Hallowed halls lined with only the most exquisite of portraits, golden frames and the finest of paints depicting the regal faces of Russia's Royal family. A man stood before the largest of them, a decent painting that he guessed would have taken almost a year, if not several months. Cobwebs and dust caked every object in his sight, having not been touched in almost eighty years. This vacant castle was a painstaking reminder of how vile his country could be, how harshly and cruel people could react.
Ivan remembered when the lighting fixtures were set ablaze with the purest golden light and the sweetest melodies drifted through the ballroom, dancers taking to the floor and taking their partners tenderly by hand, twirling about in graceful spins about the room.
He remembered exactly how lively his Russia once was.
The cold-silk haired man pulled his scarf higher up onto his chilling face, his mouth remaining a hard, firm line. He only came back here to look at the paintings once more, that was all. Ivan wasn't one to be reminiscing about the past anymore. That was his old self.
Turning away from the grand painting of the once royal family, violet hues disdainfully found the decrepit old ballroom at the end of a long set of wide stairs - the floor was scuffed and worn from all of the harmful exposure to the elements after all these years. This place was almost teeming with a nostalgic essence.
He didn't so much as breathe as his black leather boots clunked against marble steps, descending down the stairs to the vast room at the end. The high ceilings were adorn, even after so much time, with gold swirls, intricate designs etched into the rotting wood - he remembered when this estate was first being built and how difficult it was to carve those designs. The walls were nothing but glass - some, if not all, of the mirrors were shattered and lay in shards upon the floor.
Ivan paused his steps and glanced around where his feet had taken him - to the exact middle of the ballroom.
He begun to think back to the very last party that was held in this monumental palace. If his memory served him correctly, this was where he danced with the last princess that Russia would ever have; Anastasia. She was so beautiful, barely even eighteen and still by far one of the most magnificent creatures in all of the world.
Yes, there was a time in his life when his small heart beat faster for another.
Her curled smile, and her youthful face was enough to steal his affections. Ivan recalled that she was elated to see him that night, blathering on about how her birthday was quickly approaching and how he should get her a gift soon. Ivan smiled at the shorter female and tenderly stroked her silken, bronze locks.
'Of course, принцесса. I would not miss your birthday for anything, you know that.'
And then he would lean down and press his lips to her forehead, his large and gentle hands holding her shoulders in an endearing manner; the tassels on his uniform hung forward over the broad plains of his own shoulders.
Now that he looked back upon that day, Ivan wished he would have said what he had wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her the truth behind how he never aged, how when she was only just born, he had the face of a young man as apposed to how old someone of his age was supposed to look. Ivan wanted to tell her so many things and then have her in his arms once more.
But that simply was not an option right now.
Ivan's boots drug across the rotting floor as he begun to spin himself in circles, arms held aloft as if he were holding a partner; right arm up and left arm around the imaginary hip of a young girl in a large, silky dress. With his eyes shutting, he imagined he was holding Anastasia once more and leaning her about on a large track on the floor. Ivan wasn't completely conscious of where his feet were taking him again, but his legs had soon enough made circles across the room and back again - all the while he was imagining the ballroom exploding with music and noise and everything was back to the way they were supposed to; and begun to hum an old tune he heard somewhere, Anastasia's favorite song.
But then he stopped, his lavender eyes popping open abruptly and then he wasn't holding Anastasia anymore. His arms dropped. He searched around the room.
Empty.
Lips curling in a bitter smile, Ivan dropped to his knees and cried into his palms as he hummed the final words in a pained, broken voice:
"And a song someone sings, 'Once Upon a December'…"
.
.
.