𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑
━━━━━━━━ 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖.
𝐈.     AN IMPERIAL EXECUTION

     THE BUILDING WAS BURNING.

And they were still inside it.

It was a planned attack; they said it was for Russia, for the sake of duty. Men with flaming torches danced around the burning home, singing the songs of the Motherland to drown out the screams of the men, women, and children burning alive. They were merciless as they ignored the desperate pleas of those who tried to escape and gleefully executed them on the spot.

Blood was everywhere.

Scarlet red stained the once white pavement, mixing with the fire's colors of orange and yellow that glittered off the marble so far down below the burning building.

Flames raged up into the inky black sky, looking like desperate childlike fingers clawing for rescue from the low heavy clouds of Yekaterinburg.

The fire had no mercy left to give, viciously consuming the family pictures and the beds and the floorboards and everything and everyone left in its path. The wooden stairwell was already engulfed, smoke intoxicated the air, and a family was forced to their knees in the cellar — the place of their execution.

The secret police had said they were rescuing them from the flames. The Ipatiev House, the House of Special Purpose — their gilded cage, would be left behind and long forgotten. They promised they were taking the family somewhere new, somewhere they all could be safe.

But safety was the last thing the police had in mind.

The cellar was cold and damp compared to the fire raging above, the wooden floor worn and the wallpaper beginning to crumple and peel.

Maria Romanova held her sister, her sweet Anastasia, close, refusing to let any of the vicious men touch the precious thirteen year old. They took nearly everything else; the fifteen year old wasn't about to let them take her little sister as well. Their family was huddled close together in the darkness only made brighter by the single barred window above. Their father gently smiled at each of his five children, still holding onto a thin shred of hope that would only prove to be the death of him. 

Maria knew this could not be as simple as the secret police promised.

Maria knew something was wrong.

But she didn't say it. She should've said it. Why didn't she say it?

"Eto — prosto mechta." The redhead rocked the youngest sister of four, "Eto — prosto mechta, Lastachka." This is just a dream. It's just a dream, Little Swallow.

The thirteen year old dug her delicate fingernails into her sister's dress. Her red hair stuck to her sweaty face and she coughed at the thick smoke that snaked after them. Her wide caramel eyes took everything in just as they usually did, always studying, always analyzing, always thinking. The innocent girl couldn't help but notice how there was not another door at the end of this tunnel like the guards said.

There was only one way out, and that was behind them.

The four officers told them to wait, promised that they would return as they locked the only door. Their luggage had been abandoned by the wall, and their travel clothes were still too thin in the cold of the cellar.

Their little brother, their little Alexei, had started crying.

Their father had begun to pace.

Olga and Tatiana began praying.

"Zabot'tes' o svoyey sestre." Their mother, Alexandra, had shakily whispered to the fifteen year old, cupping her chin tightly, "Yesli eto — poslednyaya veshch', Vy delayete, zashchishchayete svoyu sestru!" Look after your sister. If it is the last thing you do, protect your sister!

The redhead had looked her mother straight in the eyes as she whispered, "Da Mama, ya obeshchayu." Yes Mama, I promise.

She didn't keep her promise.

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To the Tsar by the Ural Executive Committee:

Nikolai Alexandrovich, in view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.

Translation of the Order of Execution of the Royal Russian Family by the Ural Executive Committee, (1918). The Last Fortune of the Tsars.

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     IT WAS THEIR FATHER — THE EMPEROR — THAT WAS MURDERED FIRST.

For the officers did indeed return, but this time with the execution squad.

Their father with the kind eyes and the ever—present half smirk, without even time to beg, was forced to his knees, and then sent to the ground with three bloody bullet holes in his chest.

Their mother fearfully looked away — desperately shrieking for help from the heavens.

But no holy power answered her prayers tonight.

They silenced the Empress of Russia with a bullet through her forehead.

Anastasia screamed when her mama's blood spurted and splattered onto her face, and she tripped when the limp body collapsed into her. And as the drunken officers laughed, Maria snatched onto her hand and scrambled for the double doors before them, wanting nothing more than to escape, to live, to keep her promise. But their escape was short—lived when a silver bullet pierced straight through Maria's thigh, forcing the older sister to fall and drag Anastasia down with her.

The children... their voices... they screamed so loud as the guns turned on them.

