of a waver into her voice. It didn’t take much to summon. She’d been terrified since replanting those lilies.

“Do you have somewhere to go? Someone to help?”

Irina shook her head again. As much help as Azaliya and her fellow volunteers were, their network didn’t extend this far. Aside from the assistance the Finnish government rendered to all asylum seekers, they would be on their own. Unless they could build connections. 

“We did not leave with much. He is police.” Those sentences came easy. She’d practiced them. 

Irina waited for Ansa’s next move. In the time between Speaking her Knowledge and following Ansa to the bathroom, she’d made a series of deductions. As a political candidate, Ansa was at minimum familiar with the Finnish legal system, either as a lawyer or some other type of adjacent professional. And as a woman who would eventually win her election race, she must be well-liked and respected. If she put a word in the right place, things could move much smoother for Irina and Ilya. 

In a way, it was almost like dealing with Grisha. What behaviors should she display to induce the favorable response? What should she avoid to incur wrath? What part must she play today? And then, how to adjust all those things in response to the smallest of reactions.

Let Ansa see her own children in Ilya. Show off her bruises, make clear her travel intentions. Set the stakes by mentioning the infamous FSB. Paint the picture she needed Ansa to see.

A mother and child, fleeing an abuser infinitely protected by a system that would watch them die and fail to do a thing about it. Worse, help the perpetrator escape culpability. They didn’t have an asylum case based on political dissidence and the threat of imprisonment without due process, nor discrimination on the basis of ethnicity or sexual orientation. But they had a credible threat to both their lives. One that, if committed, would see no justice served.

And Irina watched as that exact realization landed in Ansa Rantanen’s chest. Placing her purse on the bathroom counter, she pulled out a legal pad and a pen. In one of the corners, she scribbled a phone number. She spoke slowly, giving Irina time to parse her words. “My colleague is an immigration lawyer. When we land, I will give him a call. He will come to the port and help you with your asylum applications. Keep this in case of an emergency.” She held the scrap of paper out for Irina to take. 

And so it ended as it began. In a women’s bathroom, with a phone number pressed from one mother’s hand to another’s. 

Eight months later, Irina clutched a warm cup of glögi and listened to the rumble of the Zamboni as it trundled over the ice. She walked carefully up the stadium seating, eyes scanning until she found the person she was looking for.

Ansa Rantanen’s children didn’t play hockey. But her nephew did. And given that Irina and Ilya had settled into a neighborhood within her constituency, it naturally followed that he and Ilya ended up on the same youth team. Mikko was good. Maybe he and Ilya would play against each other professionally one day. She greeted her first Finnish friend and took a seat next to her. 

This week had been hectic for Irina. The fiscal year was ending soon, which meant a lot of work no matter what country you were working in. But she’d made sure to wrap up all of her most important work ahead of tonight. She had much more important things to pay attention to. 

The last eight months had not been easy, or simple. But between the two of them, a growing network of friends, and the Knowledge the Curse sometimes granted; they were doing okay for themselves. Ilya was established at his new school, Irina had dusted off her degree and found herself a position with an international wealth management firm, and, of course, her son was excelling in youth hockey.

Though this game was nothing special in the grand scheme of the season, it was important for another reason. Their applications for asylum had finally returned a result. As of yesterday morning, Ilya and Irina were permanent residents of the Republic of Finland; options for citizenship forthcoming. As part of their process, Ansa’s lawyer friend had recommended an additional step. It was somewhat frivolous, but there were fringe benefits to taking care of it now. 

Irina had been “Irina Davydevna Rozanova” for nineteen years. Nineteen years of slow-boiling misery, fear, and terrible pain. But she did not have to be that person anymore. 

The starting lineups took to the ice for the national anthem. As they stood on the blue lines, the announcer in the booth called each of them by name.

“Number 81, Ilya Volkov, Center!”

Irina Volkova cheered for her boy, a name that would always be just theirs stitched across his back in an alphabet that would never quite be home, but had become something better. Knowledge blossomed on her tongue like the first drop of summer honey. 

She turned to Ansa, already braced against the incoming scoff of lighthearted dismissal as she Spoke, “Ilya Volkov is going to play for Boston.”

