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Odin – один
Early September, 1914
"You look so handsome, Ivan Ruriekovich."
"Thank you, Tsarina," Russia said sincerely as the woman to whom he spoke, Alexandra Romanova, adjusted the lay of his scarf over his uniform. This was the last he would see of her, of the family, for many months, and the love he had in his heart for her, for the children, allowed him to consent to the way they fussed over him—how the girls offered him knitted gloves and sweaters and socks and signed icons of orthodox saints, how Tsarina Alexandra worried for him and spoke to him as though she had borne him herself.
Of course, he would have consented to such treatment anyway.
"We'll pray for you, Cousin Vanya," one of the girls, fifteen year old Marie, promised.
"Thank you, Marie Nicholaevna," he replied.
"You'll write us often?" This was the eldest of the four girls, Olga. She tried her hardest to be grown up, but the worry in her eyes reminded Russia of her age, a mere nineteen years.
"As often as I am able," he promised.
"You'll stay safe?" Tatiana asked. She was seventeen and trying so hard to be brave like her elder sister and mother.
Russia opened his mouth to offer his reassurances when Anastasia, thirteen and full of life, on the cusp of growing up, spoke for him. "Of course he'll stay safe! Cousin Vanya will come home a hero!"
He smiled warmly at her. "If Anastasia Nicholaevna says it will be done, then who am I to say otherwise?" Russia replied with a slight bow to the youngest Imperial Princess.
"I wish I could go with you," the youngest, and only boy in the room, said longingly.
Russia crossed the room to kneel in front of where the young boy sat. Only ten and how he longed to grow up, to fill his father's shoes. "Ahh, Alexei Nicholavich," Russia said warmlty. "Your day will come—and when it does, you will be the greatest soldier in all the Russias."
"You promise?" Alexei asked somberly.
"I could never tell my tsarievich untruths," Russia confirmed, mussing the boy's hair. His heart soared when Alexei smiled and laughed at the gesture.
There was a polite knock on the door, and Alexandra bid the person on the other side to enter. A young lance corporal stepped into the room and bowed to the royal family before saluting Russia. "Captain Branginsky."
Russia returned the salute. "Yes?"
"Sir, the train is leaving within the hour," the corporal announced. "We leave whenever you are ready."
"Wait for me," Russia commanded. Was it truly so late, that his time here had drawn to a close?
"Yes sir," the corporal replied, saluting once more before making a discrete exit.
Russia turned to the family, his eyes sad. "I'm afraid my time here is over."
The four daughters all embraced him, crying quietly and pleading for his safe return, something he promised them in earnest. He knelt to embrace the tsarevitch, and stood to turn into a warm embrace from the tsarina, who kissed his cheeks and promised that he had their prayers. After several moments, he broke away, allowing her to fuss over his scarf once more before going to the door. He paused in the doorframe to look at them all once more.
"You're going to miss your train, Ivan Ruriekovich," Alexandra said softly. Everything unsaid hung in the air like fog.
"You have my word, I will return," he promised. Do svidaniya.1"
• • •
Dva – два
2 January 1917
Russia had left for only an hour, for a haircut, and when he came back, it felt as though hell had been unleashed on the palace. His demands of the servants— Chto sluchilosʹ? Eto Aleksey Nikolayevich?2—yeilded little results. Finally, someone told him something of use. "Eto tsaritsy3."
The thought of something being wrong with the tsarina worried Russia almost as much as the thought of something being wrong with the tsarevitch, and he wasted no time in appearing outside her chambers. "Tsaritsa , eto Ivan Rossiyavitch . Mogu li ya voyti?4
A hoarse call of "come in" met Russia's ears, and he stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. "Tsarina, what troubles you?"
The tsarina's eyes were rimmed in red, and she clutched a damp handkerchief. For a moment, words seemed to elude her; Russia quietly sat next to her, and she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her shoulders shaking with silent cries. "Oh, Ivan Rossiyavitch…!"
"Tsarina, please—v chem delo5?"