Anastasia panickedly clawed into the unknown and grabbed tightly to her sister, dragging them both back to cower by the wall. Alexei saw her against the wall, his frail little hand stretching out to her as heavy tears spilled over. Anastasia had only just reached out when a bullet knocked him to the ground.

Smoke filled the cellar and dust from the ceiling rained down, blinding the shooters as they fired at anyone and anything within the darkness. Their siblings were riddled with bullets, their frightened screams became a haunting symphony echoing against thin cellar walls. The jewels sewn into their clothing acted like shields against the bullets for only so long before they shattered and splintered into their flesh.

Little Alexei was the first of the children to die.

He had a shy golden heart, and he hated any and all attention — unless it was that of his sisters', of course. He used to follow Anastasia around like a shadow, following her lead in whatever prank or joke she had planned. But he wasn't born to mischief like she was. No, he was gentle, and when he was well, the whole palace seemed bathed in sunlight.

And the sun shone less brightly when they murdered him. His frail body couldn't survive such agony, weeping where he laid beside their mother's limp body. The secret police emptied an entire magazine into the ten year old boy's chest, stabbing him and shooting him twice more in the head for good measure.

Olga was political and wild and knew her own mind, enough to make for a good argument with the witty Maria any day. She had the makings of a flapper, if she'd been allowed, and though she never measured up to their mother's expectations as a "good example", her rough manners and her temper was always a sight to behold. She was bright, and she was lovely.

And it was the third bullet wound that killed Olga.

Tatiana was tall and slender and impossibly elegant. She was reserved and much gentler than the other girls, and even though she hated her title, she valued duty over passion and became the leader amongst their sisters. And even if she always followed the rules, she still was the one that helped the girls sneak out to go shopping.

But it was a single shot to the back of the head that killed Tatiana.

Then a final stab of a bayonet to the chests for each.

Blood drained from the bodies of their family, gliding into the cracks of the worn wood and flowing towards the sole survivors. Their open eyes and their scarlet blood looked so glassy in the moonlight, so soft and smooth, almost like silk. Only silence filled the room, then. The senseless gunfire ceased. The screams and the pleas silenced.

The thirteen year old could not move. Anastasia's head felt as if it were spinning as she kept her hand over her mouth, trying so hard to smother her sobs. Her mother's blood stained her lips and her cheeks, and that was the closest she would ever be to her again. The girl's sweet wide eyes had finally seen too much, taken in too much brutality.

And as the dust and smoke began to clear just a little, Maria found that the worn double doors were stretched wide open.  Tears streamed down her bloodied face and her ears were ringing and she felt as if her soul had been ripped out of her, but she knew she had a job to do. Taking her only surviving sister's crying face in her hands, she tried to make the message clear.

They had to run.

There was no one left.

They were going to die here.

And the redheads didn't look back as they sneaked and stumbled towards their last place of safety. Anastasia sobbed as they tried to run, ignoring the screams and the gunfire that finished off whatever was left of their family's bodies behind them. It wouldn't be long before they noticed that the youngest daughters — the special daughters — were missing, and when they did, they would show even less mercy than they showed their parents and their brother and sisters.

They would take their time with them.

They would enjoy it.

But chaos had fallen upon what was left of the home, and as they tripped into the main hall, they were swallowed up into the frenzied crowd dashing for the narrow backdoor. Fiery debris rained from the ornate ceiling and the Bolsheviks fired wildly into the backs of anyone who got past the far gates.

As they sprinted out into the snowy night, the girls screamed while bodies dropped all around them, breaking free from the desperate hands that clawed at their ankles. While her barefeet slid on the thick ice, the youngest dared to look back and her reddened eyes widened at the sight of the home completely engulfed in flames.

"Ne oglyadyvaytes' nazad!" Maria yanked her back around, screaming, "Prosto prodolzhayte bezhat', ne oglyadyvaytes' nazad!" Don't look back! Just keep running, don't look back!

The crowd pushed and pulled at them, ripping at their dresses and their skin as the burning house grew smaller behind them.

"Derzhites' na menya!" The fifteen year old quickly demanded, tears rushing down her face as the crowd shoved them along. Hold onto me!

Anastasia fearfully nodded, holding tighter to her hand, "Ne pozvolyayte mne poyti!" Don't let me go!