Chapter End Notes

Not a ton of specific references in this one, but Irina does allude to the myth of Athena’s (Roman Minerva’s) birth from the brain of Zeus/Jupiter. Depending on the version it’s either a parthenogenic birth or the result of Zeus swallowing the Titaness Metis. (Greek myths are weird and not literal; it’s a metaphor for Zeus taking on his role as the Arbiter of Universal Justice) Anyway he gets a wicked migraine and has his son Hephaestus/Vulcan split is skull open to relieve the pressure. Out pops Athena, fully formed and ready to kick ass.

Chapter 4: After: Speaking

Chapter Notes

Ahhhhh it's so nice stepping back into Shane's head after so long away.

Ilya Volkov went first in the Draft. Shane Hollander was doing his best not to take that personally. Thus far, he was failing miserably. With the logical side of his brain, Shane knew it was a genuine toss-up between the two of them. Canada’s Golden Boy and Finland’s Superstar. A chance borne of the astronomically small likelihood of two once-in-a-generation talents in the same Draft class. 

That didn’t melt the jagged ice in his chest, watching Volkov mount the stage. 

“You’re definitely going next,” his mother whispered to his left. “And really, this is good. Montreal is a much better fit for you. Besides, he’s going first but you’re going in the Bell Centre.” 

Shane nodded and let the scenario play out in his mind. A retired legend, maybe Damphousse or Muller, taking the stage and calling his name to the screaming cheers of several thousand Metros fans packing the seats. They’d certainly cheer louder than the Boston contingent. This was their turf, their team. And Shane was their next face. They’d welcome him as a hero. 

The picture sustained him through Volkov’s interview, until he walked off the stage and back towards his table. Shane rolled his shoulders a few times, anticipating his moment. But he was distracted by Volkov dramatically opening his arms for his mother to jump within. He spun her off her feet a few times, their smiles as twinned as their golden curls. She was crying, a little. He hadn’t invited any other family. 

A small — miniscule, honestly — piece of Shane felt happy for them. Volkov’s story was an object of sympathy and curiosity for the hockey community. Russian-born under a different name until he and his mother gained asylum in Finland for reasons they’d elected to keep private. Of course, that didn’t stop speculation that ranged from plausible to slanderous. 

Not much was known about his Russian hockey career, but in Finland he really took off. Scouts from all over Europe and North America followed him from the age of fifteen; his game tape passed from scout to scout at almost the same speed as Shane’s. Shane had watched that game tape. Extensively. Even more so after Finland beat Canada for gold in last year’s International Prospects Cup. 

Volkov was impressive. Not afraid to get physical, but with the kind of puck protection skills that rewarded such aggressive play. Absolutely lethal slap shot, though Shane was better on the wrister and backhand. He wouldn’t slot into Boston’s current system perfectly, but the Raiders seemed willing to adjust their strategy around him. He’d thrive there.

The pick jingle blared over the speakers and pulled Shane’s gaze away from the smiling Volkovs. Guy Carbonneau walked out on stage. ‘93 Captain, Shane thought. Cup Champion. No pressure. Shane imagined himself hoisting his own Cup — with the C on his own chest — as he walked onto the stage. All thoughts of Ilya Volkov he shoved very, very far away.

If only for a few hours. Shane lay awake in his hotel bed, turning the evening over and over in his brain. Volkov going first. Shane going second. The screaming of the hometown crowd. The pride and desperate hope in Carbonneau’s eyes as Shane donned that blue jersey. The photographers yammering away at him, trying to induce a smile, but how could he smile when he was holding up two fingers to Volkov’s one? The Metros GM spewing PR at him just in case a reporter was within earshot. The awkward conversations about his Asian heritage he tries to ignore by people-watching and letting his mom handle it. His eyes sweeping across the balcony above only to find sharp hazel. Volkov’s own gaze bearing down on Shane.

What did he want? He’d won! Added another tally on his side of the scoresheet. Gold at IPC and first overall. He was beating Shane. No reason to stand over him like that and rub it in. 

Ugh. He wasn’t going to sleep like this. Best to find the hotel gym and tire himself out. Shane changed into workout gear, made the barely-rumpled bed, and went downstairs. Half an hour on the exercise bike should clear his head. He popped in some earbuds, played whatever was next in his iPod’s queue, and turned his focus to the movement of his legs.