"Our friend, Father Grigori," she said, puling back enough to look at Russia. "He's—a terrible thing has happened, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of the family's friend. "What has happened?"
"Father Grigori is dead," she moaned. "Murdered, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia gave a small start. "Vy uvereny? Are you certain?" he asked, pulling back to look the tsarina in the eye.
"They found him," she answered, trying to keep her voice level (and having minimal success), "in… in the Neva." More tears spilled onto her cheeks.
"My apologies for the loss of Father Grigori," Russia said softly, rubbing comforting circles on her back.
"Who will heal Baby now?" she asked, sounding almost lost. "Who would murder a man of God, Ivan Rossiyavitch?"
"I couldn't say, Tsarina," he said softly. Man of God… Hmm. Did Tsarina know what was said about Grigori Rasputin, or did she chose to ignore it in favor of her son's health? True, the tsarevitch seemed to do better after being paid visits by him, but Tsarina hadn't seen what Russia had. She hadn't been in a small tavern, watching over the edge of a glass of vodka, as her friend Rasputin imbibed heavily and tempted young women who knew no better, nor had she exchanged the heated words he and the "holy man" had in private, away from hers and the Tsar's ears.
These of course were thoughts he kept to himself, not even daring to confide them to the pages of his diary. "How may I help my tsarina?"
"I would like… I would like to be alone for a moment," she answered, taking a deep breath and swiping at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Thank you for coming to see me, Ivan Rossiyavitch."
Russia stood and bowed. "Of course, Tsarina. Do svidaniya."
• • •
Tri – три
15 March 1917
All of Petrograd was in arms, and cries of abdication filled the streets. Russia didn't dare venture out of the palace walls—he sincerely doubted the people would harm him, the personification of their nation, but they didn't know that. They only knew he was close to the family.
He knew only that he wanted—no, needed—to see Nicholas. The door was open, and Russia let himself in, pausing in the middle of the room to kneel. He didn't speak; if the world had been upended, if what the people were saying was true, what exactly could he say?
The tsar noticed his presence and indicated he stand. The pair, a nation and his ruler, stood in silence for several moments before Russia broke the silence—"Your Imperial Majesty, the people are saying—"
"Abdication?" Nicholas asked, glancing out the window.
"…Yes," Russia confirmed. "I had to ask for myself. Is it true?"
"It is," the tsar (former tsar, a cold little voice in the back of Russia's mind noted) confirmed.
"With all respect," Russia began, bowing slightly, "did you… give the throne to the tsarevitch?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"I couldn't," Nicholas admitted, shaking his head. "He's too young."
"Alexei Mikhailovitch was tsar at sixteen," Russia gently reminded. "Is twelve so much younger?"
"If he were a healthy boy, no," Nicholas replied, seating himself at his desk. He looked weary. "You understand we will no doubt be exiled?"
The thought occurred to Russia, but to answer in the affirmative made his throat dry; he could only nod. "Alyosha could not last without us."
"Then who—"
"My brother," Nicholas answered. "Michael Alexandrovich."
Russia nodded, prepared to say that yes, he was a good choice, when Nicholas spoke again. "Is this God's will?"
"I cannot say, Your Imperial Majesty," Russia admitted. "I know only what is true of myself, and that is that I will remain in service to you and your family."
Nicholas smile was warm but tired. "Your loyalty is unwavering, Ivan Rossiyavitch." Anything else he may have said was cut off by the arrival of a group of harried looking advisors.
This was not a place Russia felt he should be at the moment. "I'll see myself out," he announced, bowing once more. "Do svidaniya."
• • •
Chetyre – четыре
August 1917
Word was given that they were being moved. Things were hastily packed, but much was being left behind. The family, once so proud, was gathered in an empty sitting room, all of them trying to be brave, but their eyes betraying everything they didn't dare say. Russia knew the feeling. So much of what he wanted to say as he was being dragged about with all the revolting was being bottled up, he felt like he was going to go mad.