But as bullets continued to fly and people continued to drop around them, a bloodied hand panickedly reached out and dragged one of the girls down with them.

"Talia!" The thirteen year old's shrill voice screamed as a man forced her to the ground, burying her face in the snow.

Their hands were torn apart.

Their eyes fearfully met.

And the people drove the sisters further from one another and deeper into the inky black night.

"Net, net, zhdite ostanovites', moya sestra—!" Maria screamed as the crowd forced her forward, too thick and too strong to allow her to fight back, "Pozvol'te mne vozvratit'sya! Pozhaluysta!" No, no, wait stop, my sister—! Let me go back! Please!

But they didn't let up, they didn't let her go, they made her break her promise.

And it wasn't until the oldest redhead was miles away that she was able to get free. The fifteen year old beat furiously at the man dragging her until he finally released her, deciding she was not worth the trouble. Tripping and scrambling to her feet, she ran as fast as her legs would allow towards the flames and the danger — ice forming on her skin and the wind nipping at her cheeks.

But she was far too late.

Everyone — and everything — was gone.

Only blood and death remained.

The redhead stiffened and wavered on her feet, her chest shuddering with a sob that quickly broke into a deep and rageful scream. Her young voice echoed into the empty black air, crying out for her little sister with everything inside as the ashes of her home and her family floated all around her.

But her sister, the girl with caramel eyes just as sweet as her, was gone.

A hand gently rested on her arm, forcing her gaze up to find a man in a long trenchcoat and a rifle in his hand standing in front of her. A single tear had leaked down her cheek and she swayed a little, deciding she didn't care if he killed her. She had already lost everything, anyway.

"Chto sluchilos', sladkiy?" A Bolshevik soldier, an Ivan Petrovich, slowly bent down in front of her, cocking his head to the side at the sight of the bleeding and worn teen. What's wrong, sweet one?

He didn't recognize her, and the girl could not tell if she was happy or sad about the realization.

"Moya sestra." She glared back with narrowed green eyes, "Gde moya sestra?" My sister. Where is my sister?

"Kak vas zovut?" He prodded, ignoring her question. What's your name?

The fifteen year old swallowed hard, knowing she was staring at a soldier who represented the slaughter of her father, mother, brother, and sisters. She couldn't tell what she felt more of; fear or grief or rage or hatred. Maybe it didn't even matter.

The world stopped turning and the girl was no longer a girl. She became someone — something — else that night.

She had lost all that she held dear, and she didn't know that this would be her fate for the rest of her long, long life.

To love and to lose.

To have and to hold, and finally to have it stolen away.

Again. And again. And again. 

And with all the viciousness and brutality that followed, with what the girl would be destined to face, the fifteen year old would soon find she was glad that her little sister was gone, after all.

"Natalia." The firelight glowed off her red hair as she conjured up a whispered lie, a lie she would live out for the rest of her life, "My name is Natalia Romanova."

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There are varying accounts of Natalia Alianovna "Natasha" Romanova's early life. While popular culture states that Romanova was born in 1984 in Stalingrad, the exact year and location for the birth of Romanova is unknown, as are who her parents were. It has been rumored that Natalia (whose name in Russian is: Наталья Романова, Наташа Романова, Наталья Романова—Шостакова) was somehow related to the last ruling czars of Russia, but this rumor was never proven.

Excerpt from: 'A Study of a Spy: The Mystery Behind Natasha Romanoff' by Jeremy Hansen (2012), p. 4.

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━━━━━━ annie speaks ━━━━━━

wowowowow let's get this party started. this is the last time we'll hear from natasha for a good long bit, at least until the end of part 1 but i wanted to make sure that we got her perspective in good and early. from now on, we'll focus solely on anastasia, or "anya", and her journey of getting to know "the soldier" and remembering who she is!! i'm so fricking excited, there's so much russian history i'm gonna spin in and ugh, i can't wait. ANYWAY, we'll get more flashbacks of the romanov family moving forward as anya remembers, but you know, it's always fun to hear little historical tidbits about anya's brother and sister's right when they're, you know, getting murder.... SO. first chapter, what did ya think? not too choppy? not too confusing? ugh, i'm worried. let me know!

p.s. the above collage is my new sign off thingamabob as a little "get to know me" which i thought would be cute, lol, hope it's not super ugly

until next time xx