He thought he’d imagined it at first. Some distant sound trickling in from beyond the music. But then a dark shape flickered into Shane’s peripheral vision and he turned his head just in time to see Ilya fucking Volkov start up the bike to Shane’s immediate left. 

There were more than two exercise bikes in the gym. Volkov was being a dick on purpose. Shaking his head, Shane leaned forward and shielded his view with his arms. He was just gonna ignore the other guy until he was good and ready to leave. 

But in the silent gap between one song and the next, Shane caught the sound of Volkov’s machine. He was pedaling faster than Shane. Before he really knew what he was doing, Shane bumped up the resistance and pedaled faster. Faster than Volkov. 

He wasn’t paying attention to the music at all, anymore. He was straining his ears past it, waiting for the moment the sound changed. Volkov matched Shane’s pace. Then went a little faster. Shane answered. 

He lost track of how long they did this. All he knew was the burn in his thighs, and the rock-melting desire to win. Shane had resolved not to look at his competitor, but after a certain point, the faint sounds of the machinery through his headphones weren’t enough to gauge the other bike’s speed and resistance. He risked a glance, eyes snagging on pieces of Volkov’s form. The bulge of his bare biceps. The set of his jaw as he breathed through the strain. A slow drop of sweat snaking down his throat…

Shane blinked and focused on his own hands. Dug deep and pedalled just a little bit faster. Shit, he didn’t know how long he could keep this up. His legs were screaming. He couldn’t help it. One more glance to Volkov, this time meeting his hazel eyes. 

By the kind of unspoken agreement Shane had constantly heard about but never before managed to pull off, their legs slowed. Hands coming off the handles as they assumed recovery positions. Seems like they were calling this one a draw. A real one. Volkov wasn’t the kind of guy to let someone win just to make them feel better, and neither was Shane.

Guess they really were evenly matched. 

Abandoning the bike, Shane tried to walk straight out, but his knees felt like Jello and he only managed a few steps before he went down to the floor by the mirrored wall, back resting against a squat rack. He hoped that looked as intentional as he’d tried to make it. Volkov had really pushed him tonight.

Shane was just starting to catch his breath when the figure in black took a seat on the mat next to him. He held a water bottle in his left hand, but made no motion to drink from it. Shane’s dry throat reminded him he’d neglected to bring his own.

Instead, Volkov elected to heave a few breaths, making the deep vee of sweat between his pecs ripple, then let out a loud whoop. It rang off the hard edges of the room. Whoop, indeed, Shane thought. Though his own reaction was more subdued, the buzz of good competition skittered along the nerves in his muscles just as much as the fatigue. He didn’t get that feeling terribly often. The thrill of an even match.

“What a fucking day, huh?” Volkov said. His accent was slightly bizarre, something Shane could only place as Northern European because he knew Volkov’s background. Then again, English was the guy’s third language. Native Japanese speakers probably found Shane’s accent odd, too. 

He finally took a sip of that water bottle. Shane’s eyes tracked the flex of his arm and the purse of his lip. Shit, Volkov was probably waiting for an answer. Uhh… what had he said? “Yeah, totally,” Shane blurted, for wont of anything more eloquent. 

“Is everything you ever dreamed?”

This fucking dick. “Almost,” Shane answered, not trying at all to keep the annoyance from his tone. 

Volkov shot him a goofy smirk that made him look like a pit bull. Not the cage fight kind, but the cute pet variety with square heads and big smiles. “I’m sorry,” he singsonged.

“No, you’re not.”

Volkov smiled again, more genuine this time, and took another pull of water. Fuck, Shane was thirsty. 

“Montreal is nice, yes?” Volkov asked. 

Shane decided that probably wasn’t a draft order chirp and answered honestly, “Yeah, it’s awesome.” He knew from firsthand experience. His mom was a huge Metros fan and his dad spoke French, so they’d spent many a weekend of his childhood taking day trips to the city. It wasn’t home, yet, but…it would be.

That got Shane thinking about moving. A big step for anyone. And he was just going two hours east. Volkov was moving across international borders for the second time in his life. What the fuck must that feel like?

The boy sitting across from him must have had the same thought, because he asked, “Boston is nice, too?”

