#it's a one shot in the russian winter palace (i think that's the name in english ???)

[zialinart]

Second film of the week : The russian Ark from Alexander Sokourov

[lisinfleur]

She Wolf

The request:

Author’s Notes | I think you gave me a lot of good material for a single shot. I placed this request between the scenes of the 6th Season. Think about this happening before the day in which Ivar decides to speak to Hvitserk, and they have a fight that costs Ivar's face and a huge scar. I may think about making this a big Ivar x OC fiction, but not for now. Let us see what the future will bring. For now, I hope you like it! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Ivar x OC Info | Requested by anon for 5CW II, posted for HTGI Event. Words | 1060 ⁑ Warnings: Mentions of death, violence, blood.

She was like the wild winds of Winter: coming out of nowhere, going away before he could figure out where she was going. For many years, Ivar thought that black-haired woman was some kind of goddess, spectrum, something who liked him enough to order her wolf to eat a man's neck, just to keep him safe from the assassin’s attack. He was fifteen at the time, and he was alone at the hunting cabin that night.

His brothers thought it was him who killed the bastard, but the truth was that he watched as her wolf bit the man to death, tearing his flesh so precisely that it was not possible to really say it was an animal attacking and not a violent man.

It was the first time Ivar watched death happening in front of his eyes without being frightened by it, and since then, he was never tired of watching it over and over again.

But it was never like her.

It was never precise like her wolf's teeth.

And he could never figure out who she was, despite seeing her through his whole story like a shadow following his steps. He was sure her wolf was the shadow attacking archers in England to prevent them from hitting his chariot. He could swear he saw her black cloak flying around the crowd when he yelled at the Christian army. Ivar was sure it was that woman who he saw killing the few men of his brother who would've been able to reach him before he could flee from Kattegat after his defeat.

But she didn't act against the Rus.

Was she killed by Oleg's men?

Was she afraid of the Russian prince?

Did she leave him before the Silk Road was finished for his steps?

Despite the tension in Oleg's palace, Ivar couldn't stop thinking about that nameless woman he so many times owed his life to.

She saved him too many times to leave like that, without a trace.

In his room at the palace, Ivar was thinking about her. Thinking maybe she was some kind of lucky charm in his life.

Now that Hvitserk was around, he wasn't feeling alone, but her memory was haunting his thoughts.

What could've happened to his savior?

"I hope you're thinking about a way to leave," a female voice sounded from behind his position, and Ivar lifted his torso in bed.

A dagger in his hand ready to slaughter whoever had dared to invade his room like that.

But the sound of growls and her voice calming the wolf sitting beside her were enough to get Ivar's eyes fully surprised.

"You..." he mumbled.

"You should prepare to leave, fallen king," she warned. "Oleg has been luring your addicted brother into vicious wonders, and if you're not ready to drag him out of this place, soon, he may be dragging you down to the grave."

"Hvitserk? What are you talking about? What is your name, woman? Why are you..." Ivar started, trying to take the chance and get all his answers at the same time.

However, she giggled instead of answering, looking at him with eyes that were different from one another, reinforcing in Ivar's heart that something was divine about that woman.

Her blue and dark brown orbs dove deep into his eyes, almost as if she could read his mind.

"I don't have enough time for the whole bunch of questions I know you have so consider me someone... Loyal... To you," she said, not leaving the shadows completely.

The beautiful black wolf looking at him with bright ambers from the corner of his room.

"Hvitserk is falling on Oleg's traps. But, at the same time, Dir is almost ready to send you his sign. Ensure you'll be ready to leave when Easter comes, and I'll be there to help you sneak away."

She was so determined! So secure of her loyalty to him!

What did he do to deserve her loyalty like that?

"Who are you, woman?" Ivar's lips mumbled as his eyes could catch a smile on her lips.

"Someone who doesn't believe in false gods," she said, looking at him. "But who knows you don't need to believe in yourself as a god, to be more than the average kind of men I've ever known. Use your brilliant mind, Ivar, the Ruthless," she said, walking towards the window.

The wolf followed her.

"And don't mind the guards in your way. I'll ensure they won't have tongues to speak about your trail."

She climbed up the window, and Ivar came down from the bed, dragging himself to call her back.

"Wait!" he asked. "How can I know you'll be here? You vanished since I've lost Kattegat to my brothers!"

She looked back, smiling at him.

"No arrow reached your armor, nor sword crossed your chest. Right?"

She was there, ensuring his safety all the time?

"Oleg's eyes are better than the eyes you had around you before. I may be hiding better, but it doesn't mean I'm not here. The night hides when the sun is born, but you still can see the shadows during the day. Don't worry, my king. The wolves follow its leader wherever he goes."

Ivar was even more confused than when she started.

Who made him a leader? There was more like her?

What was that woman?

"At least, tell me your name," he asked.

But her different eyes went outside, and she noticed something that caused the wolf to be unsettled as well. Ivar could see they wouldn't have much time.

"Whistle, young king. The winds will listen to your call," she said, mysterious.

Leaving through the window with her wolf before Ivar could reach the window frame.

When the strong arms pulled his body up, allowing him to look out to the town, there was no trace of her, nor her wolf, other than a howl echoing in the wind.

Ivar spent a long time looking out of that window. And then, the whole rest of his night thinking about what had just happened. In the morning, he was determined to speak to Hvitserk about that approaching between him and prince Oleg.

And in his mind, his plans would involve whistling when that whole thing was over, in a calm place, so he could talk to his lady-wolf once again.

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[qqueenofhades]

*respectfully* another request for Russian Revolution fivan? 👉👈😶

That winter is the worst that Fedyor can possibly imagine. It turns out that for a band of idealist socialist revolutionaries, overthrowing the old system and planting your flag in fiery triumph is a hell of a lot easier than building a functioning alternative in its place, and in the meantime, everyone is going to suffer. The Bolsheviks are victorious, yes, but now they're fighting with fellow socialists, the White Russian counter-revolutionaries, other militants, and the entirety of capitalist imperialist Western Europe, who view their success with horror and are desperate to stop the Red plague from infecting their own war-weary, restless-minded populations. There is famine and cold and death at every turn, and Fedyor sees things that he will never be able to forget. Russia is a war within a war within the Great War, which itself is still raging, though the new Bolshevik government has promised to get them out of it as fast as possible; the country's ruinous losses have fueled their support. The capital, for that matter, isn't even Petrograd anymore. It's Moscow. Everything has changed.

Fedyor battles to get home to Nizhny Novgorod, where he finds his family alive but deeply shaken. They have never been wealthy, but they're comfortable, and the first time he has to see his father stand in a bread line, it rattles Fedyor too. The idea of trying to just keep their heads down and hope this nonsense blows over seems ludicrous. But now his older sister Katya is sick, can't stop coughing, and it's that, if nothing else, that galvanizes Fedyor to return to the civil war and the racked-apart world that awaits him out there. "I have... a friend," he says to his worried parents. "In the Red Guard. If I can find him again, he might be able to help."

This is, of course, a lie in almost every imaginable way. Ivan Sakharov isn't his friend, just a man who didn't kill him in the Winter Palace and sheltered him from the immediate aftermath of the sack. Fedyor has no way of knowing if Ivan is still alive, if he is in any position to procure medicine for Katya, or anything else. But everyone is desperate, and the Kaminskys are in the same boat as everyone else. His parents give in, hug Fedyor tightly, and wish him Godspeed.

Finding Ivan is the next challenge. All Fedyor knows is his name and that he is (probably) from Siberia, so he travels to the headquarters of the newly-formed Siberian Army in Yekaterinburg and asks there. This is a mistake, because the Siberian Army, while originally founded in sympathy with the Bolsheviks, has now fallen out with them, and Fedyor barely gets out with his skin. But he boards the Trans-Siberian Railway, rides aimlessly east, has a chance conversation with a fellow passenger, and is told to ask in Krasnoyarsk.

Krasnoyarsk is a beautiful city in southern Siberia, and if Fedyor was here under other circumstances, he would like to look around. But he confirms that there is indeed an Ivan Sakharov from around here, who is a member of the Red Guard, and who might be posted to the Bolshevik regional headquarters in Chelyabinsk. It's worth a try. It's advancing spring, the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk has been signed (ceding a sizeable chunk of Russia to the Central Powers, but Lenin views it as an acceptable compromise en route to worldwide socialist revolution) and Russia is technically out of the Great War. If this is true, Fedyor can't see it.

He arrives in Chelyabinsk in March 1918, a fortnight after the treaty. Travels to the Bolshevik headquarters, asks, and --

"Fedyor Mikhailovich," the voice says, sounding genuinely stunned. "Is that you?"

Fedyor's heart skips a beat. He wasn't sure that the other man would remember him, that he would find him at all, but it's Ivan Ivanovich, looking grimmer and grumpier and more hard-edged than ever. He stares at Fedyor, who stares back at him. They move convulsively, clasp each other's hands, draw into an embrace like old trenchmates stumbling on each other unexpectedly. Ivan says, "What are you -- "

"If you ask me what I am doing here one more time," Fedyor interrupts, "I will smack you."

Ivan stops short. He looks like he might not object to that, and something hot and shameful and sweet curls warm in Fedyor's stomach. There's something else in their eyes, distinctively so, when they look at each other. Then Ivan says, "Why are you here, then?"

"My... sister." It sounds foolish, flimsy, when he utters it aloud, but no matter. "Katya. She's sick."

Ivan frowns. "With that Spanish influenza? They're saying it's particularly bad this year."

"No, I don't think so. I was just hoping... someone like you, that you might be able to find medicine for her. Or a hospital."

Ivan's eyes flicker. Then he says, "Are your family sympathizers to the cause? That would make a difference in what I was able to find."

"We're desperate," Fedyor says roughly. "We can be Reds, Whites, Greens, whatever you want. After your lot have come in and shot everything straight to hell -- "

"And is it better for the Americans, the British, the Japanese, the French, all interfering in Russia and trying to overthrow the will of the people?" Ivan snaps back. "The capitalists are terrified their own people will do the same to them as the Russians, so -- "

"It's not important." Fedyor has not come here to have a political argument. He has come to save his sister. "Can you help?"

"I don't know." Ivan spins restlessly on his heel. "Maybe."

"Please," Fedyor begs. "I will do anything."

For a moment, their eyes catch, hearing a certain and unmistakable subtext in that, that he does mean anything, and might not object. Then Ivan says, "No. I will not take that."

Are you sure? They both know what he's referring to, plain as day, without another word exchanged. Fedyor takes a step. "Ivan Ivanovich," he says. "I am... at your disposal. If you help her."

Their eyes continue to lock. Fedyor is burning from head to toe, and with something he can barely articulate. Then, brusquely, Ivan shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, I will not do that. Goodbye, Fedyor Mikhailovich. I hope you find arrangements elsewhere."

"Ivan -- please -- "

It's too late.

The door closes.

Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov, once again, is gone.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Promised: Part One (The Great mini-series)

Pairing: Grigor Dymov x fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,878

 From this Anon Request:  ahhh im so happy that you'll write for grigor, gwil seems to be under hyped these days. can i request grigor having to be in an arranged marriage because peter somehow fucked up another treaty and the only way of fixing it is through an alliance (we can just ignore grigor being married already)

A/N: Of course! I hope you are okay with it being a fem! Reader. If not, just let me know and I’ll write a neutral version!

Anyways, enjoy the first part of this mini series of Peter being...Peter and you are Grigor getting into an arranged marriage to fix it up!

“This wine tastes like shit, where’s the vodka?”

The bread roll you had been chewing on nearly fell out of your mouth in surprise. This was the man you had been expecting for weeks. The Lord and Sovereign of all of Russia. The son of Peter the Great, a legendary warrior king beloved by all who knew him. He even shared a name with this godly figure.

The second he announced his arrival sent everyone in your house into a giddy panic. The manor was cleaned inside out. Every butler and maid lined up outside for his entrance in their most pressed uniforms. Your family and you had put on your finest garbs as well. You had even bought a new dress for the occasion, a pink silk gown with white cloth down the sleeves, and a white middle part while long bows decorated your cream stomacher.

Every soul in the manor was there when his carriage arrived to greet and curtsy to him and his friend, tour the house, and serve him a meal featuring the best cuts, foods, and drinks available, some of which were gifts from the locals honoring his appearance.

And he just called your finest vintage wine shit.

Every pulse in your house was heard in that moment. Your mother gasped a little at the sound of such language used at the table. Especially from him.

“We…we have whiskey to be served after, it’s stronger” you suggest meekly.

“I suppose, just something stronger than this,” his companion next to him reasoned.

He was a man who was perhaps in his thirties at most, brown hair barely seen beneath his dusty wig and in a dark green jacket, only a few steps below Peter’s finery. He swirled the glass with his large hands and took polite sips of it. You looked for a reaction to the taste and barely saw one.