Seeing the family—his family—would certainly make him feel better. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the sitting room. All of them (save Alexandra and Alexei, which worried him) swarmed him, kissing his cheeks and embracing him in greeting. Russia returned these gestures and turned his attentions to Alexandra and Alexei. He embraced and kissed both.
"Ivan Ruriekovich, where are they taking us?" Alexandra asked.
"I cannot say," Russia admitted. As much freedom as he had—"Vy ne nakhoditesʹ pod domashnim arestom , Ivan Rossiyavitch6," and how it burned Russia to hear them call him by his own name!)—he elected to stay close at hand. "What little I have heard makes me think somewhere in Siberia." The worried looks on their faces made Russia hurry to reassure them. "I'll be coming along—I cannot travel with you, but I promise that I will see you as often as I can."
"Thank you, Ivan Rossiyavitch," Nicholas said, speaking on the family's behalf.
"Think nothing of it," Russia reassured them. "They'll be coming to collect you soon—but know I will be shortly behind you." He pressed quick kisses against their damp cheeks, and felt tears streak his own face. "Do svidaniya."
• • •
Pyatʹ – пять
16 July 1918
As he promised, Russia followed them. He was right about Siberia—first to Tobolsk, where they stayed until 30 April, when they were moved to Yekaterinburg. But not before tragedy—thought Russia would never say it to the boy's face, Alexei's foolish decision to ride a sled down stairs. Knowing how sick the poor boy was nearly made Russia ill with worry himself, and he remained behind to see Alexei (in a wheelchair!) and the three youngest daughters be moved safely to rejoin their family.
Visits were few and far between in Tobolsk; now, they were stretched even farther apart. Today, though—oh today, Russia had to see them again. He was warned his visit would be a brief one—ten minutes to say everything he needed to, and no mischief.
Ten minutes went by so quickly, and before Russia knew it, he was preparing to leave. "Keep us in your prayers, Ivan Ruriekovich," Alexandra said.
"Every day, I pray for you," he reassured her, squeezing her hands. He turned to address all of them. "I am doing everything I can for you—" Smuggled bread, eggs, cheese; words of encouragement; so much more than could be listed—"but I cannot say when I will return to this place."
Nicholas disappeared into another room for a moment, and returned with something in his hand." Then keep this," he said, pressing the item, wrapped in linen, "as a reminder of us."
Russia looked from the thing in his hand to Nicholas for a moment before carefully unwrapping it. Sitting in his palm was a medal, its red and white ribbon hanging from a gold star; a golden bar and disc kept the end of the ribbon from fraying. He drew in a sharp breath and tried to rewrap the gift.. "I can't—"
"Please." Nicholas closed Russia's fingers around the medal and pushed the nation's hands back to his chest, insistent. "After all you've done for us, you deserve so much more."
Russia clenched his hand around the medal; the star's five points dug into the flesh of his palm, but he hardly cared. "I to zhe samoye dlya vas—tysyachu raz.7."
Heavy booted footsteps met their ears, and Russia hastily put the medal in his coat pocket. "Etot ublyudok Yurozsky8," he hissed before carrying on as thought nothing unusual had taken place. If harm came to this family, Russia knew he could never live with himself, and suspected it would drive him mad. He hugged and kissed them all, stroked the children's hair, his eyes promising what he couldn't say aloud, I'll come back for you.
He was presenting a façade of readiness by the time the bastard Yurozsky had come to collect him (would he ever be ready to leave this family?). "Do svidaniya, Romanovs."
And he left.
• • •
Plyus Odin – Плюс один
17 July 1998
The weather was clear and beautiful. The sun smiled on them, and the sky was never bluer.
It was a terrible day for a funeral.