Shane didn’t know, really. But he’d learned that, a lot of times, people weren’t actually asking his honest opinion when making casual conversation. So he chose the safe option and said, “I think so. People like it there.” Volkov’s heaving chest slowed a little. Shane watched his hands fidget on the cap of the water bottle nestled between his thighs. “Is your mom gonna move with you?” 

Why the fuck had Shane asked that? Goddamn Volkov and his weird past and his amazing hockey were making Shane overly curious about him. He thought he’d learned to stop asking prying questions by now. 

Thankfully, Volkov didn’t seem weirded out. He just said, “Yes.” 

Another awkward pause; Volkov fiddling with his water bottle, Shane staring at his thi— fingers! His fingers as they played over the white plastic. Shane was so preoccupied getting his breathing under control (he really should be recovering by now. That was a lot of cardio but nothing he wasn’t used to—) that he almost missed Volkov asking, “Your parents?”

“Are they gonna move with me?”

Volkov nodded, the muscles in his neck working against sweat-slicked skin. 

“Nah,” Shane answered. “Ottawa and Montreal are only two hours apart, so…” no need. Unlike Volkov. Who was moving countries twice in a decade. It was almost enough to make Shane apologize. For what, he didn’t quite know. But it made him curious. For a moment, Shane thought he might do something stupid like ask if Volkov had any other family, but he was spared by a change of subject.

 “We will be seeing each other a lot.” His fingers flicked back and forth, drawing Shane’s gaze down once again. He forced himself to look Volkov in the eye but that was too much after less than a second. He settled his gaze on a small mole underneath one blond eyebrow. 

“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play against each other often.” Shane said. Volkov decided in that moment to finally take a drink from his water bottle. He tilted his head back as he sucked on the bottle top, thighs stretching wide and concealing absolutely nothing and — hang on a second was Volkov trying to catch his gaze right now? Yes! Though his head was turned to the side, those hazel eyes sought Shane’s own. 

Deciding this had to be some attempt at ragebait, Shane kept his gaze down. And that was the wrong move because Volkov just lowered his water bottle into Shane’s view. Then he lifted it back up and something in Shane was fucking powerless to stop himself from tracking that motion back up to Volkov’s face. Why was this guy so obsessed with getting Shane to look at him?

Whatever. Shane wasn’t playing. He wasn’t! Volkov offered the water bottle. Shane flicked a hand in refusal. Volkov just looked at him like he was being stupid and obnoxiously shook it in front of Shane’s face. Shit, he really was thirsty. Maybe it was like dealing with little kids. Throw them a little of whatever they’re trying to get out of you, and they’ll back off. But sometimes that strategy backfires spectacularly and the attention only encourages them.

So…what kind of toddler was Volkov? Ugh, Shane was being fucking stupid. It was just water! He stretched out to take the proffered bottle, and tried not to jump when Volkov’s fingers skated overtop his own. He almost gave the guy a quizzical eyebrow; but in looking his direction, Shane caught a glimpse of his face as it melted from something like satisfied to something like…terrified? 

Despite the dryness of his throat, Shane just sat there, dumbly holding onto the bottle while he tried to figure out what just happened. Had Shane done something weird? Wouldn’t be the first time. But Volkov looked genuinely scared. And maybe a little pissed. The silence stretched on so long it started to hang on Shane’s shoulders like a heavy winter coat. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He went to ask, “Are you—”

Volkov spoke. The words came out of his mouth…different. His tone was much more serious, sure. But the sound of them was thicker. Heavier. They reverbed around the room in a way Shane could feel on the back of his neck. 

He chalked it up to weird acoustics. It was a strangely out-of-character thing for Volkov to say to him. Another chirp? But he sounded so…certain. Maybe he’d reached the limits of his own grandiosity. 

You will win Rookie of the Year.

Bold statement. After a moment, Shane said, “Yeah, sure.” If Volkov was going to drop the schoolyard pigtail-pulling and acknowledge Shane was the better player, far be it from him to disagree.

A tension Shane didn’t even realize Volkov was carrying drained out of his shoulders. Shane squirted a short stream into his mouth, then passed the bottle back to its owner. Volkov was halfway to his feet by the time it landed in his grip. Before Shane could think of anything else to say, the other boy was gone.

What a weirdo. Whatever. Shane was tired enough now to sleep like the dead. And in the morning, he’d begin the long, steady climb towards proving Volkov’s prediction correct.