“You want the emperor to drink shit wine, then!? What kind of hosts are you?” Peter asked, leaning back in his chair.

He was far more relaxed than the sea of straight backs of everyone at your table. He even tossed the glass over his shoulder.

KKKK!

A servant behind rushed up with a broom to sweep up the bits.

Your mother and father looked at each other questioningly.  Your brother normally had a healthy appetite, but his fork paused in mid-air since the wine complaint.

With a little sigh, your father turned to a butler and asked him to retrieve a bottle of whiskey and to look for any spare vodka at once.

Looking at your brother, the sanguine chatterbox, you saw his face had paled and his jaw was still tight. Looks like it would have to be you then to alter the mood and keep the peace.

Turning to the Emperor’s companion on Peter’s right, you began to shyly greet him “Sir...uhm…I’m sorry, I forgot your last name…”

“Dymov,” he answered kindly.

His eyes softened. At least he seemed less of an unpredictable bull as his friend.

“Sir Dymov, what is the weather like in Russia? Is it as cold as everyone says?” you questioned.

“Oh, yes, very! Some winters have crowds of people wearing fur coats indoors and gathered around the fire,” he explained.

Peter cut in, chewing on the meat with an open mouth as if he were a cow in a field, “which is why we need to drink vodka to stay warm. Speaking of which, where is your butler and why the fuck hasn’t the vodka gotten here yet?!”

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Later that evening, there was some parlor entertainment as usual. Coffee, whiskey, and vodka were all served and seemed to be drank in generous amounts.

It began with you showing your musical gifts. You were to sing as your father accompanied you on the pianoforte. Your breath was feeling higher than what was needed for healthy singing. You could not help but gape at the two Russians who seemed to analyze you. They were hard not to ignore since they were both astoundingly tall, Peter only barely taller. Sir Dymov listened attentively, hands leaning against him as he and the emperor were offered the softest chairs.

But Peter was somehow enraptured. He looked right at you and was still, listening to it the whole time.

You noticed his eyes were not on your face. And your pink dress was as modest as your mothers.

Forcing yourself back into the music, you picked a spot in the parlor, near a bookshelf, and stared at it, trying to focus on the music and words. Lose yourself in its brief escape.

There was polite applause following. When you curtsied, you put a protective hand over your chest.

Your brother, more inclined to the world of theater, offered a reading of some texts by the finest playwrights of your land. Everyone listened to him as they settled for cards at a table, but you stood a while to focus on your knitting. Nerves had shot through you and you had to do something with your hands that would calm you more than cards with the boorish guest.

“May I sit here, Miss Y/L/N?” Sir Dymov asked to the spot next to yours.

“Yes, you may…” you answered, finishing a row of purl stitches.

As he sat down, he even offered to hold your yarn and straighten any strings.

“Thank you for the dinner, and the reading, and the music and everything, it was nice, far more peaceful than at home! And God knows, I could…we all could use some peace…,” he turned away briefly to keep a small eye on Peter.

“Sir Dymov, why would you need peace? Is it the war with Sweden?” you asked curiously.

His angled face looked oddly dark, despite the glow from the fire.

“No…Just a little bit of personal heartbreak, Lady Y/L/N. And your song was about love, so I was reminded of her.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” you asked

Flinching away, you cursed the impulse. It might be too personal.

“She rejected my marriage offer. She’s uhm, uh…how do I put this politely… she’s Peter’s mistress,” he explained

“Oh.”

“And she said she would not give up her position after our marriage, so she said I could either have to be married to her but share her with Peter or she would not consider my offer at all,” he sighed.

Setting your knitting away, you looked up at him with empathy.

“Sie Dymov, that sounds hard. But I can’t imagine how her saying yes would make anything easier…”

“I do miss her, and she’s in court so I see her still every day,” Dymov complained.

“You’ll find a way through heartbreak. I’ve had some of my own, but something better might happen!” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

Once you set things down and decide to join the card table, you see Peter look up from his cards and scowl.

“You know, this is dull. Where is the louder singing? The wild dancing? The animals? No wonder people die here so much, they become bored!” he spat throwing off his hand onto the table.

“Things here are…a little quiet compared to your mighty empire,” your mother answers with a plastic smile. “But we make do…”

“I’m practically dying of boredom. How the hell was my father friends with you lot?” Peter asked.

Your father’s head ticked to the side, his eyes getting bigger.

“We were friends since our youth, and he loved all of us,” he said, words tinged with a subtle venom.

Your mother cleaned up the cards, and your brother paused his dramatic reading.

“Your highness, we can all retire if you don’t want to play anymore. I think traveling all the way here from your palace must have been exhausting. Is there anything else you need to make your stay here more comfortable before tomorrow?” she asked.

Peter’s eyes glinted up at you. Your body cinched as if ready to fight or flee.

“How about you offer to bring your daughter Y/N to my bedchambers for tonight, that would make me a lot more comfortable!”

Dymov’s jaw dropped. Your father stood up a little to get out of his chair but he was beat. In a flash, your brother slammed his book shut and rushed over, staring the ruler of Russia in the face.

“How dare you treat my sister like one of your whores?! Never!” he yelled.

“It’s my right as your guest?” Peter rebutted with a bizarre calm.

“After we’ve been kind to you? Gave you our best food and wine, housed you in our nicest room?” your brother roared.

You wanted to shrink yet you were frozen. Your father walked to your side and put an arm around you.

“You can have anything you want, but you’re a married man, Peter. My daughter’s dignity is important to me, as is your own wives. I don’t want to insult her as well,” he reasoned.

“Honor? Honor? You all only spit about honor when you live shit lives with shit food and shit company!” Peter argued.

The warmth of your father’s presence left you as he walked forward. Scuttling, your mother stood by you to take your hand in his place.

“Your highness, I knew him like a brother. If Peter the Great was here…” your father warned.

“He isn’t here! And I’m the Emperor now! And he isn’t!” Peter bellowed.

So on. And so on.

You retired early, your mother by your side to escort you as you saw your father and brother arguing back and forth. The only ally Peter had, other than his title, was Dymov holding him back. To protect or stop him, you could not tell.

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The next two days there was such bad blood it was unbelievable. There were no fun outings as planned. You ate alone. You hardly saw anyone. Any room you walked into; you could hear yelling.

Your father made sure you weren’t alone with Peter, but it seemed his eyes had gotten distracted with the fighting. Hopefully, he was joking. Partly.

One night you snuck downstairs to have a glass of water and heard a few words despite yourself.

“That’s it! I leave tomorrow morning! And you can forget my support and all your fucking soldiers, too!”

“Your highness, our money is about to get tight. And our people need it even more than us!”

“Too fucking bad, then!”

Oh no…Russia is our enemy.

You cried yourself to sleep that night. The idea of now starving. And your brother was about to marry a woman he loved in a fortnight. How could he provide for her or any future children? How would all the people who depended on your generosity fare with reduced funds? Worst of all, Peter had his quick moods and ideas. What if he declared war out of spite from this one visit?

You never met Peter the Great. He sometimes seemed like a kindly fairy god father in some ways he had been mentioned. His love of your house and your country and his friendship with your father. Financial support given when needed. How so much was funded and gifted and provided thanks to his generosity.

How could any of you live after that? Even with the embarrassment alone of being insulted by an emperor?

As you woke up, you only had barely time for breakfast when your mother entered.

“Y/N…we would like to talk to you.”

“Mother, I have breakfast. And I was hoping today I’d practice my music and finish that scarf,” you dismissed.

But from the look on her face you had no choice.

“It’s important. And you must be there.”

She walked you over into the main table where days ago everyone dined awkwardly. The Emperor and his companion were there. Peter pouted yet Dymov’s face looked as if he had seen a ghost and his folded hand were shaking a little.

As you sat down in your chair, every eye looked at you, there was a moment of tense silence.

“Well, what is it?” you asked.

“We’ve reached an agreement with Peter…” your father began.

“Are we going to lose…lose everything?” you asked anxiously.

Your heart was tolling in your eardrums as the words left your lips. It had been the question that kept you worried for days.

“No, your family is going to be fine…” Dymov assured, a hand placed over his mouth.

“You can still have some of my father’s money and support from the Russian crown and our fucking alliance even!” Peter threw in, hands going up.

“But…”

“But what?” you said.

“You have to bring half of your army to fight for me, Sweden’s trying to invade us and we need men. And some of your relatives have to swear loyalty to me. But that promise needs to be secured.” Peter continued

“How? We are already sending you soldiers and subjects? What else would do it?” you asked. Although your gut was telling you the answer.

There was a little pause, but quite an evil smile from Peter.

“There has to be a marriage. Your brother’s betrothed. So you’ll have to marry into Russia to secure it!” he revealed.

Blinking, the wind was knocked out as if you had been punched in the stomach.

“Sir, you’re married to…to Sophie! That Austrian girl!” you cried.

“Sophie? She isn’t Sophie anymore; she’s already christened by my church with a new name: she’s Empress Catherine of Russia now. And since she will be your ruler and you will address her as such! Might as well christen and give you a new name too!” he scolded.

“Of course, I mean I will but…but…who do I have to marry? Do you have any…any brothers?” you fret.

Numbness gripped your hands and nausea gripped your stomach at the thought of marrying a copy of Peter.

“I’ve got no brothers, no male relatives of age or alive for you and I want this contract done soon so…”

His head turned to Dymov with a congratulatory pat on the back.

“It’s Grigor here you’ll have to fuck for life in about a month!”

Grigor’s ears turned pink and he looked up at you, lips tight.

And if I say no? you start to wonder, tasting the words.

But what choice did you have?

“Lady Y/L/N, I promise, this isn’t any easier for me either…” he finally said. “I know this arrangement isn’t coming the way you expected…and I’m just as shocked as you are.”

Would you put your family’s and your people’s future down the drain? Would you let them become bankrupt, ruin your father’s memory of his friend, and make enemies with one of the richest, largest, and most powerful countries because of your selfishness?

Besides, no suitors had been calling you, really. None likable or with good intentions at least. You were getting to the age of spinsterdom. You knew you had to be desperate if you wanted any sense of security for yourself or your family. Who knew if another offer like this could be made?

Taking a deep breath, you looked Peter in the eye.

“I will do it. For my family and for everyone who we look after.”

Peter produced a document agreeing to the engagement, marriage, and benefits it brought. You and Dymov signed it.

Afterwards there was a small service in the chapel to pray for the future and for this marriage. But you were half in another world, unaware this was happening. Dymov seemed to flush between being pale or being red.

Immediately later, they decided all was well and to make plans to leave. Before packing, Dymov approached your parents and you in the parlor.

“I have to alert you of something that will happen, when Lady Y/L/N arrives…there will be a test done by the priests to see if she’s, uh, pure…and it involves checking her…” he gestured to his pants.

You let out a shocked gasp. What kind of kingdom were you about to be thrown into?

“I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t be shocked,” Dymov added on.

Your mother took your hand again and rubbed your knuckles soothingly.

“We have family physicians here. Trusted friends. They will do the examination and sign a document right before she goes. There will always be a chaperone until the marriage, to make sure everything is by Russia’s standards,’ she insisted, squeezing your hand extra tight.

Before they left the whole family saw off the Russian party. As Dymov turned to you, his blue eyes darkened slightly. He bowed lowest for you and kissed your hand.

“I’ll write to you as much as I can. You can call me Grigor,” he said.

“I guess you can call me Y/F/N…Grigor,” you replied

“Goodbye, Y/F/N. We will see each other…before the wedding. Soon.”

As kind as the gesture was, your brain had not stopped reeling. It remained even as you stood there, watching the carriage trot away. A pair of blue eyes even looking at you sadly from the window.

He seemed to have the same concern

How could you travel to live in another country ruled by someone like Peter?

And how could you love, much less marry, a man you just met?

Taglist: @queenlover05​

The Great Taglist: @stardust-killer-queen​ @itsametaphorgwil​ @freaking-nix​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @grigorlee​ @themficsilike 

[sylvermidnight]

Rusame’s Rival Waltz

I never intended this to be this long but I couldn’t stand splitting it into parts. So here’s a rusame one shot based on their relationship over time, and a waltz. Lovers to enemies to lovers.

1811 St. Petersburg Russia~

His hand grips his glass just a little too tightly. If he had not been wearing gloves one may have seen that his knuckles had gone as white as his face. Alfred F. Jones had never felt so out of place in all his life and he’d been in some odd situations. Parties like this just weren’t...His scene. They never had been despite how desperately Arthur had tried.