Russia stepped into the belly of the plane that had carried the reasons for today's ceremonies, and was struck with a single thought: Groby tak maly.9
What else did Russia expect? What had been found was barely enough to truly constitute a "body," for one person, let alone six… He walked past them, laying his hand on each coffin in turn and whispering the names as he went. Alexei Nicholavich… Anastasia Nicholaevna… Marie Nicholaevna… Tatiana Nicholaevna… Olga Nicholaevna… Nicholai Alexandrovich…
He paused at the last one, the top shrouded in a yellow cloth, one depicting the Romanov crest, a double-headed eagle. "Oh, Tsarina…" He knelt at the head of the coffin, feeling the dark green material of a new uniform stretching in protest, and removed the stiff cap he wore. "Moy skromnyy izvineniya10…"
He could see her gentle smile and almost feel her cool hand on his cheek. "Why do you apologize?"
"I didn't protect you," he would reply, bowing his head. "I broke my promise."
"All is forgiven, Vanya," he could hear her reply. He clenched his eyes shut, and a few tears slipped out, at the thought of hearing his tsarina call him by such a sweet, maternal address.
"How I've missed you these eighty years," Russia mumbled. How my heart has ached, how my throat burned with unwept tears. "I can only pray I've made you proud." He lifted his head to look at the row of coffins. "All of you."
Footsteps behind him made him straighten up, hastily brushing away tears before turning to see who had entered; it was another pallbearer. "Gotoy li vy nachat', Ivan Romanovitch?11" he asked.
Russia nodded and took up one of the bars at the base of the coffin, his final act of service to the Romanov house, and to Alexandra Fyodorovna.
Early September, 1914
"You look so handsome, Ivan Ruriekovich."
"Thank you, Tsarina," Russia said sincerely as the woman to whom he spoke, Alexandra Romanova, adjusted the lay of his scarf over his uniform. This was the last he would see of her, of the family, for many months, and the love he had in his heart for her, for the children, allowed him to consent to the way they fussed over him—how the girls offered him knitted gloves and sweaters and socks and signed icons of orthodox saints, how Tsarina Alexandra worried for him and spoke to him as though she had borne him herself.
Of course, he would have consented to such treatment anyway.
"We'll pray for you, Cousin Vanya," one of the girls, fifteen year old Marie, promised.
"Thank you, Marie Nicholaevna," he replied.
"You'll write us often?" This was the eldest of the four girls, Olga. She tried her hardest to be grown up, but the worry in her eyes reminded Russia of her age, a mere nineteen years.
"As often as I am able," he promised.
"You'll stay safe?" Tatiana asked. She was seventeen and trying so hard to be brave like her elder sister and mother.
Russia opened his mouth to offer his reassurances when Anastasia, thirteen and full of life, on the cusp of growing up, spoke for him. "Of course he'll stay safe! Cousin Vanya will come home a hero!"
He smiled warmly at her. "If Anastasia Nicholaevna says it will be done, then who am I to say otherwise?" Russia replied with a slight bow to the youngest Imperial Princess.
"I wish I could go with you," the youngest, and only boy in the room, said longingly.
Russia crossed the room to kneel in front of where the young boy sat. Only ten and how he longed to grow up, to fill his father's shoes. "Ahh, Alexei Nicholavich," Russia said warmlty. "Your day will come—and when it does, you will be the greatest soldier in all the Russias."
"You promise?" Alexei asked somberly.
"I could never tell my tsarievich untruths," Russia confirmed, mussing the boy's hair. His heart soared when Alexei smiled and laughed at the gesture.
There was a polite knock on the door, and Alexandra bid the person on the other side to enter. A young lance corporal stepped into the room and bowed to the royal family before saluting Russia. "Captain Branginsky."
Russia returned the salute. "Yes?"
"Sir, the train is leaving within the hour," the corporal announced. "We leave whenever you are ready."
"Wait for me," Russia commanded. Was it truly so late, that his time here had drawn to a close?
"Yes sir," the corporal replied, saluting once more before making a discrete exit.
Russia turned to the family, his eyes sad. "I'm afraid my time here is over."
The four daughters all embraced him, crying quietly and pleading for his safe return, something he promised them in earnest. He knelt to embrace the tsarevitch, and stood to turn into a warm embrace from the tsarina, who kissed his cheeks and promised that he had their prayers. After several moments, he broke away, allowing her to fuss over his scarf once more before going to the door. He paused in the doorframe to look at them all once more.