Chapter 5: After: Listening

Chapter Notes

Once again I torture Ilya for plot.

Just once, Ilya Volkov would love to be wrong without effort. Instead, here he was, smoking alone on the roof of a Vegas hotel while his mother charmed her way through every coach and GM on the MLH’s payroll, and Shane Hollander threw back shots of clear tequila with Scott Hunter and all the other league dinosaurs. 

He really shouldn’t smoke. His mama hated that he’d picked up the habit. But if there was ever a time he deserved a cheat night, this was it. Though Ilya had known for an entire year the outcome of this night, that didn’t stop him from hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d worked hard enough his rookie season to change the outcome. 

Use your accursed powers of prophecy to save your mother from one really bad decision and you think you’re God, apparently. But no. The Calder award came up and Shane Hollander’s name was already etched across the glass. They were even, now. An IPC gold and silver apiece, and now the equivalent distinctions of First Overall Pick and Rookie of the Year. They’d even tied for fifth in regular season points. 

That didn’t mean Ilya was obligated to talk to the guy. One really fun night in Toronto notwithstanding. 

Ilya sighed and took another drag. That’s not why he was up here. It was true, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to Hollander. But it wasn’t because of sex or trophies. It was much, much worse.

Four Hours Ago

“You’d think you’d have learned how to tie a tie by now,” Mama groused as her fingers worked the silk at the base of his throat. The Russian of it was as gruff as it was comforting. Ilya didn’t get to speak a lot of Russian, these days. He got much more use out of English and Finnish in the streets and the locker room. Their one other Russian player wasn’t exactly Ilya’s biggest fan, considering…everything. But Nikishin was a backup goaltender who played maybe fifteen games all season, so Ilya didn’t exactly put much stock in his opinion. 

On the ice, he could sometimes pull it out for chirps, but Ilya didn’t exactly consider that “speaking.” These days, the only Russian conversations he held were with Mama and Svetlana. He was grateful. It used to be less than that. 

He let the easy syllables linger on his tongue as he answered, “I can tie a regular tie, Mama. Not this—” He flapped his hand, which moved his torso enough that his mother had to tighten her grip and yank him back into position with an exasperated frown. “—contraption.”

“Stay still! You’re worse than your father was.”

To an outside observer, such a sentence meant nothing. But there were no outside observers in this hotel room, so Ilya could let the full weight of it press against his chest. Mama couldn’t talk about her ex-husband for a long time. The bruises were still too fresh. But it had been seven years since they last looked that monster in the eye. But it had been seven years since they last looked that monster in the eye, and seven years had rendered the monster just another man. The bruises would never fade entirely. But they had faded enough. 

Ilya stayed quiet and still as Mama pulled the final knot tight. It rested evenly across the hollow of his throat. She smoothed it a few times, anyway. Then, her fingers went stiff, pressing hard on the dip between his collarbones. She got that look in her eyes.

Ilya swallowed. “Lilies?”

His mother nodded. She kept silent for a … long time. Far longer than she usually would in his presence. Ilya half expected her to flee the room entirely, and find some random American she could Speak to. What did she Know, that she was looking at him like that? 

“You will fall in love with Shane Hollander.”

Over the last seven years, Ilya and Irina had gotten very good at believing each other. But still, the Curse immediately pressed against his thoughts, trying to smother the truth under a blanket of skepticism. Ilya thought about every time Hollander made him grit his teeth. His victory at IPC 2009. The one time he executed a deke so smooth, it left Ilya spinning on the ice like a fool. His perfect French responses in his perfect French interviews, so perfect at saying nothing at all in two different languages. The time he’d bailed Ilya out of that All-Stars presser when the reporter’s motormouth worked faster than Ilya’s brain could parse. The fact that he was going to walk down those stairs hoisting Rookie of the Year. 

But it was easy, maybe too easy, to shove all that to the side. The Curse’s efforts made tepid and toothless by the deep-seated fact that, for all that those things about Shane Hollander frustrated Ilya, they were the same things Ilya admired. 

In the end, it was almost no effort at all to believe his Mama. He’d known this was true for months already.

“Is that okay?” Ilya whispered. He’d not…come out to her, formally, yet. But Ilya suspected she had an idea. 