But with his first official ambassador having arrived in Russia two years prior, he didn’t have much of a choice. John Quincy Adams had managed to meet the Russian personification before him and that was just the slightest bit disrespectful. So here he stood, against the wall dressed in finery he felt much too uncomfortable in, swaying slightly to the sound of the music. He had to admit the Winter Palace was...More than he’d expected, almost intimidatingly so. As was his elusive host. He’d only met the man once for the customary greetings. He still didn’t have the man’s human name and he knew he was unlikely to get it. Despite how long and hard he’d fought he still wasn’t exactly an equal. Not yet.

Over the din of music and conversation he hears someone call his name, he takes a drink. He’d recognize that voice anywhere waking or sleeping. The British Empire had located him at last.

“America- Don’t ignore me boy I’m speaking to you!” His glass hits the table, almost shattering. He would have to remember to mind his strength, he’d been growing a lot lately. But something about his ex-caretaker’s presence burned him up inside. Angered him beyond reason. But just as he opens his mouth to speak, to give some snippy fiery remark, he feels a gentle arm wrap around his waist from behind and he’s pulled forward out into the center of the room.

The dance floor. Once the world stops spinning and confusion leaves him he understands that’s where he is and that someone had pulled him there. Which means- He looks up to discover his surprise partner and his heart stutters. Russia looks down at him with the strangest warmest smile. He’s amused clearly and something in Alfred feels offended yet intrigued. It’s so far from the belittling laughter and smiles of the others. His eyes despite being cold in color and nature appear warm in that moment.

“I assumed you could use the assistance.” The man clarifies placing his hand against his waist to lead him in a waltz. Alfred struggles here, used to leading, not being led. He nearly trips over his own feet but regains himself in enough time not to make a fool of them both. 

“I could have handled him. It’s just Britain. Nothing I haven’t experienced before.” He didn’t want to appear weak. Not in front of the man he wanted as his ally. Not in front of someone he was admittedly eager to impress. 

“That’s true, but I doubt you would have wanted to. With all kindness he can be quite a pain.” Before Alfred had time to think of a response he was being led in a spin and eventually an actual twirl and then all hope of furthering that conversation came to an end. He even began to enjoy himself just a little bit, and that was a first. He’d never really liked dancing before, he was clumsy and awkward. But this felt right...Perhaps even natural. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, that in their world it would be seen as disrespectful, he looked up and he smiled.

Perhaps that’s what did them both in. That smile, the gentle hand against Alfred’s waist tightening just so slightly. The way Russia’s eyes showed a pure form of awe and surprise, and the way Alfred’s shown with stars. When the smile was returned something was sealed between them. A mischievous look passed Russia’s eyes and though it doesn’t break the moment he decides now would be an excellent time to dip his partner just to feel his grip on him tighten in surprise. Seeing if he could shock that daring bravery right out of this little upstart of a nation. But he doesn’t, and when Alfred comes back up his grin has widened even further, assuring that yes, they were both quite entranced.

The night progresses in this fashion. Eventually the dance dissolves into something with a little more showmanship. Something Alfred claims is popular at his home, adding more dips and spins than perhaps either of them could keep up with. But with breathless laughter and warm smiles shared neither of them cared. It came to an end all too quickly, one of Alfred’s men coming to gently inform him they must leave that very night. The moment stirred but did not break as the young nation looked up at his host. A quiet confirmation. They would see each other again. They would experience yet again this purest form of happiness and they would vow to know each other better. They simply must.

And so before Alfred could slip away Russia pressed him close to his chest one last time to finish their dance. “Ivan Braginsky,” he says in the softest of tones. For Alfred’s ears only. “I thought you would be curious.”

A human name was a high honor. One of trust and respect. To have earned it in one night was not a small accomplishment. But Alfred simply smiles coyly and slips from his grasp. “Write to me. Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

And he leaves Ivan there, with the image of stars and a million questions.

1955 Geneva Switzerland~

What was the point of all this? He didn’t even know. His head is pounding, his drink just isn’t strong enough. He needs to get out of here and find something stronger. Perhaps snag one of his allies on the way out to go with him. He didn’t really like hitting the bars alone; it made him feel pathetic. Alfred’s eyes scan the party lain out before him. It wasn’t anything special really. It didn’t hold a candle to anything they had held back in the day, but Switzerland had tried his best.

He had heard that Eisenhower and Khrushchev were going to attempt a civil meeting and he’d taken it upon himself to try and put this together as a celebration. Of what though? It wasn’t as if things were going to get better. Alfred had even insisted upon this to Eisenhower’s face. But the man didn’t listen. When had they stopped respecting him? And when had he pulled his flask from his pocket? And-

An all too familiar touch on his arm. Not gentle but forceful and pulling. He drops the flask but the metallic clang is hidden by the sound of the music and so are his cries of protest. Once steady on his feet he looks up into Ivan’s bright violet eyes. He’s probably drunk. But it doesn’t matter. So is Alfred. He sets his face into a grimace and once again tries to pull away again but Ivan is unrelenting in his silent insistence of a waltz. So Alfred goes along to get along. For now.

“What are you doing Braginsky you’re going to make a scene!” He hissed as the other twirls him around with the practiced ease of a lover. To distract him surely.

“What does it look like Jones? Is it a crime to wish a dance from you these days? Once upon a time I needn’t even ask.” That was true. But that was thin and this is now and America could not be seen being pulled around the dance floor by Russia which is why Alfred pulled away to swap their roles. If only for a moment.

“You know damn well why. I don’t even want to look at you let alone dance with you. You might spread something just by breathing on me.” He says aggressively dipping the man in his arms. He was lucky he was strong or that would have toppled them both. But he was older now and better on his feet. Or so he thought until Ivan came up and brought him into a lift that landed him distracted and once again being led.

“We both know that’s not true Солнце(1). If it was you wouldn’t be here now. You have the strength to walk away, and I the decency to if you truly asked it of me.” Alfred hated to admit he was right. Something in him felt alive again from the simplest contact. The rush of the music and the familiarity of the dance. And Ivan...He had missed him but he would never admit that to himself or anyone else.

And that’s why he decided he wasn’t going to make this easy on the other. Even without leading he pulled the Russian into dips and twirls. Thrusting all his weight and trust into the other. If Alfred fell they both would and in this state he was willing to risk his own reputation to bring him down too. Because he couldn’t stand this, this feeling. Like his heart was being torn from his chest. Like that first dance all those years ago soft and sweet but now forbidden and that longing turned him into some unrecognizable thing. Something he was so certain Ivan couldn’t love, and he was sure that’s why he had left. To bigger and better things leaving him behind.

The heat in their steps was obvious. But love also. It was clearly a battle, anyone looking could see that. But there was love there as well. Neither let the other fall and they blended together with well thought out practice and prediction. Neither actually hurt each other physically but they knew what they were during. Pouring accelerant on an open flame. Awakening and denying old feelings they knew had to be kept locked away and tearing them apart in the process. Funny. No one really realized this sort of destruction. No one really realized the state they were in. 

With a final dip the dance comes to an end and they stay there a moment catching their breath. Or perhaps reveling in this last moment in each other’s arms. Alfred closes his eyes and he can imagine a place centuries ago now. Warm and safe where the world wasn’t out to get him and love was a reality and not a fantasy. It was nice but it wasn’t real. So when he straightens his eyes are cold and though Ivan can still see the stars they seem so far away now. He worries he cannot reach them.

“Nice try Braginsky. But we both know this changes nothing.” His voice is cold but his heart strains. He will not leave for the bar. He will head to his hotel room alone and he will try to forget using any means he can find.

And Ivan just smiles “Not yet Милый(2). But perhaps soon. If we are truly lucky.”

Alfred walks away and he does not look back. If he looked back he would shatter and he feared he’d never be able to pick up the pieces again.

-----------------

1- Sunshine

2- Darling

[dissident-vedder]

- once upon a december  ( 𝐄.𝐕. )

anastasia!au. 1900s!au. after [y/n]’s narrow escape from the alexander palace, she lost most, if not all, memory of her childhood, only remembering the tiny details that would help her later on in life. this is the first part of a duology.

THIS FIC CONTAINS a generalized russian accent; this story is both of my own creation and inspirations (listed below); mentions of death.

A/N - layout by @adoresobs​!

INSPIRATIONS -  @zodiyack​ ‘s princess. anastasia (1997).

TRANSLATIONS - 

бабушка! Помоги мне! не оставляй меня здесь!! (babushka! pomogi mne! ne ostavlyay menya zdes'!) - grandmother! help me! don't leave me here!

медвежонок! я не могу с тобой связаться! (medvezhonok! ya ne mogu svyazat'sya s vami!) - little bear! i can't reach you!

пожалуйста, не оставляй меня здесь одну! (pozhaluysta, ne ostavlyay menya zdes' odnu!) - please don't leave me here alone!

медвежонок! (medvezhonok!) - little bear!

мой медвежонок? это правда ты? (moy malen'kiy medved'? rto pravda ty?) - my little bear? is that really you?

[y/n/n] didn’t recall much from her life. at night, she would lay in her small cot in the orphanage she’s been in since as long as she could remember (literally), and just think back on her life, index finger tapping on the hand that was folded on her stomach, foot twitching as a cold breeze blew through the room. nobody knew anything on where or when she was born but generalized where she was from by her accent. her w’s turned to v’s, rolling her r’s whenever it was not necessary, and her th’s turned to either t’s or z’s. given by this, the overseer at the orphanage decided to call her the “little russian”. she gave her a fake birthday and age and decided that it was good enough. on some of the nights, she cried, not being able to see any familiar faces that she has possibly seen before coming to the orphanage, chest heaving as anxiety coursed through her veins, freezing her to her bed.

she’d go to sleep, head pounding, temples wet, curling into her body like she was hugging herself. her fingers cradled the necklace around her neck, the small disk engraved with together in london. during these moments, bright blue eyes would appear into her memory, a boy with dark hair and pale skin smiling up at her, and every time she tried to reach him, he would disappear into oblivion. she later learned to just stay put, watching them from a distance away. these dreams would seem so short, but when she would wake, the sun was already peeking through the windows, the lace curtains not stopping the harsh rays from reaching [y/n/n]’s eyes. 

she hated waking up. hated the fact that those blue eyes she’s fallen in love with would vanish when she opened her eyes again to meet the brand-new day. her eighteenth birthday was coming up, and with that meant that she would have to leave the orphanage for good. she would miss little natalie, who hugged [y/n/n]’s legs every time she got scared, who would run into her arms and hug her as tightly as she could every time she saw the older female. 

stepping foot into the snow, [y/n/n] breathed in the chicago air, which would get quite disgusting (according to [y/n/n]) during certain days, and she avoided all of the areas that would get especially rough. she walked, cheeks bitten with cold, breath coming out in little clouds in front of her mouth, arms hugging around her as she set her eyes on the city. she had to get a job, she knew it, despite not have worked a paying day in her life. she could get a cleaning job, maybe, since she was basically in charge of cleaning the entire orphanage as the younger kids played around. the older males would just sit around and talk, pretending that they were full grown men in a country club, apple juice taking the place of actual whisky. they never paid attention to [y/n/n] as she scrubbed the floor with a soapy rag, knees aching after having spent a few hours on them, making sure all of the mud and dirt was gone, a thing of the past. 

she didn’t care if she had to stay on her knees again, just as long as she had enough money for food and an apartment. maybe she could live in a settlement house, where the progressive women opened their doors to immigrants and people in need. 

“mrs. mcdowell, I’m back,” the young adult stepped foot into the house, taking off the small bonnet from her gibson bun, sweeping back a few of the tendrils of hair behind her ear. she put up her bonnet on the coat rack, feeling the overwhelming sense to take off her corset and lay in bed, but her grumbling stomach protested, asking for food aggresively as her feet carried her into the dining room/kitchen area. 

“i made some glazed ham, carrots, mashed potatoes, and some bread rolls if you want any,” the older woman ladeled a heaping scoop of said things into a china plate, picking up the silver platter mountained with yeast rolls. "i’ll pour you some whiskey,” she settled everything down and busied herself with taking the cork out of the clear ornate bottle she always poured her bought alcohol into, left hand carrying a small lowball glass. 

“i’m too young, mrs. mcdowell,” [y/n/n] objected, taking off her white apron and settling it on the back of her chair. the other woman held up a finger, wagging it from side to side as she moved to put the whiskey down, the brown alcoholic liquid sloshing inside of the lowball glass. “you work too hard, child, you deserve one glass before bed,” she remarked. “and i’ve told you to call me marie when we first met, did i not?” she raised an eyebrow as she set the alcohol down in front of [y/n/n]. 