"You're going to miss your train, Ivan Ruriekovich," Alexandra said softly. Everything unsaid hung in the air like fog.
"You have my word, I will return," he promised. Do svidaniya.1"
• • •
Dva – два
2 January 1917
Russia had left for only an hour, for a haircut, and when he came back, it felt as though hell had been unleashed on the palace. His demands of the servants— Chto sluchilosʹ? Eto Aleksey Nikolayevich?2—yeilded little results. Finally, someone told him something of use. "Eto tsaritsy3."
The thought of something being wrong with the tsarina worried Russia almost as much as the thought of something being wrong with the tsarevitch, and he wasted no time in appearing outside her chambers. "Tsaritsa , eto Ivan Rossiyavitch . Mogu li ya voyti?4
A hoarse call of "come in" met Russia's ears, and he stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. "Tsarina, what troubles you?"
The tsarina's eyes were rimmed in red, and she clutched a damp handkerchief. For a moment, words seemed to elude her; Russia quietly sat next to her, and she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her shoulders shaking with silent cries. "Oh, Ivan Rossiyavitch…!"
"Tsarina, please—v chem delo5?"
"Our friend, Father Grigori," she said, puling back enough to look at Russia. "He's—a terrible thing has happened, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia's brow furrowed slightly at the mention of the family's friend. "What has happened?"
"Father Grigori is dead," she moaned. "Murdered, Ivan Rossiyavitch!"
Russia gave a small start. "Vy uvereny? Are you certain?" he asked, pulling back to look the tsarina in the eye.
"They found him," she answered, trying to keep her voice level (and having minimal success), "in… in the Neva." More tears spilled onto her cheeks.
"My apologies for the loss of Father Grigori," Russia said softly, rubbing comforting circles on her back.
"Who will heal Baby now?" she asked, sounding almost lost. "Who would murder a man of God, Ivan Rossiyavitch?"
"I couldn't say, Tsarina," he said softly. Man of God… Hmm. Did Tsarina know what was said about Grigori Rasputin, or did she chose to ignore it in favor of her son's health? True, the tsarevitch seemed to do better after being paid visits by him, but Tsarina hadn't seen what Russia had. She hadn't been in a small tavern, watching over the edge of a glass of vodka, as her friend Rasputin imbibed heavily and tempted young women who knew no better, nor had she exchanged the heated words he and the "holy man" had in private, away from hers and the Tsar's ears.
These of course were thoughts he kept to himself, not even daring to confide them to the pages of his diary. "How may I help my tsarina?"
"I would like… I would like to be alone for a moment," she answered, taking a deep breath and swiping at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Thank you for coming to see me, Ivan Rossiyavitch."
Russia stood and bowed. "Of course, Tsarina. Do svidaniya."
• • •
Tri – три
15 March 1917
All of Petrograd was in arms, and cries of abdication filled the streets. Russia didn't dare venture out of the palace walls—he sincerely doubted the people would harm him, the personification of their nation, but they didn't know that. They only knew he was close to the family.
He knew only that he wanted—no, needed—to see Nicholas. The door was open, and Russia let himself in, pausing in the middle of the room to kneel. He didn't speak; if the world had been upended, if what the people were saying was true, what exactly could he say?
The tsar noticed his presence and indicated he stand. The pair, a nation and his ruler, stood in silence for several moments before Russia broke the silence—"Your Imperial Majesty, the people are saying—"
"Abdication?" Nicholas asked, glancing out the window.
"…Yes," Russia confirmed. "I had to ask for myself. Is it true?"
"It is," the tsar (former tsar, a cold little voice in the back of Russia's mind noted) confirmed.
"With all respect," Russia began, bowing slightly, "did you… give the throne to the tsarevitch?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"I couldn't," Nicholas admitted, shaking his head. "He's too young."
"Alexei Mikhailovitch was tsar at sixteen," Russia gently reminded. "Is twelve so much younger?"
