Chapter Text
Epilogue
Red Rhapsody
Six months have passed since that afternoon spent in between rubbles and hopelessness, bleeding ankles and ribs rivaling the shattering sound of her heart. Six months since she had stood in front of the Council had declared this twisted fantasy of patriarchy wrapped in the pretty lie of communism over. Six months since she had set the Empire on fire to drag her love back to her. Six months in which the revolution has changed, as it was always bound to do. It has lost, it has gained, it has shifted and evolved like the breathing, wild thing it is. There is a beauty in it, a sadness, a fury, something like a new beginning, something like…hope.
Erik leans against the doorway of the new Council chamber, quiet, unseen, the shadows wrapping around him like old friends. Some things maybe don’t change, after all. The chamber looks different from what it used too, more maps, more voices. So many different versions of revolution that he thought it should be chaotic, should be lacking direction, but somehow, it doesn’t. It’s as if the divergence and diversity of the revolution’s members was always what was the core of the revolution, not an obstacle to be overcome, but something to be embraced. And embrace she did. Christine, who sits not at the head of the table, for there is none, but between stacked papers, arguing with another elected council member about supply lines. Elections. What a strange thing. What a strange, simple, complicated thing to give shape to the voice of their members. Erik is still not sure he trusts it, but seeing the change lets him a least believe that it is better than what they had before, even if it’s not perfect. If it was up to him, he would have placed all of these ruins of revolution of the feet of Christine, who commands without raising her voice, smirking when needed, cutting when necessary, asking questions that turned problems into plans, road blocks into opportunities for another view. She doesn’t ask for control, she doesn’t ask for power, and still, to him, she is the beating heart of this revolution.
But it’s not up to him, and that might be a good thing. Because for the first time since he can remember, the Council is not fighting, not hurling cruelties in petty schemes for power and prestige. Instead, people listen, let each other speak. Members nod, tilting their head questioningly. Someone says “All right, let’s try it your way” without it sounding like an insult. And people follow. Willingly. Gratefully. At least for now. Because this, this new Council makes them believe. Not with seducing speeches, not with empty promises of liberty, equality, vengeance. No, the first thing he noticed was that their long pledge credence had been altered, vengeance crossed out in warning red and, instead, the word community added. Liberty, equality, community. A new belief for a new revolution. One ruling not with absence, but with the presence these people deserve.
And God, he thinks, looking at his fiancé. The revolution has never looked more beautiful.
She wears the new, all black uniform like they are second skin, creased, worn, stained with dirt and ink, boots still scuffed, red scarf wrapped around her throat as always, hair kept shorter than before, freed from it’s braid, instead curling around her shoulders and jaw like dark flames. Every turn of her head, every word, every smile is calculated chaos, the dance of a woman who doesn’t have all the answer but oh, for a moment, wouldn’t you follow her anywhere?
Erik can’t breathe.
How? How could she be more than she already is?
He had fallen in love with a fighter, a girl who bled for strangers and dreamed of justice and bit back when the world told her no. But now, she had become the dream itself. Not perfect, but honest. Not alone, but supported. Believed in. Chosen. Not someone to be saved, maybe she had never been, but someone people rallied behind, someone who made people believe that they could save themselves and each other.
Erik doesn’t know how to stand in her light without falling to his knees from feeling it, this old, brutal want, not just the hunger, not just the heat, but the worship. The worship for this woman forged in fire whose greatest fuel was her kindness. The love for this woman who loved him in return, who didn’t need him, he knew, but who chose him anyway.
He swallows the lump in his throat at the thought, eyes burning. His body still aches with it, the joy, the grief, the reverence of her. The memories of everything that has been, the fear of everything that might still come.
But then, Christine turns, catching his eye and smiles.
Not a Commander’s smile. Not a mask.
Hers. His.
God.
He is so in love with her he can barely stand. And so he smiles back.
She finds him waiting in their office after the meeting, looking at her like she is a dream he’s been afraid to chase but found himself catching anyway.
“Enjoy the show?”, she teases, not even trying to hide the curve of her mouth. She still gets drunk of the way he looks at her, even after months and months of doing this, being this.
He doesn’t answer, but he looks at her, ravenous, reverent.
She steps closer, into this space that is still theirs, though a little different. It’s her office now more than his, he has not been elected on the Council and he hadn’t wanted to, was more than happy spending the rest of his life being a trainer, being a mentor, being hers. She tosses the folder she brought from the meeting casually to the side, the space already chaotic and in need of some organizing. She turns, pulling the door close behind her, turning…
Only to find herself pinned.
His mouth is on hers before she can speak, his lips speaking of desperation, starved and worshipping.
Her breath hitches as his hands slide up her sides, over the curve of her waist, then under her shirt and across the warm bare skin on her back.
“God, Christine”, he murmurs against her jaw. “What have you become…”
She smirks against his lips. This is not the first time he has told her, but she has still not had enough of hearing it.
“Everything you were afraid I could be”
He growls and bites her lip.
“Everything I ever wanted”
Then, she is against the wall, her legs wrapping around his hips, her scarf falling to the floor as he moves to kiss her neck, his coat following suit. Her fingers tangle in his hair, yanking his head back so she can bite his throat until he whimpers, low, ruined sounds leaving him as his hands roam over her body. He is drunk off her presence, not just of her beauty, but off the utter devastation that she is, her body, her will, everything. And his, his to have like this, his to share this fire with. His to choose to surrender to when the control becomes too much.