“you did,” [y/n/n] nodded, picking up her fork and began digging in, eating as fast as she could in order to get to bed quicker and see those blue eyes again.

lately [y/n/n]’s dreams have become a bit more vivid, making her see images of fire and a large train driving away, picking up speed as a little girl screamed, “бабушка! Помоги мне! не оставляй меня здесь!” a small hand shot out, dainty fingers reaching for the mature hand that had stuck out from the back of the train, “медвежонок! я не могу с тобой связаться!” with this indicator, the young girl’s leg ran faster, heart beating against her chest as she tried to reach the woman with the white hair. 

“пожалуйста, не оставляй меня здесь одну!“ the girl cried, and their fingertips touched, the older woman’s lithe fingers wrapping around the girl’s wrist, but a rough bump on the track caused them to slip, the bairn flying back and hitting her head on the pavement. her eyes closed, pain exploding on the back of her head, breaths shallow.

“медвежонок!” 

[y/n/n] woke up with a sharp breath, a cold sweat lining her body as she panted, and she sighed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. she hated that dream. hated seeing the grandmother’s face of anguish, hated seeing the fires blossoming everywhere, and especially hated the young girl’s cries for help. she must have been very important if she was scared to be in a place like that.

“next!” a man by the name of stone gossard yelled out, eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head, taking notes on the pad of paper he brought. “next!” came in a girl with [y/h/c] hair, wearing a white lace dress with fur lining, a part that kept her neck and wrists warm in the cold winter air outside. she carried a broom in hand, “i’m sorry, sir, but no one is out there anymore. that seemed to be the last one.”

stone’s furrowed eyebrows deepened, picking up the photograph of grand duchess [y/n] romanov, and realizing that they looked very similar. she would be the perfect bait for that $15,000 the dowager empress marie was willing to give to the person who found her last granddaughter first. stone thumped his fist on the table, causing [y/n/n] to jump in the air. “how would you like to be [y/n] romanov for a while?” he smirked at her. “i’ll give you half the profits.” 

“how much is the profits?”

“$15,000, and. . . from what i see you doing, you are not of high standing and could use some money.”

[y/n/n] looked at the floor, calculating how much half would be. $7,500 would still be a lot of money, she thought. she could use it for a new house, a new car maybe. 

“alright, i’ll be your grand duchess for a while,” she smiled at him.

[y/n/n] looked out of the ship’s window, head resting on her hand, watching seagulls fly and people walk past. she didn't want to leave her dorm, feeling a little sick at the moment, but she was bored out of her mind. the book she brought with her was already read twice, and the other form of entertainment was music, but the dining hall was closed until dinnertime. “dowager empress marie is currently in london,” stone had informed her when he asked her to pack. a few days had passed since that interactive, they boarded on a boat from ellis island in new york and were now on their way to london.

[y/n/n]’s dreams have taken a toll on her, the young girl no longer wanting to see the fires and the woman that struck a chord on nostalgia in her heart. but why did she feel like she remembered that place despite her not remembering what seemed like half of her own life?

the two of them met jeff ament, someone who used to be in the russian court, and during their travel, jeff made [y/n/n] study everything she could on the romanov family if she were to fool marie. it was everywhere, so many names and faces to remember, but she knew she had to do it. 

“shoulders back and stand up tall,” he scrutinized her way of standing. “and do not walk but try to float.” he gave her an encouraging smile, lending her a gentle hand as he helped her sit like a royal. “now, elbows in and sit up straight. and never slurp your stroganoff.”

“i never cared for stroganoff,”  [y/n/n] said delicately, making jeff smile widely. 

“spoken like a true romanov.” 

“now here we have kropotkin, who shot potemkin in the botkin,” jeff pointed at two faces in the book he held. “and dear old uncle vanya loved his vodka,” another face. “got it, [y/n/n]?”

“no!” 

“the baron pushkin, he was short. count anatoly had a wart. count sergei wore a feathered hat.”

“i heard he’s gotten very fat,” stone added.

“and i recall his yellow cat,” [y/n/n] got excited, pointing a finger in the air, smiling as jeff rose an eyebrow at stone.

“i don’t believe we told her that.”

stone shook his head in disbelief, eyes wide as they looked back on [y/n/n], who was merely looking at all of the photos, mumbling to herself, trying to remember all the names and important events they were involved in.

five days later, the boat landed in england, [y/n/n] breathing a sigh of relief when her feet touched dry land again. stone grabbed her hand and led her through the crowd, muttering something about meeting up with a man named edward vedder (preferred to be called eddie), who was close to [y/n] before the revolution happened. since the day of her family’s demise, he has been searching far and wide for the last grandduchess, the love he held for her still unbreakable despite it being almost 12 years since they last heard of her. 

[y/n/n] shook her leg in the car as stone drove down a narrow road, men in clean business suits and women in colorful dresses passing by them, head resting against the window. “how much longer until we get there?” 

“however long it takes,” stone grumbled, tapping the wheel with a finger, breathing deeply as the scenery changed. “he’s already in marie’s house, we’ll meet him there, and you just answer marie’s maid’s questions as truthfully as you can. is that simple enough?”

[y/n/n] nodded her head quickly, remembering the crash course he and jeff gave her. her heart beating quickly in her chest, anxiety coursing through her veins, but she cleared her throat and opened the car door, breathing in the scent of roses that were planted in the garden in front of the house. the necklace around her neck felt heavy for the first time in years, and she and stone walked up the large steps to the door. “what if i fail?” she asked him. 

“then we don’t get the profits,” he knocked on the door, the sound of shuffling coming from the inside.

“coming!” a female voice calling out from the inside. [y/n/n] crossed her arms, waiting patiently as the lock turned, opening to reveal a plump blonde woman, possibly in her late fifties, beaming up at them brilliantly. “we’re here to see dowager empress marie,” stone informed her. "i believe i’ve found [y/n] romanov.”

“her highness does not want to see any more people, but i’ll see what I can do,” the woman said. “come in,” she moved out of the way, the two young adults stepping in the amazingly furnished home. a man with dark brown hair and brilliant blue eyes looked up from his spot on the couch, and the sight of him caused  [y/n/n] to gasp. it looked like the man from her dreams. were her dreams premonitions? did they tell her of who she was going to meet or had already met? but brown hair and blue eyes were common traits, so she just shook her head and tried to take him out of her mind. why did he feel so familiar though? “sir,” the woman, who had introduced herself as ethel, said, “if you would please take a seat. i’ll be interviewing [y/n/n] alone in the other room.” stone nodded and sat down, ethel taking [y/n/n]’s hand in hers and leading her into another sitting room. 

eddie’s head perked up at the sound of the girl’s name, since it sounded a lot like a nickname for [y/n]. But [y/n] was said to be dead, though marie and eddie didn’t want to believe it. they were the ones who tried to help her escape, after all. but. . . the key word was tried. 

“alright,” ethel’s motherly tone resonated from out of the room, “ [y/n/n], meet dowager empress marie feodorovna, mother of tsar nicholas ii. your grace, mr. stone gossard believes her to be grand duchess [y/n] romanov.”

marie looks at her, a hard expression on her face, looking at her from the tips of her toes to the small stray hairs on her head. “you certainly look like my little bear,” she comments. “but are you really my little bear?” she raises an eyebrow at her. “sit.” [y/n/n] moves to sit in the large armchair need the fireplace, marie sitting across from her. 

outside, eddie listened to the conversation going inside the room, straining his ears to hear everything. “where were you born?” marie asked the female in front of her.

“peterhof, russia.”

“when were you born?”

“june 18, 1901. i am currently 19 years of age.”

“what was your favorite thing to do when you were younger?”

“pull pranks on the household staff,” she remembered short tidbits as this queenly woman quizzed her. “i used to kick and scratch at my playmates, too. because of this, I was called imp by father.” 

“did you have any pets?”

“we all did, but mine was jimmy, a cavalier king charles spaniel. he was killed in a fire,” tears flooded her eyes.

“what was your favorite subject in school?”

“i hated school,” she shook her head. “i would always try to bribe my tutors into giving me good grades. it didn’t work most of the time.” 

it was time for the hard question. “how did you escape?” eddie perked up, pressing an ear to the door, wanting to hear what this girl said. 

“i don’t. . .” [y/n/n] shook her head. “i. . .” she cuts herself short, furrowing her eyebrows as she looked down at her hands, neatly folded on her lap. “the wall in the palace moved. there was a young boy with brown hair and bright blue eyes. his name. . . it started with an e. . .” all this information came pouring out of her, and she wondered how she was remembering all of this now. “but he was my best friend. he didn’t care if i kicked him or scratched him, and he told me he loved me the same day we were escaping. and then, i remember an older woman, holding out her hand for me from the back of a train. she kept yelling that she couldn’t reach me, and i kept begging her not to leave me alone. and everything went black. that’s all i remember, i’m sorry.” she looked up to see the empress staring straight at her, tears in her eyes, flooding them as her chin trembled.

“[y/n]?” marie breathed out. “мой медвежонок? это правда ты?”

all of her childhood memories came rushing back, the warmth of her grandmother’s touch, the scent of the cologne her father always wore, her mother’s hair tickling her cheek whenever she hugged her. everything. “it’s really me, baba,” she nodded, sobbing as marie hugged her tightly, crying everything she has been meaning to cry for all these years. she remembered seeing her family being killed in front of her, seeing the blood seeping out from the bullet wounds from the back of their heads, the adrenaline she felt when she fled the scene, angry men cursing at her. 

“i’ve waited for so long!”

TAGLIST:

 @stateofloveandvedder​ @state-of-love-and-lust​ @honeysympathy​ @grossgold​ @sea-sxns​ @d-arknecessities

[buckyscrystalqueen]

Winter Wolf: Part 9

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Natasha x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, SMUT, fluff.

Word Count: 3,434

Box Filled: Gender Swap

A/N: This series was written for @marvelfluffbingo​ and it took on a life of its own. Enjoy!

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s so light.” You said as you sat in Shuri’s lab and looked at the black and gold virbranium arm she had made for you. You picked up a knife and spun it around your fingers and you tilted your head the slightest bit to the side when you could actually feel the ridges of the hilt. You flipped the knife a few inches in the air and caught it; marveling at the chill of the wind as it passed across the panels. “This is…” You tried as tears welled in your eyes as you took the few steps over to Bucky and ran your fingers across the short scruff on his cheeks. You let out a small, choked laugh as the hairs on his face ran across the micro sensors that covered every single millimeter of the arm and allowed you to feel with your left arm for the first time in seventy-six years.

“I tried to make it as realistic as possible.” Shuri said as you moved ran your fingers through his hair and let a tear fall from your eyes.

“I just…” You said as you moved over to brush your fingertips across Natasha’s soft cheek. “I just…”

“She means thank you.” Bucky said as he watched you marvel at how soft Nat’s lips were under your fingers. You blushed and pulled your hand back as you looked back at the woman who changed your life.

“Thank you.” You whispered. “This… I have no words…”

“It’s my pleasure.” She said with a smile. “I like to invent. And creating this was a fun challenge for me especially trying to reproduce and add your claws.”

“I just wish there was something I could do to repay you.” She smiled and swiped her hand at you with a shake of her head.

“You already have.” She laughed as she grabbed her flat, clear computer screen and pulled it toward you. “You made this possible.” You looked over and watched a Romanian security video of you kicking the Black Panther in the stomach and sending him flying backwards into a car. Your face flushed red as the clipped video gif repeated itself over and over again. 

“Oh, my Lord.” You gasped as you covered your mouth in shock.

“I thought I told you to delete that.” T’Challa said as he came into the room with Tony on his heels.

“T’Challa…” You tried but he simply chuckled and shook his head.

“It was a fight for your life, (Y/N). I expect nothing less from a worthy opponent.” You gave him a small smile as he said something to his sister hurriedly in Xhosa and gestured to his watch.

“Alright, kids. Time for us to go.” Tony said as you watched the Royal’s faces change as if they were getting ready for a fight.

“I’ll help.” You said as you took a step past Tony and looked at the King. “Whatever it is, I’ll help. Please, your Majesty. It’s the least I can do after everything you have done for me.”

“And she obviously comes as a package deal.” Bucky said as he took a step forward with Natasha a half second behind him.

“You helped the love of our life and we’ll gladly help you in return.” Natasha finished for him with a small bow of her head.

“We couldn’t ask that…” T’Challa started before his sister whacked his side.

“I want to see my arm in action! Let them help.” T’Challa looked at Shuri with his eyebrows raised before nodding his head in agreement.

“Thank you. But we must go now; mercenaries don’t wait for the good guys.”

——

Natasha didn’t know how it happened. She remembered fighting a man that had been trying to get to the virbranium supply that Wakanda had to sell it on the black market. She remembered every punch and every kick she threw. It was just another mission for her and she had been on thousands. But as she sent a powerful shock from the widow’s bite on her uniform, she heard you yelp and her heart felt like it stopped.

