Chapter Text
April is coming to a close on the day the Romanovs move into the Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg. Soon Spring will be over, and with it the oppression of the tsarist regime. The red heat of Summer will usher in a new era. A better era.
The promise of change is heavy in the air as Gleb Stepanovich Vaganov watches the royal family march to their new home – their last home, he tells himself. He doesn’t know that yet, not for sure. But as Gleb glares at the Romanov family, his muscles twitch under his skin, begging for action. The thick cotton of his Bolshevik uniform is heavy on his shoulders, and Gleb wants to prove how easily he can move under its weight. He wants to show how well he can use the rifle held across his chest. His father reminds him every chance he gets that Gleb is more boy than man, but at twenty years old, Gleb is tall and broad-backed, hard lines of muscles pulling at the seams of his clothes. A dark shadow of stubble has begun to grow across his jaw.
I’m ready, he wants to shout. Let me fight for our new Russia.
Gleb shoves the words down, his fists clenching around his rifle. He stands at attention, only his eyes moving, watching the Romanovs. He is a good and loyal Russian. He will do what’s been asked of him. And right now, the means standing and watching as the Romanovs are escorted on all sides by his comrades. He’s been placed just outside the gate in front of the Ipatiev House. The structure is huge and foreboding, a white brick of a building that’s somewhere between prison and palace, and surrounded on all sides by a great wooden fence.
It’s too much for the Romanovs, Gleb decides. Let them waste away in squalor like we did.
Righteous fury is harder to control, but Gleb fights to keep his composure. He will not embarrass the Bolsheviks. Not in front of them.
His Former Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nikolay Aleksandrovich Romanov walks past him, head held high. Gleb can see over the top of his head, he realizes with a petty sort of satisfaction. Alexandra Feodorovna follows after her husband, as proud and cold as a Russian Winter. It rankles Gleb, that they still carry themselves as though they’re above the common folk. He wants to ask them what happened to their fine clothes, their palace, their many servants. He wants to answer, and tell them that they belong to the people, now.
The children follow behind their parents. First comes Maria, sturdy and sweet faced despite it all. Her older sisters, Olga and Tatiana, aren’t far behind, their eyes straight ahead. Then comes the little Tsarevich Alexei. Of everyone in the family, he is the first one to look frightened, his eyes darting every which way to look at the tall, straight backed men in uniform surrounding him.
And suddenly Gleb isn’t watching the Tsarevich – he sees instead a small, sickly boy who clings to his older sister’s skirt with a white knuckled grip as he looks up in fear at his captors.
Gleb feels – weakness.
He tightens his jaw and stomps the feeling down, as thoroughly as he’d stomp down upon a rat skittering across the floor. He pretends he can hear it snap and die under his boot.
Alexei Nikolaevich is a boy, it’s true. Gleb knows this. But he also knows the feeling of a stomach gone too long without food, the way the pain stabs at his insides and steals the very life from his body and sense from his mind. He knows the desperate, dirty faces of his countrymen as they ask when they will finally be liberated. He knows the fear and anger that pulse through Russia like a heartbeat, driving her forward, ever forward, to a final tipping point.
A revolution is a simple thing – but not an easy one. Gleb would kill the boy himself if it meant Russia would be free.
He lifts his chin as the Tsarevich passes, his dark eyes straight ahead.
A high bark cuts through the air. Startled, Gleb can't help the way his head turns, eyes snapping to find the source of the sound. It's a small brown dog. The final Romanov child has it cradled close to her chest as she runs her fingers through its fur and makes quiet cooing sounds. She walks with her full attention on the dog, her voice drifting through the air in hushed whispers that he can't quite make out. He watches her as she draws near, following after her family. Anastasia Nikolaevna is a teenager still, short and with a softness that betrays her easy life.
Well, Gleb supposes, not anymore.
Her hair, a dirty blonde color, falls around her face, blocking it from his view. But the closer she gets, the more he can see how her hand trembles as it pets the dog. That traitorous weakness twitches to life again, crawling its way through his insides. She's afraid.
She's barely a foot away from him when he can finally make out the words in her quavering voice.
"–Ils ne nous nuiront pas–"
The little chit is speaking French. It's the reminder of who she is – of what she is – that he needs. She should be afraid.
Anastasia Nikolaevna is passing in front of him when, impulsively, Gleb raises his boot and stamps it down on the cobblestone to produce a sharp crack of sound. It has the desired effect. She jumps, letting out a startled gasp. Her hand is frozen and stiff in the little dog's fur, and she curls in on herself, her shoulders scrunching up. Anastasia stands like that for half a moment, shaking, before she cautiously raises her head. She turns to look at Gleb, but her eyes fall on the uniform covering his chest. Her gaze pauses on the rifle. She has to tilt her head to look up and meet his eyes. Gleb looks down at her, careful to keep his smugness off his face. Anastasia looks up at him with wide, almost startlingly blue eyes, her lips parted. He holds her gaze and stands a little taller, trying to give off the same aura of a powerful, commanding Bolshevik, that his father wields so well. Anastasia looks down at his boot. Then back up to his face.
Gleb can't help but raise an eyebrow, a silent challenge. He waits for her to lower her gaze and hurry along after her family.
Instead, something hardens in her eyes as she stares back at Gleb. The princess draws herself up, raising her chin. His eyes widen. His muscles tense, his knuckles turning white as he grips his rifle. The same anger that spurred him before swells in his chest again, and Gleb can already feel his teeth grinding against each other. This spoiled little brat! He's going to –
Gleb never finds out what he's going to do. The guard behind Anastasia finally gives her a rough shove forward. She gasps and stumbles, and the moment is gone. Gleb's rage begins to cool as he watches Anastasia Nikolaevna pass through the gate, never looking back at him.
He realizes the guard who pushed her is still standing in front of him. Gleb snaps his head back to look at the man – Yermakov, he realizes with a sinking feeling. The older man just stares at him, a smirk curling his mouth. Yermakov looks Gleb up and down before snorting, apparently deciding he isn't even worth a snide remark. He turns and walks through the gate.
Anger mixes with embarrassment as Gleb tries not to deflate, cursing his own impulsiveness. He feels like a child. He doesn't pay attention to the train of attendants and the rest of the guards that walk past him.
The gate eventually slams shut.