![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
ataraxion: empathy plot
plotting post over here. so fly, you fools.
Stage II
ANASTASIA
link. revolution things
pre-rev romanov memories
FIRO
the dissolution of the Soviet Union
Trans Siberian Railroad
Stage III
HEATHER
link. Hamster things
AWKWARD TEENAGE FANBOYING OVER NED
1812
link. Bloody sunday
Netherlands
link. Ukraine giving him his scarf
mongolia teaching him archery
PETER THE GREAT
awkward boners over France
link. Bloody Sunday
link. Ship talk with haymitch and rus
revolution things
no subject
You promise them, hands gently brushing long hair behind ears, carefully resetting Alexei’s hat from where it is perpetually falling into his eyes. They’re so young still, even though they are half grown now. Behind them, Alexandra’s features crumble in a brief expression of grief, of knowing what is coming.
You swallow around your heart in your throat, press kisses to foreheads, count the children one by one. Olga, the oldest, who looks at you as if you’ve killed her already. Tatiana, who holds her tongue even as her hands knot in her skirts, brow furrowed. Maria, who reaches for your hand, eyes wet with tears. Anastasia, always loud and reaching for you, who frowns, eyes flashing and questions, ‘Vanya? What is happening Vanya, tell me!’ You haven’t the heart to answer her questions and duck down to gently, gently, pull Alexei -- your heir, your czar-to-be -- in your arms and murmur a soft, ‘be strong, Lyosha.’
You turn upon your heel, leaving so they do not see the agony in your expression, the rift within your own mind.
--
You visit occasionally, though the hatred and agony and love tangles up in your mind and the mess of your insides and you cannot stay long. Perhaps your royals understand this, even if you have never been able to fully explain the link between you and the people who make you up. They still greet you, smile and laugh and press kisses to your cheeks, once, twice.
But slowly the lights are fading in their eyes, slowly they are waning away just as you are beneath the heavy fabric of your greatcoat. Your heart feels heavy, a stone beneath your ribs and you wonder when the day will come that you visit to see them spur your kisses, to spit at your name.
You have not truly prayed in years but you do now, and a part of you knows you will die with them.
--
They pray as they walk down the staircase, Nikolai and Alexandra leading them, and the bowed heads of your children follow close behind like little ducklings.
You cannot breathe.
You ache to gather them in your arms, to spirit them far far away from here. Not for once you ache with anger that none would harbor them, would keep them alive. You wish to keep your royals within your borders, but you would rather them alive than dead and they are so calm.
Maria looks up, finds you where you stand, surrounded, guarded, and her gaze is filled with a soft unreserved hope. She smiles, mouth trembling, and tears gather in the corners of her eyes, even as the hope dies. She looks up, Tatiana’s arm wrapping around her middle and pulling her close. Your girls, oh, you want to save them. One of them whispers your name, Vanechka, please, and you step forward, wanting to reach their sides. If they’re going to kill the royal family they might as well kill the empire with it.
Your mouth moves around the syllables of their names, but there is flashes and thunder, gunshots loud in the small room. You scream, hands at your shoulders, at your arms, and they are sobbing, crying, calling for you, for their mother, their father -- and they’re still alive, oh God, oh God what have we done.
“Vanya!” Alexei’s voice crests in a scream, a blade in his gut around the gems sewn into his clothes. The girls screech and cling to each other, bloodied and you want to sob, hate yourself more than you ever thought you could.
You’re a statue, eyes shut tight, head bowed even as the hands holding you -- you could have fought them off, could have gotten to your family -- let go. The sounds don’t end for what seems like eternity and you look up, watch blood seep across the floor, watch strawberry blonde curls dye red in an empire’s lifeblood.
You cannot breathe.
pre-rev romanov memories
the dissolution of the Soviet Union
Trans Siberian Railroad
AWKWARD TEENAGE FANBOYING OVER NED
1812
Bloody sunday
no subject
Right now comes the shiver of voices raised in protest slipping just past window panes, a faint roar that teases at your hearing and falls just shy of solidifying into rallying cries. Someone else might be content to look down on the crowd crushed together against the seep of cold and the oppression of the empire and do little else.
But you are the empire.
You are the nation and the people and within seconds their voices fill your mind, millions crying out and settling into bright, screaming points. It’s nearly enough to drive you mad with helplessness. They’re so wanting, in need of so much and you want to help your own people, want to gather them in your arms and press them close, heal their hurts and soothe their worries. You want to join their ranks, raise your voice and curse the royals you practically helped raise.
You don’t. You don’t, because you can also feel the fear and nerves of the guards, panicking over the riot they have on their hands and you want to tell them it is alright, not to shoot, it will be fine--but you don’t do that either. You can’t find your voice, can’t find anything but the smooth barrel of your rifle beneath one hand and the windowpane of cold glass beneath your other.
Your head thrums with a headache, agony beating a frantic drum beat as your people cry and scream and cock their guns, revolution racing through their veins, through yours. Your control is failing, slipping as the delicate separation between nation and Nation blurs under the turmoil. There is forewarning in your veins and you want to scream, want to cry, want to hide from it all and not move until you emerge from it all like a phoenix born again from it’s ashes.
Instead you smile, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes and spilling. You turn at the soft, ‘Mr. Russia?’ and there is horror and fear growing upon Lithuania’s face. He steps forward, a plea, a half aborted moment to stop you. But...
“Lithuania, we don’t want children who can’t play nice, right?”
You turn from his rapidly paling face, blinking tears from your eyes and push open the window before you can think about it. Snow whips inside, swirling about you as cock your rifle, bury the worried protests behind you and breath in, steady. You take aim, breathe out as you pull the trigger.
Why can’t they understand what I’ve done for them?
The sound of gunfire hides the sound of your sob, even as you pull the trigger again, feel your world being ripped asunder. The guards have followed your lead, and the screams rise, roaring up in the black of your mind, filling the room from where you stand, numb to the temperature and the pain.
The snow stains redredred
Ukraine giving him his scarf
no subject
She shivers, and you draw her in closer, feeling her face turn against your neck as you curl closer together.
“Vanya,” another hand, tugging at your sleeve, and you turn to look up at your big sister, leaning into her as she wraps her arms around the both of you. Her arms are barely long enough to gather you in. “You’re so cold!”
A miserable nod, even if the cold doesn’t affect you as much as it perhaps influences others.
“Right, here then.”
Cloth drapes over your neck, a familiar scarf winding around your neck and flopping in your disgruntled sister’s face. She grumbles, tugs at the scarf with a whined ‘noooo’, but you’re too busy staring with starry eyes at the long cream colored scarf, stammering over your thanks.
She giggles, still small hands soothing Natalia, “Shh, don’t thank me, but one day you can repay me by making Kiev the capital!”
“Sister!”
mongolia teaching him archery
PETER THE GREAT
awkward boners over France