Her head whipped in your direction to come to your aid as her worst nightmares came true right in front of her eyes. In slow motion, she watched one of the three men you were fighting slam a long bowie knife into your back entirely too close to your spine for her liking. She felt her blood go cold and she couldn’t focus on anything going on around her as you fell to your knees but her vision tunneled before she could watch you rip the knife out and impale the man that stabbed you with it and your metal claws. 

“Star…” She whispered softly as she took a step in your direction, missing the man that was running toward her with a knife raised.

“Natasha!” Bucky roared as he flew down directly in front of her and shot the man that was trying to take advantage of her distraction. She startled a bit as she looked up into Bucky’s blue eyes. “She’s fine! Get your shit together!” Getting the proverbial slap in the face that she needed, Nat shook herself out of her daze and shot at another man that was running toward her as Bucky headed back into the air for aerial support.

The fight was short and sweet but it was very bloody. Bodies littered the dirt road you were on but thankfully, your side was all standing not even worse for the wear. As you helped T’Challa’s amazing warriors clean up, Nat took a moment to step into the tree line to collect herself.

“Hey.” Bucky said softly as he came up behind her with a concerned look on his face. “What the hell was that?” Nat shook her head and avoided eye contact with him as she watched you throw two bodies into the back of a truck to dispose of later.

“Nothing.” She claimed but he wasn’t buying it.

“Nat…” He sighed as he stepped into her view and leaned down to meet her eyes. “Look, I get it, trust me. Of all the people in the world, I get it. I can’t lose her either. But she’s not just a super soldier, she’s also a mutant. She literally can’t die. But you and I? We can. I know you’re terrified that someone’s gunna come and take her from you and I know you’re terrified that she could turn and become the Winter Wolf again and leave… but what kind of life are you gunna have with her if you spend every waking moment of it worrying that the moment you’re in is the last? 

I thought the same thing when I first started falling for her. She was going through those horrible nightmares where she would wake up screaming in Russian. Every single time I though ‘this is it. This is the one that’s gunna turn her and she won’t come back to me and I’ll never be able to tell her I love her.’ But I was wrong. And I realized that if I lived in fear of losing her, I’d never be able to love her the way that she needs.

I know you wanna take care of her, sweetheart; that’s all both of us want. But unfortunately, she doesn’t need us out here. She’s more than capable of handling her own and taking care of our asses as well. So we gotta do what we have to to take care of her when she does need us. And that means not zoning out mid-fight to come to her rescue when our own asses are on the line, right?” Nat huffed a humorless laugh and nodded as she sniffed.

“Yea.” She said with a nod. The pair of them glanced over at you as you jokingly flexed your metal muscles for T’Challa and his general, Okoye with a playful smile on your face. They both smiled as Tony came over and jabbed your blood covered stomach with his fist, causing you to burst out laughing. “She’s so amazing.”

“Yea, she really is.” Bucky agreed as you showed T’Challa something on your palm and brushed your fingertips across it a couple times.

“Hey, think you could take care of her tonight?” She asked softly as she forced herself to look away from you. “I just… I need to get my head out of my ass and being around her makes that hard to do.” Bucky nodded slowly as he looked down at one of his best friends.

“You’re not leaving her, right?” He asked hesitantly. “Because if you hurt her…”

“I’m not leaving.” She reassured as she pat his arm. “I swear. I’ll be in our borrowed bed before the sun comes up. Promise.” He nodded as you called your partners’ names and waved them out of the trees with a stunning smile.

“Alright. Be careful, OK?” He said as the two of them headed out of the trees toward the trucks to head back into the security force field around the city.

“Always.”

——

“Wait, where’s Talia?” You asked as Bucky walked you into the room you were staying in in Wakanda for the night so that Nat and Tony could get some sleep before they flew back to New York.

“She’s alright, baby girl.” He said as he pushed the door closed behind him with his foot. “She’s going through some things right now…” You sighed and nodded your head as tears welled in your eyes.

“She’s leaving, isn’t she?” You asked as you grabbed the clean clothes that had been set out for you by someone that worked in the palace. 

“Hey, how could you even think that?” Bucky asked as he spun you around in place and put his hands on your shoulders. He used his bent pointer finger to raise your chin so you would look at him and bent down to your eye level. “I promise you, she’s not leaving. She just needs to get her head out of her ass. Her words, not mine.” You huffed a humorless laugh and wiped the tears off your cheeks.

“She’s scared.” You said as Bucky took the clothes from your hands and set them back down on the bed. “She’s afraid she’ll lose me again…”

“I know, sweetheart. I talked to her.” Your hope filled eyes looked up at him as he pulled off your dirty shirt and tossed it on the floor.

“You did?” 

“I did.” He said as his fingers worked the buckle of your belt. “She’ll be OK, baby. Just give her time.” He popped the button on your jeans with a smirk and pulled down the zipper slowly. “Now, are you taking a shower alone or do you need me to help wash your hair?”

“Oh you have to do it.” You said with a smile as he slipped his thumbs in your pantie line and pushed them and your dirty jeans down. “You’re better at it.”

“Yea?” He huffed as he took off your bra and walked you back toward the ensuite bathroom. “Well how ‘bout that since I love washing your hair.” You hummed contently as you ripped off his shirt with your left hand and undid the button and zipper of his jeans with the right. He stepped under the rain shower head and turned on the water, which heated up in seconds as he kissed you passionately. 

Your arms slid around his neck and he ran his fingers through your hair, giving it a little pull at the roots each time to draw out the little moan he loved so much. You started to kiss down his throat as he washed your hair. He groaned as you dragged your fingertips down his spine and over his hips.

“Baby… uunnn, fuck baby. You- you want this?” He asked as you wrapped your new hand around his cock. You had never been past this point with him before; always getting nervous and backing out out of an unknown fear. You nodded your head and looked up at him with a smile.

“I want you, Bucky. I need you.” He nodded and shut off the shower with an award winning smile.

“Well we’re gunna do this right then.” You whined in protest as he pulled your hand away from his cock but he quickly picked you up and threw you over his shoulder.

“James!” You squealed with a laugh as he carried you out of the bathroom to the king sized bed.

“Hush!” He snapped harshly as he spanked your ass, causing you to almost instantly to slip into a submissive mind set. You moaned as he tossed you down on the bed and smirked down at you.

“You gunna be a good girl for me like you are for Talia, baby girl?”

“Yes, Sir.” You said with a nod as he climbed up the bed so he was hovering over you.

“Good girl.” He said with a smile as he ran his hands up up your sides and your arms until he was at your wrists. He moved them above your head and put a pillow over them. “Keep ‘em there. And don’t you dare rip that pillow or I swear, you’ll regret it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“James in the bedroom.” He said as he brushed your wet hair back behind your ear. “Sir is making me feel old.” You smirked and nodded your head as he slid the backs of his finger tips back down your sides.

“Yes, James.” He moaned as he cupped your right breast in his hand.

“Good girl.” You whimpered and arched into him as he dragged his teeth across your breast and pulled your nipple into his mouth. His eyes watched your face as he teased your peak and used his left hand to force your hips down to the bead. You dug your fingernails into your palms so you wouldn’t give into your need to touch as he switched and gave the same treatment to the other side.

“James, please…” You begged as you pushed against his hand with your hips hard enough for him to feel it but not hard enough to actually move. “I need you.”

“What do you need from me, baby?” He cooed as he started to kiss down your stomach at a glacial speed. His fingers followed his path down your side as he watched your face and waited for your answer.

“I need…” You tried as he licked a stripe from your navel down to just above your pubic mound. You whimpered and jerked against him as he paused right where he was and sucked a hickie into your skin.

“Words, baby girl.” He growled as he lightly scratched his nails over your hips and down your inner thigh.

“I need!” You said loudly as your back arched off the bed and goosebumps rose on your skin. “Please, I need to cum in your mouth. Fuck, please!” He let out a guttural groan and instantly gave in to your request. Your whole body shook and he had to grab your thighs when they jerked around his head.

“Fuck (Y/N), you taste like heaven.” He moaned as he laid down flat on the bed and rolled his hips slowly against the satin bed spread to get some friction.

“James…” You moaned as you looked down your body to watch him lick a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. He hummed against the small bud, sending ripples of pleasure through your body before sliding his middle finger into you. “Oh fuck… Bucky can I please touch you?“ You begged as your fingers curled around the pillow.

“No.” He said simply as he added a second finger and dragged his teeth across your clit. You cried out as he curled his digits and dragged them against your g-spot at a steadily increasing pace. Your chest heaved as you grasped your hands together while the coil in your stomach wound tight. As your walls began to clamp down around and just before you were about to ask, he sucked your clit between his lips and shook his head.

“Wait.” He said with his teeth around the sensitive bud as he looked up at you and swept his tongue across your clit. “You better wait.” You shouted in protest as your body began to shake and your toes curled. In response, Bucky simply chuckled making waiting to come so much worse.

“That’s right, baby girl. Be a good girl.”

“James, please!” You begged as you grabbed the edge of the headboard and pushed your fingertips into the fabric covered wood to ground yourself. “Please let me come. Please, baby I’ll be good. Fuck, fuck, fuck, please…” He let out a drawn out hum as he looked up at your red, sweat covered face and after a few more moments of begging, he nodded.

“Come now.” He groaned as he sucked hard on your clit and pumped his fingers faster. He held your thigh down as you let your orgasm slam into you. Your body shook impossibly harder and you swore your way out of hell as he carried you through your high with a mouth that could possibly put even Natasha to shame. You panted and twitched as he lapped up every last drop of cum you had to offer and before you could even catch your breath, he pushed his thick length into your quivering walls with one long thrust.

“Oh fuck.” You said simultaneously as you moved your hands to hold his arms. He quickly moved his arm and spanked the left side of your ass.

“Put ‘em up.” He growled as you clenched around him and pulled him impossibly deeper into your pussy.

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry, baby!” You cried as he spanked the other side of your ass to make it even.

“Keep, ‘em up or I stop.” He said as he hooked his arms under your knees and pushed them up toward your chest.

“Yes, James.” You gasped at the perfect stretch as he rolled his hips against yours and bit his lip to keep from coming. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking tight.” He moaned as he rested his forehead against yours.

“James, please move.” You begged as you lifted your hips in the small space he gave you. You squeezed your walls around him and he fell to his elbows. He captured your lips and picked up a harsh yet steady pace. You moaned into his mouth as you fought the urge to wrap your arms around his neck. He pulled away and kissed down your neck until he began to suck another deep purple mark on the left side of your throat.

“Baby, please. I need to touch you.” You begged as you gripped the pillow for dear life. Bucky hesitated for a moment as he moved up to leave his mark just below your ear before nodding. You let out a groan of relief and wrapped your arms around his body; falling in love with the feel of his sweat covered back and the muscles rippling under the sensors of your new arm.

“God, you’re pussy is amazing.” He moaned. You dragged your nails up his spin he brought you to the edge with each deep thrust. 

“James, can I come?” You pleaded as you clenched around him to hold off your release. “Please, can I come?”

“Wait, baby girl. Almost…” He growled as he reached down between your bodies and began rubbing small circles on your clit. You screamed and clenched around him, which is apparently just what he was looking for. “There… come, (Y/N). Come on my dick.” You screamed his name as he rolled his hips even faster in a nonsensical rhythm and came with a roar. Your whole body shook and you hugged him closer as your pussy rocked his world. With sleepy movements, He let go of your legs and rested his forehead on yours.

“Damn, Buck.” You gasped as you panted to catch your breath. “Just… fuck.” He chuckled and nodded in agreement as he kissed your chest.

“Yep.” He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at you with a content smile. “I love you, (Y/N). So fucking much.”

“I love you, too, James. More than you can ever know.” He reached up and ran his thumb across your cheek with a smile.

“Oh, I know.” He said as he searched your eyes. “God, do I ever know.”

Part 10

[newstfionline]

Wednesday, February 3, 2021

As virus cuts class time, teachers have to leave out lessons (AP) English teachers are deciding which books to skip. History teachers are condensing units. Science teachers are often doing without experiments entirely. With instruction time reduced as much as half by the coronavirus pandemic, many of the nation’s middle school and high school teachers have given up on covering all the material normally included in their classes and instead are cutting lessons. Certain topics must be taught because they will appear on exit exams or Advanced Placement tests. But teachers are largely on their own to make difficult choices—what to prioritize and what to sacrifice to the pandemic. School day schedules have been compressed to deal with the challenges of social distancing and remote learning. The pace of instruction has also been slowed by the need to cover subjects that were skipped following the school shutdowns last spring and by students’ virus-related distractions and the difficulty in addressing both online and in-person audiences.