"If he were a healthy boy, no," Nicholas replied, seating himself at his desk. He looked weary. "You understand we will no doubt be exiled?"
The thought occurred to Russia, but to answer in the affirmative made his throat dry; he could only nod. "Alyosha could not last without us."
"Then who—"
"My brother," Nicholas answered. "Michael Alexandrovich."
Russia nodded, prepared to say that yes, he was a good choice, when Nicholas spoke again. "Is this God's will?"
"I cannot say, Your Imperial Majesty," Russia admitted. "I know only what is true of myself, and that is that I will remain in service to you and your family."
Nicholas smile was warm but tired. "Your loyalty is unwavering, Ivan Rossiyavitch." Anything else he may have said was cut off by the arrival of a group of harried looking advisors.
This was not a place Russia felt he should be at the moment. "I'll see myself out," he announced, bowing once more. "Do svidaniya."
• • •
Chetyre – четыре
August 1917
Word was given that they were being moved. Things were hastily packed, but much was being left behind. The family, once so proud, was gathered in an empty sitting room, all of them trying to be brave, but their eyes betraying everything they didn't dare say. Russia knew the feeling. So much of what he wanted to say as he was being dragged about with all the revolting was being bottled up, he felt like he was going to go mad.
Seeing the family—his family—would certainly make him feel better. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into the sitting room. All of them (save Alexandra and Alexei, which worried him) swarmed him, kissing his cheeks and embracing him in greeting. Russia returned these gestures and turned his attentions to Alexandra and Alexei. He embraced and kissed both.
"Ivan Ruriekovich, where are they taking us?" Alexandra asked.
"I cannot say," Russia admitted. As much freedom as he had—"Vy ne nakhoditesʹ pod domashnim arestom , Ivan Rossiyavitch6," and how it burned Russia to hear them call him by his own name!)—he elected to stay close at hand. "What little I have heard makes me think somewhere in Siberia." The worried looks on their faces made Russia hurry to reassure them. "I'll be coming along—I cannot travel with you, but I promise that I will see you as often as I can."
"Thank you, Ivan Rossiyavitch," Nicholas said, speaking on the family's behalf.
"Think nothing of it," Russia reassured them. "They'll be coming to collect you soon—but know I will be shortly behind you." He pressed quick kisses against their damp cheeks, and felt tears streak his own face. "Do svidaniya."
• • •
Pyatʹ – пять
16 July 1918
As he promised, Russia followed them. He was right about Siberia—first to Tobolsk, where they stayed until 30 April, when they were moved to Yekaterinburg. But not before tragedy—thought Russia would never say it to the boy's face, Alexei's foolish decision to ride a sled down stairs. Knowing how sick the poor boy was nearly made Russia ill with worry himself, and he remained behind to see Alexei (in a wheelchair!) and the three youngest daughters be moved safely to rejoin their family.
Visits were few and far between in Tobolsk; now, they were stretched even farther apart. Today, though—oh today, Russia had to see them again. He was warned his visit would be a brief one—ten minutes to say everything he needed to, and no mischief.
Ten minutes went by so quickly, and before Russia knew it, he was preparing to leave. "Keep us in your prayers, Ivan Ruriekovich," Alexandra said.
"Every day, I pray for you," he reassured her, squeezing her hands. He turned to address all of them. "I am doing everything I can for you—" Smuggled bread, eggs, cheese; words of encouragement; so much more than could be listed—"but I cannot say when I will return to this place."
Nicholas disappeared into another room for a moment, and returned with something in his hand." Then keep this," he said, pressing the item, wrapped in linen, "as a reminder of us."
Russia looked from the thing in his hand to Nicholas for a moment before carefully unwrapping it. Sitting in his palm was a medal, its red and white ribbon hanging from a gold star; a golden bar and disc kept the end of the ribbon from fraying. He drew in a sharp breath and tried to rewrap the gift.. "I can't—"
"Please." Nicholas closed Russia's fingers around the medal and pushed the nation's hands back to his chest, insistent. "After all you've done for us, you deserve so much more."
