Notes

We'll never have a happy ending.

You're a genius bastard, hungry for power and freedom.

I'm the protagonist who knows nothing but my principles.

Life would never turn on us.

I was originally destined to triumph, to get myself a pretty beauty, and you to rot in the damp earth after the cruel reprisal of "justice".

Justice itself was against us.

You fought for the idea, I fought for the meaning.

The heavens flashed their lightning every second in our path.

They were against you, we were against you, even your pawns eventually surrendered you to them.

Even the very essence of the world didn't seem to want to accept you.

Every story has an end, and so does yours.

The glory ended, the candles went out.

You were defeated. There were humble whispers in the streets-some gloating, some pitying you. But not one living soul dared raise his voice. They knew that during large-scale events, wolf ears grew on the walls. And the guards had bear claws.

Death grinned hungrily, her handmaidens rubbing their scythes in anticipation.

People gathered in the square, they hid their gleaming eyes. They knew that for the intimidation of the crowd, it was the norm for the authorities to execute the innocent.

But time passed, and nothing began. In the frosty silence could be heard only the high-pitched clatter of the tsarist guards' boots.

Panic gripped the common people, the cavalry was put to work.

He has escaped! He's escaped! He took Peter with him!

Large-scale searches began in the city, soldiers broke into houses, cellars and weapons were used.

Fate should never have given us a chance.

But, strangely enough, while the bloodhounds were searching every street, we were standing in the thick forest.

We stood side by side and looked at each other.

In my eyes you saw tenderness and excitement. Excitement bordering on madness. We had escaped from the very top! From the government! From justice, from honesty, from nobility, from the very center of the Russian world. We eluded them, hid in unfriendly woodlands, in a lonely damp dugout under a majestic oak tree.

I could clearly see happiness in your eyes. Calm and warm. A drop of admiration and gratitude, but they quickly disappeared in the bright rays of the sunrise.

You are beautiful. You have always shone with outward zest, but now, after the crushing defeat, after the wrath of heaven itself, after the way you were lied to, after the betrayal, something has subtly changed in you. It was as if the river of your soul had gone out of its own channels and washed away the dams of conviction. It was as if the devil himself had ripped out half of your heart in the cage.

Did you want to teach us by your example? Or did you believe too much in yourself?

Genius bastard, anything is possible with you!

I want to ask you, but my body stops listening when you start laughing happily with your head tilted back.

I look at you with a mute question almost written on my forehead.

You don't stop laughing happily, even clutching your stomach.

"I'm sorry, I... I never thought I could survive. But to survive and now to be standing with Petrusha himself in the middle of nowhere... Never!"

And I can hear it in your voice, you feel it too. You feel as if life itself was meaningless and foolish before, as if all the dear people disappeared without a trace, leaving only images of themselves because we are not what they want us to be.

Our end should have come long ago, your head, and with it, my soul should lie ugly in the square.

"Grinyov, you know, every day you make me fall in love with you more and more! Crazy boy!"

You laugh again, but this time you lean on my shoulder and move your thumb gently.

"You're beautiful when you're happy. Beautiful as hell."

You understand the look in my dark eyes.

"Petya-Petechka-Petrusha. You don't know how sweet your smile is and how your words hurt your heart! I'm going to blush like a winded young lady!"

You hug me impetuously and squeeze me tightly, to the stars in front of my eyes, and whisper the full, innocent sincerity of "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"You didn't leave me."

"I couldn't. You stupid, bloodthirsty bastard. I must be even stupider to love you."

Your actions have motives, but no excuses.

It's the same with feelings.

"Petrusha?"

"Yes?"

"You're an incredible young man."

You squeeze me harder in your arms, and I know you won't let me go. You will die, but you won't let go of my strong arms.

I wanted to shout a declaration of love to the whole forest, but I just hugged you back and buried my face in your neck.

Happiness loves silence.

In the early morning a young man, unknown to the people, was executed on the square, pretending to be Yemelyan Pugachev.

The tsarina classified all the documents.

She only saw the feelings in Peter's eyes and could not condemn Masha to it. Unmutual to love a man who has lost his own raison d'être.

What could be worse?