Winter storm wallops Mid-Atlantic, Northeast with more than two feet of snow (Washington Post) A historic winter storm continues to affect the Mid-Atlantic states and the Northeast with heavy snow, strong winds and coastal flooding. The storm brought travel to a standstill in the New York City area on Monday. In northern New Jersey, parts of New York State, eastern Pennsylvania, and much of southern New England, snow fell Monday at rates of up to three inches per hour, quickly overwhelming crews trying to clear roadways. At least 17.2 inches of snow fell in New York City’s Central Park, with the possibility of an inch or two of additional snowfall on Tuesday. This put this storm just shy of the city’s top 10 list of all-time heaviest snowstorms. Montague, N.J. picked up more than twice that, with 33.2 inches. Newton, N.J., was not far behind, at 32 inches. Some of the heaviest snow will fall Tuesday in northern New England, including Maine, where one to two feet is forecast.

The decline of coastal superstar cities (The Atlantic) Beyond anecdotal accounts of bankers fleeing Manhattan and tech workers saying sayonara to the Bay Area, we have loads of private data to back up the story that superstar cities are in trouble. According to U-Haul’s annual review, California lost more people to out-migration than any other state in 2020, and the five largest states in the Northeast—New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Maryland—joined California in the top 10 losers. Rents have fallen fastest in “pricey coastal cities,” including San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles, Boston, and New York City, according to Apartment List. These migration trends could spell long-term trouble for cities such as San Francisco and New York, where municipal services rely on property taxes, sales taxes, and urban-transit revenue. Absent federal intervention, “the financial situation that nearly every transit agency in America is in will certainly lead to significant service cuts, which inevitably lead to terrible spirals,” Sarah Feinberg, the interim president of the New York City Transit Authority, told me. “Service reductions are bad for commuters, devastating for essential workers, and detrimental to the economy.” If people leave New York—and newcomers don’t immediately take their place—that will reduce the city’s subway and bus revenue, which will lead to service cuts; that will make New York a harder place to live, so more people will leave the city; transit revenue will be reduced further, and on we go.

Oregon decriminalizes some drug use (Los Angeles Times) Police in Oregon can no longer arrest someone for possession of small amounts of heroin, methamphetamine, LSD, oxycodone and other drugs as a ballot measure that decriminalized them took effect on Monday. Instead, those found in possession would face a $100 fine or a health assessment that could lead to addiction counseling. Backers of the ballot measure, which Oregon voters passed by a wide margin in November, hailed it as a revolutionary move for the United States.

Biden tries to show US as democracy beacon post-Capitol riot (AP) Less than two weeks in office, President Joe Biden is facing two critical tests of whether the deadly riot at the U.S. Capitol has damaged America’s standing as a beacon for democracy. Protests in Russia and a military coup in Myanmar come as American credibility on the world stage has plummeted after last month’s storming of the Capitol. That adds to the weight on Biden as he seeks to fulfill a campaign pledge to dramatically reposition the U.S. as a global leader following four years of a Trump foreign policy driven by an “America First” mantra. Biden’s top diplomat, Antony Blinken, acknowledged the difficulty. “I think there’s no doubt that the attack on our own democracy on Jan. 6 creates an even greater challenge for us to be carrying the banner of democracy and freedom and human rights around the world because, for sure, people in other countries are saying to us, ‘Well, why don’t you look at yourselves first?’” the secretary of state said in an interview with NBC News.

Many Peruvians ignore new virus lockdown orders (AP) Peru began what was supposed to be a severe lockdown Sunday to combat surging COVID-19, but the order was widely ignored in the nation’s capital. President Francisco Sagasti went on television urging Peruvians “to make an extra effort to contain the growing wave of infections and deaths.” His government told people in the capital and nine other regions to limit trips outside the home to 60 minutes and it closed churches, gymnasiums, museums, libraries and other institutions. But marketplaces were crowded. Even some bus drivers ignored mandatory face mask rules. Seventy percent of Peruvians have no income if they stay home. The government says it will give $165 each to 4 million families—but only after the two-week quarantine. Hundreds of people crowded bus stations in Lima to head for less-restricted rural regions before terminals close later this week. Flights from Brazil and Europe have been cancelled.

Moscow court orders Kremlin foe Navalny to prison (AP) A Moscow court on Tuesday ordered Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny to more than 2 1/2 years in prison on charges that he violated the terms of his probation while he was recuperating in Germany from nerve-agent poisoning. Navalny, who is the most prominent critic of President Vladimir Putin, had earlier denounced the proceedings as a vain attempt by the Kremlin to scare millions of Russians into submission. The prison sentence stems from a 2014 embezzlement conviction that he has rejected as fabricated. The 44-year-old Navalny was arrested Jan. 17 upon returning from his five-month convalescence in Germany from the attack, which he has blamed on the Kremlin.

Not just Navalny: economic pain also behind Russian protests (Reuters) The trigger for some of the biggest protests to sweep Russia in years was the arrest of opposition politician and Kremlin critic Alexei Navalny, who was detained on his return to the country last month after surviving poisoning by a nerve agent. The anger runs deeper, however, and some protesters, young and old, say they have also taken to the streets to vent their frustration over declining living standards and the perceived gap between a small, wealthy elite and ordinary people. Real incomes fell 3.5% last year, unemployment is at its highest since 2011 and the economy in 2020, hit hard by the pandemic, is estimated to have suffered its sharpest contraction in 11 years. Disenchantment over inequality was targeted by Navalny in a YouTube video, released shortly after his detention and viewed more than 106 million times, which showcased a 100 billion-rouble ($1.31 billion) palace complex in southern Russia. Navalny alleged its ultimate owner was President Vladimir Putin, an allegation the Kremlin denies. Since then Putin’s former judo sparring partner has said he owned it.

Journalism crackdown rather than crackdown on Delhi police (CJR) Nine journalists in India are facing criminal charges after they reported that police shot and killed a farmer during protests in Delhi last week; officials say the farmer died in an accident, but photographic evidence and a postmortem report suggest he was, indeed, fatally shot. Yesterday, Twitter bowed to legal demands from India’s government and blocked the accounts of prominent critics of Prime Minister Narendra Modi. Twitter later reinstated the accounts, citing free speech.

Citizens in Myanmar protest coup with noise barrage (AP) Scores of people in Myanmar’s largest city honked car horns and banged on pots and pans on Tuesday evening in the first known public resistance to the coup led a day earlier by the country’s military. What was initially planned to take place for just a few minutes extended to more than a quarter hour in several neighborhoods of Yangon. Shouts could be heard wishing detained leader Aung San Suu Kyi good health and calling for freedom. “Beating a drum in Myanmar culture is like we are kicking out the devils,” said one participant who declined to give his name for fear of reprisals.

China’s Top Diplomat Warns Biden Against Meddling in Hong Kong, Xinjiang (WSJ) China’s top diplomat warned the U.S. not to cross a “red line” as President Biden signals continuity with the previous administration on hot-button issues including Hong Kong and Xinjiang. Yang Jiechi on Tuesday Beijing time emphasized the potential for a healthy U.S.-China relationship on public health, trade and climate, echoing recent language from leader Xi Jinping. But he left limited room for negotiation on issues such as human rights, the coronavirus response and what he called U.S. interference in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Tibet and Xinjiang. “These issues concern China’s core interests, national dignity, as well as the sensitivities of its 1.4 billion people,” Mr. Yang said in a video address to the National Committee on United States-China Relations in New York. “They constitute a red line which must not be crossed.” Secretary of State Antony Blinken had in an interview that aired hours earlier on MSNBC criticized China for having broken its promises on Hong Kong’s autonomy and handling of the Covid-19 outbreak with a lack of transparency.

One Case, Total Lockdown (NYT) One case. One young security guard at a quarantine hotel who tested positive for the coronavirus and experienced minor symptoms. That was all it took for Perth, Australia’s fourth-largest city, to snap into a complete lockdown on Sunday. One case and now two million people are staying home for at least the next five days. One case and now the top state leader, Mark McGowan, who is facing an election next month, is calling on his constituents to sacrifice for each other and the nation. “This is a very serious situation,” he said on Sunday as he reported the case, the first one the state of Western Australia had found outside quarantine in almost 10 months. “Each and every one of us has to do everything we personally can to stop the spread in the community.” The speed and severity of the response may be unthinkable to people in the United States or Europe, where far larger outbreaks have often been met with half measures. But to Australians, it looked familiar. Ask Australians about the approach, and they might just shrug. They’ve gotten used to a routine of short-term pain for collective gain.

56 homes lost, more threatened in Australian wildfire (AP) An out-of-control wildfire burning northeast of the Australian west coast city of Perth has destroyed at least 56 homes and was threatening more Tuesday, with many residents across the region told it is too late to leave. The 7,000-hectare (17,000-acre) blaze, which has a 80-kilometer (50-mile) perimeter, began on Monday and raged through the night near the town of Wooroloo, with the shires of Mundaring, Chittering, Northam, and the city of Swan affected. The losses were expected to grow as teams continued their damage assessments.

Iran’s new rocket (WSJ) Iran tested a new rocket yesterday with improved technology that could be used in its missile program, its latest attempt to raise the stakes for the Biden administration ahead of potential negotiations over a new nuclear deal. The new rocket, named Zuljanah, was developed under a government-backed program to send civilian satellites into orbit 310 miles above ground, according to a spokesman for the Iranian Defense Ministry’s Space Department. The technology is easily transferable to Iran’s military missile program run by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, experts say.

[best-left-hook-jones]

It Is Not Yet Evening (1/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 3,010

Chapter 1 (AO3)

Alexander Palace; March 14th, 1917. 10:04am.

“Are you nearly ready, devotchka?”

“Nearly.”

Emma picked up her pace, rolling the last remaining shirts and dresses into tight balls before gracelessly cramming them into the overstuffed bag. She could only hope that they wouldn’t be too crumpled and distressed when it came time to unpack them. It would be a long journey, so the chances of that were slim. She sighed and looked around the room.

In her rush, she had left many of the drawers and closet doors propped open, a handful of heavier clothing that she would have to leave behind piled in a heap on the floor. Granny had reassured her that she would take care of it after she had left, but Emma still felt guilty at leaving a mess.

She picked through the leftovers one last time before settling on her warmest shawl and a modest sized hat. She had originally picked out the wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat that her mother had sent her for her birthday a few years earlier, but had had to reluctantly swap it out for a snug fitting winter one instead. It would be a struggle to carry one of the more extravagant ones, she reasoned, and besides, she wasn’t meant to stand out. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she would have to buy all new clothes later anyways; after today she would no longer be in need of her maid’s uniform.

She stood in front of the tall mirror, turning and twirling to see the outfit from all angles. There was nothing too ostentatious about her high collared blouse and long dark skirt, which would hopefully dissuade beggars and thieves. With any luck, she could hide the pearl hairpins that were keeping her long blond hair up under her hat.

Granny appeared in the doorway then, waddling over to the small French mattress upon the gilded bed and seating herself amongst the mess of outerwear sprawled there. Her eyebrows raised as she took in the chaos around her.

“I thought you said that you were nearly finished!”

“I am, babuska. I am just deciding on the last few things.” Turning away from the mirror, Emma spread her arms out to her side. “What do you think?”

Granny bowed her head slightly, her glasses perched low on her nose, as she looked up at the young woman before her.

“I think you will be cold. The snowstorm has picked up again.”

Emma’s shoulders dropped. “But it will be warm in London, will it not? You said the weather there was much more agreeable than here.”

“That may be so, but a million things could go wrong between now and then and I will not have my best lady freeze to death on the streets.” She picked up a long fur-lined coat hanging from the grey partition that divided the room. “Take this.”

The younger woman relented, heaving the coat over her shoulders and fastening the large buttons. She was rewarded with a small smile of approval from her friend.

“Much better.”

She took one final glance in the mirror before moving to collect the last few things she would need for the train. Even with her back turned to her, Emma could sense Granny’s uneasy shuffling in her seat, her palms rubbing nervously over her simple black gown. She knew what the woman was going to say before she spoke.

“I want to go over the plan with you one more time.”

“Babushk-,” Emma began to protest, but the older woman cut her off.

“No, Emma, this is important.”

The elderly lady stood, handing her a large envelope. “These are your new papers and your new passport. They have all been changed to your new name and I have been assured that you should have no problems with them. However, you will still need to pass the security check.” She dug around in the envelope and pulled out a small card with a name scrawled hastily upon it. “You must look for this man. He is an Imperial soldier and will be able to help you.”    

“How will I know which one he is?”

“Don’t worry about that, my dear, he will find you.”

When Emma nodded her understanding, Granny continued, flipping the card over to reveal a new set of names and addresses. “When you arrive in Moscow, you must go to this man on the written time and date. By then he should be waiting with everything you need.��

“We hope.”