Russia clenched his hand around the medal; the star's five points dug into the flesh of his palm, but he hardly cared. "I to zhe samoye dlya vas—tysyachu raz.7."
Heavy booted footsteps met their ears, and Russia hastily put the medal in his coat pocket. "Etot ublyudok Yurozsky8," he hissed before carrying on as thought nothing unusual had taken place. If harm came to this family, Russia knew he could never live with himself, and suspected it would drive him mad. He hugged and kissed them all, stroked the children's hair, his eyes promising what he couldn't say aloud, I'll come back for you.
He was presenting a façade of readiness by the time the bastard Yurozsky had come to collect him (would he ever be ready to leave this family?). "Do svidaniya, Romanovs."
And he left.
• • •
Plyus Odin – Плюс один
17 July 1998
The weather was clear and beautiful. The sun smiled on them, and the sky was never bluer.
It was a terrible day for a funeral.
Russia stepped into the belly of the plane that had carried the reasons for today's ceremonies, and was struck with a single thought: Groby tak maly.9
What else did Russia expect? What had been found was barely enough to truly constitute a "body," for one person, let alone six… He walked past them, laying his hand on each coffin in turn and whispering the names as he went. Alexei Nicholavich… Anastasia Nicholaevna… Marie Nicholaevna… Tatiana Nicholaevna… Olga Nicholaevna… Nicholai Alexandrovich…
He paused at the last one, the top shrouded in a yellow cloth, one depicting the Romanov crest, a double-headed eagle. "Oh, Tsarina…" He knelt at the head of the coffin, feeling the dark green material of a new uniform stretching in protest, and removed the stiff cap he wore. "Moy skromnyy izvineniya10…"
He could see her gentle smile and almost feel her cool hand on his cheek. "Why do you apologize?"
"I didn't protect you," he would reply, bowing his head. "I broke my promise."
"All is forgiven, Vanya," he could hear her reply. He clenched his eyes shut, and a few tears slipped out, at the thought of hearing his tsarina call him by such a sweet, maternal address.
"How I've missed you these eighty years," Russia mumbled. How my heart has ached, how my throat burned with unwept tears. "I can only pray I've made you proud." He lifted his head to look at the row of coffins. "All of you."
Footsteps behind him made him straighten up, hastily brushing away tears before turning to see who had entered; it was another pallbearer. "Gotoy li vy nachat', Ivan Romanovitch?11" he asked.
Russia nodded and took up one of the bars at the base of the coffin, his final act of service to the Romanov house, and to Alexandra Fyodorovna.
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Title: Again With Me
Author: supergeek17 (Sarah K Hagedorn)
Fandom / Setting: Axis Powers Hetalia [anime] – Russia, 1914-1918, 1998
Characters / Pairings: Russia [Ivan Braginsky], Romanov family; passing mentions of Grigori Rasputin
Rating: T
Genre: Family, angst
Warnings / Notes: Bring tissue; Russian language
Recommended Music: Once Upon a December – English | Once Upon a December – Russian
Recommended Viewing: Romanov Burial, pt I, pt II, pt III
Summary: Five Times Russia Said "Do Svidaniya," and One Time He Said "Privet"
Edit: 29 Feb 2016: At the suggestion of GilbertBielschmidt, I changed the patronym to Ruriekovich, the first "king" of Russia.
••
Your feels. Let me single-handedly destroy them.
I have a massive kink for this time period in Russian history, and definitely for this time in Hetalia Russia's background. I think of it as the last truly happy time in his life, before he snapped completely; I further think that Russia loved the Romanovs with all his heart and considered them his family, and that the feeling was assuredly mutual on the family's part.
H i s t o r i c a l / C u l t u r a l N o t e s
P a r t I
This was meant to be before Russia went to the Siege of Przemyśl in late September, but really, you could interpret it as any time during World War I. Here, I have Russia listed as a Captain in the Army, specifically infantry, mostly because the uniform matches up with the description and little art I've seen for what Himaruya has done up for Russia in this time period.