“Oh, malchik,” she whispered, laying a hand on his cheek. Sometimes, when Marley or Connors went to give him a friendly face-pat, he had to stuff down an instinctive flinch. But not with Mama. Never with Mama. “Yes, it’s okay.”

He’d passed her in height by the age of fifteen. But in this moment, Ilya let himself be a small child again and buried his face in his mama’s neck, even if he had to bend down to get there. Her delicate arms wrapped around his shoulders. A few stray tears wet the sleeve of her gown. 

After a moment, she said, “I am so, so proud of you, Ilyusha.” Ilya extricated himself and looked her in the eyes. She reached up and wiped the lingering wetness from his cheeks. “Now get out there and win second place.”

So he did. Sat in the crowd, clapped politely for Hollander, escorted his mother into the reception hall and turned her loose. Then the thousand glances he couldn’t stop sparing Hollander in his tuxedo became too much to bear and he ended up out here. Looking down over the Vegas lights and trying not to lose his mind over how perfectly in-character it was for him to fall in love with his biggest rival. Ilya Volkov, never one to take the easy road. 

At least he didn’t have to worry about being bisexual while legally Russian. Yet another gift his mother had given. He took another puff and let it waft into the empty air above his head.

“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over.”

Hollander’s voice cut through the distant din of cars and casinos. Ilya listened to him approach the railing and lean against it before risking a glance. His tie was a little crooked and his face flushed. He looked like his win had gone well-celebrated. 

“Party all done?” Ilya asked. 

Hollander answered. “No. I just… needed some air.”

Ilya considered the veracity of that statement. Hollander’s dietary habits were already infamous within the league. This was quite possibly the highest his BAC had ever been. Ilya chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. He smiled and said, “You are drunk.”

“I’m not,” Hollander said, clearly drunk. Did he really feel the need to maintain the Golden Boy image here, of all places? All the GMs and executives that signed their paychecks were downstairs. 

“Good for you,” Ilya said, in reference to both Hollander’s inebriation and his win. But Hollander was pretty shit at subtext, so he added for clarity, “Big night for you.”

Hollander shifted against the clear plastic barricade. “Yeah, well, it could have gone to either of us.” 

“It went to you.” Just as Ilya predicted, he thought sourly. Not that Hollander would understand that. Ilya bet didn’t even remember what he’d heard that night. His truths had a way of falling out of people’s heads if they didn’t try to keep them. 

Some of Ilya’s irritation must have crept into his voice, because Hollander’s relaxed posture suddenly closed off. “So what?” he scoffed. “You’d think you’d be less pissed about losing considering you told me this was gonna happen at the Draft. What, were you just being an asshole back then?”

The words sunk into Ilya’s brain one at a time. The meanings of individual words almost divorced from the others in the sentence until all at once, they snapped into understanding. You told me this was gonna happen at the Draft.

Shane believed Ilya.

Shane had Listened. 

Shane Hollander was Ilya’s Listener. 

“You believed me?” The words croaked out through a tightened airway. Ilya thought back to that night. The uncontrollable urge to Speak, the lack of any escape before the words ripped out of his throat. Shane’s deadpan, Yeah, sure, which Ilya was certain was just his way of sarcastically dismissing what the Curse convinced him was false. 

But Ilya was wrong. Shane had been serious. 

“Wow,” Shane scoffed. “You really are an asshole.”

A thousand scenarios played behind Ilya’s eyes. Convincing Shane of his Listener status would probably take some time, but all it took was someone else not believing even after his Knowledge came to pass for the truth of it to be evident. That is, if it was even a good idea to tell Shane about the Curse.

Mama had told his father, her Listener. Ilya Volkov was going to fall in love with his Listener. Like Mama. But even if Ilya was going to fall in love with Shane, there were no guarantees Shane would love him back. He could find someone else. Dismiss their encounters as youthful experimentation and move on with someone less complicated. Or maybe Shane would fall into the hockey of it all: the machismo and the bragging and the slurs while keeping that one night in Toronto tucked away in his soul like an embarrassing childhood photograph. Maybe even hate Ilya for being privy to a lapse in judgement that could tank his career. 

Or worse, Shane could turn out like Ilya’s father. Leveraging Ilya’s Knowledge to get ahead in life. Drunk on the power he possessed but so, so bitter that it was given to him by someone else who could withdraw it at any time. He could learn this, despise it, and wrap Ilya up in the same golden chains that snared his mother. Already it was too easy to fall into those deep brown eyes. Would Ilya be able to see the signs? Or would he be so in love it blinded him until it was too late? 