Their hands are everywhere, their lips and teeth following where skin begs for worship. There is no soft buildup, no measured teasing, not like in those first few weeks after the rescue, when their bodies were bruised and tender and all their hearts craved was the soft connection of bodies moving in slowness, in warmth, in aching tenderness. Today, they crave a different sort of love making, one born of a life of fighting and longing, one shaped by years wondering if they’d ever get this, one made desperate by the terror of wondering if they’d survive long enough to feel something other than blood and rage again.
They meet like the first breath after drowning, pulling each other closer like they are the only thing left that can still make them feel.
Hands leave bruises of love on hips, mouths start gasping each other’s names, her back arches against the wall and her laughter, her laughter slips in-between the moans and panting, like the smallest reminder of joy, as if she had just realized she could fall apart without the world ending.
And then, they do. They fall apart, in the chaos, in the stillness that follows, in the shared ruination of each other’s love. Their foreheads press together, his hands cradle her thighs as they slides down the wall in a tangle of limbs and sweat and whispered confessions.
He kisses her shoulder, her temple, the crown of her head.
They don’t speak at first, just hold on tight.
“I still don’t know how you did it”, he says, voice catching. “How you became this”
She pulls back enough to look him in the eyes and he looks at her, again, drinking her in.
At the sweat along her collarbone, at the ink smudge on her cheek, at the cracked nails, the bruises still still chasing her skin, the glimmer of exhaustion that never leaves the inhabitants of the bunker. At the Commander, at his love, at the fire, at the woman that is all of it. That is everything.
“But I see you”, he says, voice breaking fully now. “I see you and I love you more than I know how to survive”
Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t cry, instead, she kisses him, slow, sure, like it was the first time.
Then, slowly, she disentangles herself from his embrace, giving him a look when he makes a sound of protest. She walks over to the bookshelf, already smiling.
The past few months had been hard, but they had also made her sure. Of the revolution. Of herself. And of the document she now pulls from behind her favorite essays and books. For a moment, she just holds the papers in her hand, watches as the candlelight makes it look golden. Outside, laughter echoes down the hallways instead of screams. There is a new world being born in the dust and bones of this bunker, of this revolution and Christine decides that she is not afraid anymore. Not of this, at least.
She turns back to Erik, watching him for a long moment, her love, bathed in candlelight like the paper in front of her, shirt halfway unbuttoned, mouth smiling at her in peace. It is a rare thing, she knows. His peace. Like something holy. Something earned.
She steps closer and blinks at her, curious, always curious.
“You’re crying”, he says softly, voice still rough from pleasure.
She hadn’t noticed, smiling as more tears spill.
“Only a little. And for good reason”
She climbs unto his lap again, resting her forehead to his, papers trembling in her hands.
“You once told me”, she whispers. “That you never dared to dream of a future. That even when you built one, it was always for others. For the cause. For the broken children of this world. Never for yourself”
He nods, barely breathing.
“But then we became this. And you started building for this future, even if you maybe still didn’t let yourself believe in it. Not fully. Not even when you gave me your word”
She smiles.
“So I finished it. I finally finished writing it”
His eyes widen. “You mean…”
“Yes”, she breathes, smile widening. “If you still want to, after everything. After we burned. You told me yes once and we never got to make it official, but now…if you want…we have a manifesto. Our manifesto. The story of us. Our love. Our struggles. Our revolution”
His eyes went glassy. She has seen him cry, scream, for the people they lost, for the horrors they survived, but this is different.
This is quiet, this is a man who has learned how to survive but still not how to be chosen, over and over again.
“Christine”, he chokes. “You could ask me for the moon and I’d tear the sky apart with my teeth. You are everything to me, everything and there is nothing I want more than spending every single day for the rest of my life being yours”
She cups his cheek, the other hand still cradling their manifesto like it is sacred.
“Then I’m only asking for this”, she says. “Be mine. Let’s build something that won’t be torn apart”
He kisses her so hard she gasps into his mouth and she laughs, laughs again, as he flips her onto her back and hovers over her like she is the sun and the stars and every firmament he has ever beheld.
“I don’t deserve you”, he whispers into her skin.
“Then spend the rest of your life proving the opposite”, she whispers back, pulling him in.
They kiss like all their scars and fears are altars, like their lips scripture, foreheads pressing together, tears mingling on cheeks.
“You’re mine”, she whispers.
“You’re mine”, he whispers, too, voice breaking, body trembling.
And before they fall into each other again, hungry and reverent and so burningly in love, he reaches for the paper, already smiling.
“What did you name it?”, he asks. Every manifesto tells a story, of a past, a present, a future. Every manifesto holds a name trying to hold them all.
She smiles.
“Red Rhapsody”
Bibliography
"I Myself am A Woman" by Ding Ling
"March 8th Speech" by Ding Ling
"The Madman's Diary" by Lu Xun
"What happens when Nora leaves Home?" by Lu Xun
"The Woman's Question in Socialism" by Chen Duxiu
Everything by He-Yin Zhen, especially:
"What Women Should Know About Communism"
"On the Question of Woman's Liberation"
"On the Question of Woman's Labor"
"The Feminist Manifesto"
"My Revolutionary Years" by Madam Wei Tao Ming
Collected Works by Karl Marx
"Pedagogy of Oppression" by Paolo Freire
Vibe inspiration:
Violet Evergarden (Anime, TV Show)
Your Name (Anime, TV Show)
Heavenly Tyrant by Xiran Jay Zhao (Sci-Fi/Historical Fiction novel)
The Bone Season by Samantha Shannon (Dystopic novel)
These Violent Delights by Chloe Gong (Historical Fiction novel)