“Emma,” Granny sighed, “You know I would never put you in danger if I thought there was another way. The English king is a reasonable man. We must have faith that he will come to his cousin’s aid.”

“Of course, babuska.” She tried not to let her skepticism show on her face. The Tsar had only made the request for asylum a few days prior and there was still no word on whether it would be granted. The Bolsheviks were becoming restless and brave, and many feared that the Tsar’s trip to Stavka would not be enough to keep their soldiers from resorting to mutiny. In his absence, the few reserves the Tsar had commissioned to guard the palace had already begun to desert, leaving the family woefully unprotected. The entire palace staff had been on edge since the attack on Petrograd and it had only been the Tsarina’s reassurance that they too would be granted asylum under the request that had finally settled the anxious whispers. Still, the possibility remained that their pleas for rescue would fall on deaf ears and that they would be left to be taken by the revolutionists.

She shuddered at the thought of travelling the long journey to Moscow only to find that her invitation to Britain had been denied. There would be nothing for her to do, nowhere to go, if that were to happen. She had to swallow down her nerves.

Emma took a long look at the woman who had become like family to her over the years. She tried for a moment to remember what it had been like all those years ago when she had first arrived at the palace, but she could not imagine the portly English woman with anything other than the tight grey curls and crows feet eyes she had now. She had learned so much, seen so much, during her time as a maid for the Imperial family. It felt as if she was leaving a piece of herself behind, leaving now.

“Are you sure you cannot come with me?”

Granny placed her weathered hands on either side of the blond’s face. “I must stay with the family, my dear. I have been in their service for many many years now. This is my home as much as it is theirs.”

“Perhaps I could wait a bit longer-”

“Now, now. You know you must leave today. The Bolsheviks could overtake us any day now, and it would be best for you to be far away when that happens. Those papers will not protect you for very long. I have no doubt that you would be in great danger if your association with the palace were to be discovered before then.”

The woman’s word of caution only furthered Emma’s worries. “But you will be in just as much danger if you stay!”

“Yes, devotchka, but I must remain. The Tsar returns in a few days.” She forced a small smile, “It would not do for the Tsar to return to an unkept palace, now would it?”

Emma only looked down, eyes misty. Granny gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before reaching over to close up the travelling bag.

“Now, no more fussing. You will miss your train if you do not leave now.”

With a final look behind her, Emma closed the door to her room and followed the maid out of the room and down the hallway. At the sound of footsteps, Ingrid, the Tsarina’s second chief maid, poked her head out from her bedchamber.

“Oh, are you leaving already?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma answered politely, averting her gaze.

The Baltic woman tilted her head, her pale blue eyes studying the younger maid as if she were trying to find one final flaw to pick out before her departure. “We wish you well, I suppose,” she stated indifferently, her voice high and musical.  

Emma nodded, trying not to shuffle under the scrutiny. Thankfully, Granny intervened.

“Your ribbon is lopsided, Ingrid. You would do well to fix that before her majesty sees you.”

Ingrid shot the English woman a glare, her lips crumpling into a tight pout, before she turned sharply on her heels and returned to her room.

Granny rolled her eyes and led Emma by the elbow down the rest of the hallway.  “Miserable hag,” she heard the elderly woman mutter, her voice full of disdain. Emma only hoped that they wouldn’t tear each other apart in her absence, although, even as Granny’s assistant, Emma had never been able to ease the tension between them.

They paused briefly outside the doors of the children’s rooms, listening for any indication that the occupants might be awake, but there was none. All but one of the Imperial children had fallen ill with measles not a week ago and had been confined to their beds. The Tsarina had become increasingly anxious over the children’s health and had donned a set of nurse aprons to see to their recovery herself. Then again, that had always been her majesty’s way; even when one of her own maids were sick, the empress was adamant about tending to their sore throats and fevers.

Fortunately for Emma, the five children had been well enough to receive her the day before and she had been able to give them each a swift peck on the cheek and a sweetie for when they were feeling better again. The Tsarina had been as gracious as ever in her goodbyes, offering a sizeable amount of rubles in addition to her final pay. She had left her employer with a small curtsy and a multitude of thanks pouring from her lips, though the elegant woman had simply waved off the praise.  

The two maids walked the long hallways of the palace, the young blond taking her time as she committed the last images of her home to memory. The halls were quieter than usual, with what little staff remained having been designated as nursemaids to help with the children.

They descended the short staircase to the main floor and stepped out into the large, semi-circular room that occupied a large portion of the back of the palace. The morning sun shone brightly through the tall windows that overlooked the vast back garden. Granny had been right; the snow outside had only gotten deeper over the night, and the fresh blanket of snow only served to amplify the sun’s rays as they passed through the crystal chandeliers that hung heavily from the ceiling, the reflected light sparkling against the white walls.

The palace curator, Belle, would likely be a wreck when she saw it. Every morning, the serving staff would go through the interconnected rooms and throw open the long curtains, insisting that the Imperial family should enjoy the beautiful scenery as they made their way down to their small breakfast room. The petite French woman had begrudgingly agreed, however the moment that the Tsar and his family had finished their morning meals, she would race down and snatch the curtains closed once more, all the while muttering about the effects that the harsh sun would have on the beautiful portraits and tapestries.

But looking up at the mammoth painting of Tsar Nicholas I, strong and brave as he lead his generals into battle, Emma couldn’t help but think it would take more than sunlight to bring down such a monumental piece.

The beauty was only slightly tainted by the faint smell of smoke that hung in the air. Emma had heard whispers that the Tsarina had begun burning private documents and letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands should they be captured. She may not have been a mother herself, but Emma felt nothing but sadness and grief for the woman. The days seemed to be growing darker for the family and she only prayed that the rulers were granted a miracle soon.

Just as Emma was entering the small library that led to the entrance of the palace, a flash of movement in her periphery caught her eye.

“Ruby!”

The tall brunette turned on her heels at the appell, her face lighting up as she saw Emma coming toward her. “Well look who is sneaking out of the palace while the rest of us are hard at work,” she joked, nodding down at the silver tray balanced in her hands.  

Emma rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, are we pretending that I have never caught you sneaking off in the palace?” Then, in a hushed tone, “Perhaps to meet a certain someone whose charge is a young Tsarevich?”

Ruby pretended to look affronted, eyes snapping briefly to where the head maid was lingering in the doorway. The elderly woman was making no attempt to appear as if she wasn’t eavesdropping. “What ever could you mean?”

The younger maid shook her head, grinning as she placed her bag down at her feet to draw her friend into a hug. The two maids had spent years as each other's’ confidants in the large palace, trading secrets and gossip like sisters. Emma was suddenly struck by the loneliness that awaited her and she clutched her friend a little closer.

“A second round of goodbyes? I must be special,” the dark haired beauty laughed, carefully maneuvering the tray on to the small circular table in the middle of the room.  

Emma, pulled away, ignoring her friend’s teasing. “Where are you off to? I thought you were with the children.”

“I was, but the Tsarina asked if I might bring her some tea.”

“Of course.” Emma could hardly focus, her heart aching at leaving another person so dear to her. “I will miss you.”

“And I you. Perhaps when all of this is over, the Tsarina will allow me leave to come visit you.”

Emma smiled, pushing back the nagging feeling that this could be the last time she would see her friend. “That would be wonderful.”

Just at that moment a bell rang from above, signalling that the brunette was needed.

“Do not forget to write often,” Ruby warned sternly, “or else I will be forced to hunt you down myself.”

“I would not dare, red wolf.”

Her friend snorted at the nickname but Emma saw through it. Another quick kiss to the cheek and Ruby was gone, her long legs carrying her down the hall toward the staircase.

The two ladies slipped through the main doors and began making their way down the long steps that led to the driveway. A small group of palace guards were lounging at the top of the steps, their hands filled with playing cards and hand rolled cigarettes. All decorum had vanished the moment the Tsar had left the grounds, it seemed, and the young men had begun taking more and more liberties with their posts. The oldest of the group couldn't have been more than twenty five, but their faces were rough and war worn. They had been pulled from starvation on the front lines to play protector for the family that had sent them there in the first place. The Imperial family had tried to be kind to their returned soldiers, if only to dispel their thoughts of desertion, but the recent nights of full bellies and fresh linens could not erase the many nights of hunger and unrest on the battlefield.

A roar of laughter broke out from the men as one of their comrades scowled, throwing down his losing hand and taking a deeper drag of dark smoke. The women bowed their heads courteously as they passed but the guards took no notice. The long, outstretched arms of the heavy bronze figures that flanked the bottom of the stairs seemed to reach out to Emma, begging her not to go. Or perhaps they were simply attempting to flee as well.

The car that the head maid had ordered for her was already waiting in the large roundabout at the foot of the steps. A skinny man in an oversized jacket was leaning against the hood of the car, rubbing his gloves hands together in an effort to fight away the bitter cold, but he jumped up immediately as he saw the two ladies approaching. He scurried over and kindly took the heavy bag from Emma’s hands, nodding politely at them both before hurrying back to where the car was still puttering. The man was likely apprehensive about leaving the car stalling for too long, lest its poor engine give out from the cold.

Hands now empty, Emma turned to face her friend. She had had a mess of wonderful words lined up in her mind, a list of thanks that expressed everything that the past thirteen years had meant for her. But faced with the finality of her departure, none of them seemed enough.

“Thank you, babuska. For everything,” she choked out, her throat feeling tight.  

The English lady sniffed once, attempting to hold back tears. “Of course, lovie. You were the best assistant I could ever ask for.” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Emma’s slender shoulders.

Emma returned the tender hug, squeezing tight as her dearest friend pressed one last loving kiss into her hair. She couldn’t stop the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Proschaite, babushka. ”

“Proschaite. Be safe, Emma Lebedeva.”

It was only later, as she boarded the train that was destined to whisk her away from everything she knew, that she found the gilded pocket knife that her friend had slipped into her coat pocket.

[amydavis294]

Blog 5

I chose to watch the movie Russian Ark, a 2002 film by Alexander Sokurov. Before this movie, I didn’t know much at all about Russian history or the culture, but after doing some research I chose this movie because of the interesting features involved. This film is one continuous shot with 2,000 actors/ actresses and we are taken through about 30 out of 120 different rooms in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia while learning about 300 years or so of Russian history.

After watching I had a little bit more of an understanding but not to the extent the film went into. To start off before what is now known as the Heritage Museum it was a Winter Palace that housed different Russian emperors. The narrator travels behind the camera as if we are viewing everything from his point of view. As we hear the narrator’s voice, we follow a french man through the plethora of rooms that represent different time periods or an event within Russia.

Now, remember a large technical feature is the continuous, 96-minute shot. Think about how complex this is and all the skills and coordination that goes into creating a single-shot film, even one wrong cue and they have to repeat it again all the way from the beginning. One interesting fact about the camera work is that there is no zooming in or out most of the movements are natural. For example around the 37-minute mark, the shot gets closer to the painting and the two individuals in the counter, but this is not done through zoom the camera physically is moved closer to those objects. Another thing that stood out was the audio, in certain parts of the movie there were different mouths moving but you could only hear the narrating voice.

Historically we get a glimpse of a few years before the revolution and then we hear of the grim aftermath. I recognized some very important historical Russian names in the film like Catherine II and Peter the Great from 10th-grade global history. There may have been more historical cues but unfortunately, I didn’t pick up on them.

One scene that stands out culturally is the ballroom scene because of the big and elaborate outfits and the wigs but also the music and the dancing. This scene is very eye-opening compared to the rest of the movie and gives us a full experience of the Russian culture at that time.

In conclusion, with a movie like this, it's more about the duration and continuity, than the action itself. 

https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/russian-ark-2003

[skydogblog]

Welcome! Dobro Paw-shallow-its!

За Дружбу Между Народам

To Friendship Between Nations - traditional Russian toast.

“ Russia has always been a curiously unpleasant country despite her great literature. Unfortunately, Russians today have completely lost their ability to kill tyrants. ” —

Vladimir Nabokov

Russia, it seems to me, is a country which, at the current time, operates a totalitarian government “under diplomatic cover”.

Greetings! Welcome to Skydogblog – Beyond the Pale

We will be talking about Russia – its culture, history, language, and literature – especially its authors and especially Vladimir Nabokov.  Discussion will also be about current events and especially its politics, current and past.

Current events sometimes overtake us.  So I’m going to post my take on the recent fire in a Siberian shopping mall which took the lives of 64 people, 41 one of them children.

After that will be a little explanation about the blog itself.

It is perhaps indicative of the Russian milieu – a catastrophe born of some significant degree of stupor combined with negligence and shocking lack of ready equipage to deal failed safety mechanisms.