Maybe better to just not fall in love with Shane Hollander at all. 

Ilya sucked in a sharp breath and stilled his racing thoughts. He took them one at a time, acknowledging their potential origins. Self-protection, or maybe self-persecution. Preemptively cutting off his own arm to escape a bear trap rather than risk the hunter’s knife. Trauma response, most definitely. His father hurt his mother so bad she almost killed herself. Of course he would be wary of anything resembling their relationship. Self-doubt. Was he even the kind of person Shane Hollander could fall in love with? Was Ilya worth all the trouble he could cause? 

Ilya sat with those feelings, letting them move through his mind and his body unimpeded. Not trying to control anything, but observing how they drifted. He was looking for something specific. An indication. A mistake. There. 

Over the years, Ilya had learned much about the Curse which plagued his family. One of the most important things was that its effects lingered. Even after the events of their Knowledge came to pass, it would take some time for its press on their thoughts to fade. It got easier with every dismissal, but it still took consistent work to believe without any doubt. 

The second thing he’d learned is that the Curse seeks efficiency. It’s easier to convince someone of something they already think is plausible. Much of his and his mother’s efforts at holding each other’s truths involved examining their own minds and finding all the places the Curse had to push too hard. The kinds of thoughts they might think but not truly believe.

And more than believing his mother, Ilya believed in his mother. If she thought for a second Knowing about Shane would harm her son, she would have held her tongue and Spoken to someone else. So Ilya simply could not believe — not in any real sense — that Shane Hollander was capable of being like his father. If he was, there would be no chance of Ilya falling in love with him in the first place.

Ilya exhaled, slow and smooth. Shane was still looking at him, displeasure crinkling the freckles across his cheeks. “Guilty as charged,” he finally said. Shane was right. Ilya was an asshole. “But I admire your confidence. Biggest rival chirps you and you believe him? Most people don’t. No wonder you win. What is saying? Getting a big nose?”

“A big head,” Shane corrected. Ilya knew the idiom. But Shane liked to correct people. Might as well throw him a bone. “And you’re one to talk.”

“Mmm, we skate on knife shoes and slam each other into walls for a living. We would not survive if we did not think we were hot shit.”

Shane chuckled. “Hard not to think so when people keep handing you awards about it.” 

Ilya couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping any more than he could keep down the laugh that burst up from his diaphragm. Shane Hollander, chirping cleverly? He never thought he’d see the day. Confidence looked good on him. “And people say you are not funny.”

“Who says that?”

“Me, usually.”

Shane rolled his eyes and gave Ilya a light shove on the arm. The “Asshole,” that dripped from his lips carried none of the earlier venom. His smile was genuine and so, so beautiful. For the first time in his life, Ilya Volkov knew what fate had in store for him. And, like Achilles at the gates of Troy, walked towards it willingly. 

“Enough sulking up here,” he said. “You won the Calder. You should celebrate with more than Scott Hunter and his old man friends.”

Hollander quirked an eyebrow at him. “You have something in mind?”

If Shane thought he was being subtle, he wasn’t. Checking the balcony was empty, Ilya leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “Maybe you slip your spare key card into my pocket, but—” he pulled back — “that is for after. You have not partied with coolest person here yet.”

“And who’s that?” Shane asked.

“You need to meet my mother.”

Chapter End Notes

Reference time! Bear with me because it’s gonna get NERDY. So the mythology reference I use here is Achilles’ death before the gates of Troy. To explain, Achilles received a prophecy before he joined the Achaean war effort that he had two choices of fate: stay in Phthia and live a long life, but die in obscurity; or fight in Troy, die young, but be remembered forever. The fact that the Iliad exists at all is a spoiler for his fate, as (to perhaps overly simplify) the Ancient Greeks considered “having stories sung about you” to be functionally identical to immortality. I could go a lot deeper into the semantics of kleos and the psychology of Hero Cult but that’s probably a bit much for an author’s note.

As it relates to Ilya, choosing to let Irina’s prophecy come true means he’s accepting the risk of being hurt for the opportunity to have something greater than if he just stayed alone and protected himself.