A little note about names—used here with the children and with Russia are first names and patronymics. The order is first name – patronymic – last name—for example, Russia: Ivan Rossiyavich Braginsky: Alexie: Alexie Nicholavich Romanov; Anastasia: Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanova. While the first name + patronymic order looks father formal (like addressing someone as "first name middle name"), this is rather informal.
P a r t I I
Ahh, Rasputin. There are so many freaking rumors circulating about him it's hard to get a proper, "official" handle on his story. As I understand the story, poisoned wine didn't work, so he was shot and then dumped in the Neva River, where his body was recovered about a week later. His relationship with the Romanovs was much easier to understand, and is as its laid out here.
My headcanon for this is that Russia and Rasputin didn't get along at all. Specifically, I think that Russia thought Rasputin was a complete slimeball and that some of their tension stemmed from them butting heads for Alexandra's attention, but Russia held his tongue for Alexandra's sake because of how much Rasputin meant to her.
P a r t I I I
Not my favorite. Writing Nicholas was tricky. I'm not even sure I like the way I wrote Russia and Nicholas' relationship. I think it would be more formal and business-like, because Nicholas would be Russia's boss, while Russia considers Alexandra and the children his family. Thoughts on this?
P a r t I V
Here I'm writing Russia like a child—simply, he doesn't want to lose the Romanovs, because flaws and all, they make him happy.
P a r t V
This is how I think Russia got his medal. Also, note the date.
P a r t V I
I cried writing this.
I did change Russia's patronymic. In case it wasn't super obvious by now, I strongly headcanon Russia as being very close to the Romanovs, and his new patronym reflects this. Normally, these reflect the name of the father—which is why all of the children's patronyms are based on Nicholas—but I think that Russia was much closer to Alexandra than he was to Nicholas, and the whole family made him happy, so he elected to honor all of them with the change.
W o r k s C i t e d
Imperial Princess Olga's Wikipedia page | Imperial Princess Tatiana's Wikipedia page | Imperial Princess Maria's Wikipedia page | Imperial Princess Anastasia's Wikipedia page | Tsarevich Alexie's Wikipedia page | Tsar Nicholas II's Wikipedia page | Tsarina Alexandra's Wikipedia page | Grigori Rasputin's Wikipedia page | Grand Duke Michael II's Wikipedia page | Shooting of the Romanov Family [Wikipedia] | Awesome Stories Biography: Nicholas and Alexandra (multiple chapters) | Alexander Palace Time Machine | Google Translate
T r a n s l a t i o n s
1 Goodbye
2 What happened? Is it Alexei Nicholavitch?
3 It's the tsarina.
4 Tsarina, it's Ivan Rossiyavitch. May I come in?
5 What's the matter?
6 You're not under house arrest, Ivan Rossiyavitch.
7 And the same to you—a thousand times over.
8 That bastard Yurovsky.
9 The coffins are so small.
10 My humblest apologies.
11 Are you ready to begin, Ivan Romanovitch?
Copyrights
Russia / Ivan Braginsky, Axis Powers Hetalia © Himaruya Hidekaz
All historic figures © public domain
© 2013 - 2024 fireweed15
Comments20
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Overall
Vision
Originality Technique ImpactWow, where do I begin? Not only was this piece perfectly written and thought-provoking, it's refreshing to see a different take on Russia's relationship with the Romanov family, since everything I've seen on this subject has concerned Ivan and Anastasia. I also like how you didn't focus on Bloody Sunday.
I especially like the repetition of "Do svidaniya", since we all know the fate of the Romanovs and it creates a foreboding atmosphere. Also, the name change at the end was brilliant. I would give a more... critical critique, but I can't find anything to criticise, except "But not before tragedy—thought Russia would never say it to the boy's face, Alexei's foolish decision to ride a sled down stairs." That sentence doesn't quite make sense, but maybe that's just me.
One more thing. Historically accurate sources, yaaay~!