This will be put at the feet of Putin; at the feet of the ultra-conservatives who worship at the feet tradition.  Because tradition dictates in Russia, a certainly chauvinistic society, that men drink vodka for every celebration, deal, or just because.

A society of alcoholics; where life is a joke until it’s not.

Early on in the 90s Putin went after independent tv stations, newspapers, whatever because he was incensed that they would investigate him for corruption.  Even though he was and is involved up to his neck - Putin himself does not consider it corruption.  He considers himself the ruler, backed by a “mandate” of nearly incredible voter turnout for him.  He is, by all accounts, the new “Tsar”, the new “Stalin” the new “Lenin”, if you will.

However, having failed to extradite the “guilty” parties and, in one instance at least, managed to kill one of them in Britain.

After a number of years though he only goes after dangerous people, people with credibility who can provide details clearly which would portray Putin as indeed, another Stalin, writ large.

He did not back off out of compassion, he ignores the Russian independent media now.  They can say whatever they like.  They can call him names, make snarky remarks their headlines and even publish hard-hitting investigative journalistic books, which I will list here as good reads.

All of these media outlets can say and do pretty much as they please because IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE.

Putin has succeeded in making Russia a modern day totalitarian state with all the amenities of a modern civilization.

Diplomatic cover means what it sounds like.  In Russian embassies around the world, esp. here in the US, post FSB (KGB) agents to their embassies who operate under diplomatic cover, in other words, unless we catch them “spying” there is little we can do other than expel the suspected individual.

“A legal resident spy operates in a foreign country under official cover (such as from his country's embassy). He is an official member of the consular staff, such as a commercial, cultural, or military attaché. Thus, he has diplomatic immunity from prosecution and cannot be arrested by the host country if suspected of espionage. The most the host country can do is send him back to his home country as persona non grata.[3] “

p. 12, Shulsky, Abram N.; Schmitt, Gary James (2002). Silent Warfare: Understanding the World of Intelligence (3rd ed.). Potomac Books, Inc. ISBN 9781574883459.

 I find Nabokov is especially relevant because he was deeply rooted in Russian culture; Tsarist Russia and the Revolution.

Nabokov is considered by many to be one of the greatest American authors.  No less a personage than John Updike called him the best modern author writing in English.

His father – also named Vladimir – was instrumental in facilitating a peaceful revolution in 1917 and was the leading framer of the liberal constitution embraced by the short lived provisional government.

His father was an attorney and volunteered a great deal of time to frame a constitution which included universal suffrage, universal healthcare and free education.  He rallied the troops when the occasion called for it.   The constitution he wrote was used by the Provisional Government in the days following the Revolution of 1917.

Eventually pushed out by Lenin and his gangs, Russia was, for a brief shining moment, the most progressive nation of the  face of the earth.

His father died shielding a fellow party from a right wing assassin.*

Pretty much all of Nabokov’s best works have characters that suddenly die or disappear.  Lolita deserts him exactly half way through the book.

 A word about the name of the blog – Beyond the Pale.

From pale (“jurisdiction of an authority, territory under an authority's jurisdiction”), suggesting that anything outside the authority's jurisdiction was uncivilized.

I found this phrase to be especially meaningful as many in the West would consider Russia to be “beyond the pale” – a political and cultural wilderness.

Nabokov wrote Pale Fire after Lolita was published.  I have always contended that Nabokov did not write Lolita, Humbert Humbert did.  The title itself is a somewhat humorous aside and a tribute to her as well by Humbert – the book itself is really about Humbert.

Pale Fire – the title by itself could also indicate wild fire – a fire beyond the pale, the flames of reality (See Zelazny’s Lord of Light – the sermon of the Budda), “time is the fire in which we burn” – Star Trek.**

This blog will be about Russia, it’s history, culture and it’s current “foreign policy” - I use the quotes because currently the only policy Russia has is whatever passes through totalitarian mindset of Putin.   I don’t believe it’s a coincidence there is such a conjunction of names - Putin or Ras-putin?

 I write about this because I am concerned that many remember only the halcyon days of the 90s when Putin was supposedly going to institute democratic reforms.  He later back tracks and decides against being politically aligned with “liberals” (read: the West), turns against them and turns Russia back to the “bad old days” of conservatism.

 *In March 1922, Nabokov's father was fatally shot in Berlin by the Russian monarchist Piotr Shabelsky-Bork as he was trying to shield the real target, Pavel Milyukov, a leader of the Constitutional Democratic Party-in-exile. This mistaken, violent death would echo again and again in Nabokov's fiction, where characters would meet their deaths under accidental terms. (In Pale Fire, for example, one interpretation of the novel has an assassin mistakenly kill the poet John Shade, when his actual target is a fugitive European monarch.) Shortly after his father's death, Nabokov's mother and sister moved to Prague.

 **Names are not important... To speak is to name names, but to speak is not important. A thing happens once that has never happened before. Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen. Others wish to know, however, so they question him saying, 'What is it like, this thing you have seen?' So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the very first fire in the world. He tells them, 'It is red, like a poppy, but through it dance other colors. It has no form, like water, flowing everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a time upon a piece of wood, and then the wood is gone, as though it were eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can be sifted like sand. When the wood is gone, it too is gone.' Therefore, the hearers must think reality is like a poppy, like water, like the sun, like that which eats and excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by the man who has known it. But they have not looked upon fire. They cannot really know it. They can only know of it. But fire comes again into the world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is as common as grass and clouds and the air they breathe. They see that, while it is like a poppy, it is not a poppy, while it is like water, it is not water, while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which eats and passes wastes, it is not that which eats and passes wastes, but something different from each of these apart or all of these together. So they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call it 'fire.'

"If they come upon one who still has not seen it and they speak to him of fire, he does not know what they mean. So they, in turn, fall back upon telling him what fire is like. 'As they do so, they know from their own experience that what they are telling him is not the truth, but only a part of it. They know that this man will never know reality from their words, though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must look upon the fire, smell of it, warm his hands by it, stare into its heart, or remain forever ignorant. Therefore, 'fire' does not matter, 'earth' and 'air' and 'water' do not matter. 'I' do not matter. No word matters. But man forgets reality and remembers words. The more words he remembers, the cleverer do his fellows esteem him. He looks upon the great transformations of the world, but he does not see them as they were seen when man looked upon reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming. The thing that has never happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning blossom squats, flowing, upon the limb of the world, excreting the ash of the world, and being none of these things I have named and at the same time all of them, and this is reality — the Nameless.

The Tsar’s Winter Palace Livadia - in the Crimea - where Putin vacations and has a Dacha

[qqueenofhades]

Fivan + 2 please ❤ in your modern au or in canon, idc

2. “Stay here tonight.”

It is the night of October 25, 1917, in the Old Style, and outside the windows, the streets of Petrograd are in total chaos. The telegraph lines of the Winter Palace have been cut, even as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin's proclamation, To the Citizens of Russia, clatters across the wires to every corner of the country, proclaiming the overthrow of the Provisional Government established in February and the total victory of the Bolsheviks and their Military-Revolutionary Committee. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky is one of the few soldiers still at his post, even though he knows that it's only a matter of time. He can hear the distant, surging roar of the revolutionaries coming closer and closer, the boom of the cruiser firing shots in the harbor, the song of angry men. They will be in here before the night is out.

His hands are slick with sweat, but he holds his gun as tightly as he can. The cabinet of the Provisional Government is closeted within, leaving a scanty force of soldiers, officers, Cossacks, and cadets to resist the imminent invasion, but it's clear they will have to flee, as Tsar Nicholas II and his family have already done. There are already whispers among the men that they should do the same, turn their coats and join the victorious rebels. Fedyor hasn't decided where he falls. He has a duty here. He can't just leave it. And yet.

The roar comes closer, something living and furious and savage, the crash of breaking windows and rattling iron, as the forty-thousand-strong Bolshevik mob surges against the gates of the Winter Palace and breaks them down. Minutes later, they're inside. There follows almost three hours of confused fighting among the glittering hallways and under the chandeliers where grand dukes and princes whirled their wives and mistresses by the bejeweled hand, in all the decadence and splendor of the imperial court. Priceless paintings are ripped to shreds, glass and woodwork smashed. Fedyor fights messily, hand to hand, whichever of them he encounters. Until he comes around a corner, runs straight into one of them and is caught clean off guard, and the next moment, backhanded viciously to the floor.

As the Bolshevik raises the butt of his rifle to smash Fedyor's face in, he discovers to his disgust that he is in fact, at the end, a coward more than he is a loyalist. "Don't," he begs. "Don't kill me. I surrender."

The Bolshevik stares at him grimly down his long nose, from a face that seems made for the express purpose of scowling. At this close range, Fedyor can tell from the insignia on his collar that he is a member of the Red Guard, the paramilitary people's organization drawn together to support the establishment of a supreme soviet socialist republic. In other words, the most dedicated and ruthless of all the Bolsheviks, and Fedyor has no reason to think this one will show him mercy. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the end.

It doesn't come. He dares to open his eyes. The Red Guard is still glaring at him, but in frustration. Then he snaps, "What's someone like you doing here? How old are you? Twelve?"

"Nineteen." Fedyor bristles. To judge from his speech, this newcomer is from Siberia, which has probably been a fertile recruiting ground for long jeremiads about the excessive luxury of the urban elite, and Fedyor does not intend to be judged by some cowpoke. "If we're asking that question, why are you here? Hasn't anyone ever told you that it's treasonous to overthrow the government?"

To his surprise, the Bolshevik snorts, as if he didn't want to laugh, isn't used to laughing, and is slightly annoyed that Fedyor made him do it. "Get out of here," he advises tersely. "Or turn your coat and join us. I might not have killed you, but someone else will."

This is, in all respects, a fine idea, but something still makes Fedyor hesitate. "I, uh," he says awkwardly. "Thank you for, you know. Not doing that. I suppose."

"No honor in killing boys." The Red stares at him, flinty-eyed and imperturbable. This is not the moment, it really is not, to notice that he is rather handsome. "I said. Get out."

Fedyor mutters a prayer for the Almighty to forgive him, if God has not been asleep in Heaven for quite a long time now when it comes to Russia, and the devil, in the person of Grigori Rasputin, has been ruling instead. Then he dodges through the chaotic corridors, clambers through a broken window into the palace grounds, and makes his escape, with no idea what to do or where to go. All around him, the night resounds with sound and fury.

He finally finds somewhere in a side alley to dodge out of sight and await the inevitable. Just past two AM, he hears the bells ringing across the city, a sign that the revolutionaries have fully seized control of the Winter Palace, and it's done, it's over, his side has lost. Perhaps he should feel more upset about this than he does. It is abstract.

Fedyor spends the next two days adrift in the shattered sea of Petrograd, everyone completely agog and afraid and with no idea what will happen to them now. He sells his soldier's coat with its brass buttons for food and a blanket, reduced to no better than any other of the terrified refugees. He can't go back to the Winter Palace, and the revolutionaries are blocking any train he might take home to Nizhny Novgorod. He sits near the dock as the third evening is falling, shivering and hungry and scared. What now, what now, what --

"What are you doing here?"

He jumps out of his wits at the angry hiss, nearly drops his blanket in the water, and startles to his feet. It can't be, but it is, the Red Guard who spared him in the assault. They stare at each other. The Bolshevik looks like he has been on patrol, rifle on his back, and while it's not the wisest thing to say to such a terrifying-looking fellow, it comes out anyway. "Are you ever," Fedyor says, "going to ask me something besides what I'm doing somewhere? Such as my name?"

The humorless Red bastard scowls at him. Then he demands, as if he would in fact like to know the answer and is very annoyed about it, "So what is your name?"

"Fedyor." Fedyor folds his arms. "Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky. You?"

"Ivan." It comes after a long, reluctant pause. "Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov. You should get off the streets."

"I don't have anywhere else to go."

Ivan Ivanovich acknowledges that with a terse nod. He debates with himself, then thrusts out a hand. "This way."

Fedyor follows him warily, not sure if he's being lured off to be shot in the head like the rest of the White Russians, but Ivan leads him to a tiny hovel in the working-class districts of Petrograd, a small room lit by a gaslamp. "You can stay here tonight," he says brusquely. "Just one night, do you hear me? After that, I can't help you."

"All right." Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Fedyor warily sits down. "And you? Where do you sleep?"

"Since you are there -- " Ivan jerks his chin at the narrow bed -- "on the floor. Do not be mistaken. I do not like you. As I said. It is only a matter of honor. Even rebels have it, you know."

Fedyor isn't sure, but he doesn't want to disagree. He lies down and folds his hands on his chest, staring at the garret ceiling, as Ivan Ivanovich settles on the frayed rug. And so -- it is strange, impossible, but no more than anything else in this new world with no rules -- side by side, imperial soldier and Red revolutionary, they sleep.