In the hot stillness of a July night, Russia woke up screaming. He gasped for breath, ignoring the muffled grumbles of his fellow soldiers, who were just trying to get a little rest in this bloody civil war. Night terrors were a frequent companion among them, not cause for any alarm. Slowly, Russia relaxed, his chest rising and falling as he tried to regain his breath. His face was wet with tears, as if he had been crying. Russia did not know why.
When he found out, it did not matter.
Eventually, he forgot why he would care at all.
.
At night, he dreams there is a great hole in his chest where his heart should be. He touches the edges, and a shiver races down his spine. He searches for it, in the nooks and crannies of his home, in the houses of his neighbors, in the wide fields until the clear blue sky. Still, he cannot find it. So, donning his favorite coat and scarf, he departs.
He walks until the sky fades into dusk and deepens into night. His feet bring him to a dark forest, the black trees stretching high above him, blocking out any view of the stars. He lingers at the edge, fear of wolves or witches holding him back. But he knew that if he turned back, he would never find his heart. Summoning all his courage, he strides in. He cannot move fast for fear he might trip, but the darkness is so thick around him that he stumbles over roots and around trees like a blind man.
"Even if it was here, how could I find it?" he wonders out loud.
"'It'? What's it?" his own voice asks.
Ivan whirls around to see two bright blue eyes watching him from a tall tree. "Imp," he begins, relieved that his voice has not been stolen too, "I am looking for my heart."
"Your heart?" it repeats, now sounding like a young girl. "How did you lose your heart? Was it stolen? Are you in love?"
"I do not know how I lost it. I do not think it was stolen, and if I were in love, how would I know without my heart?"
"Hmm, yes you're right. That last question was stupid. But why do you think your heart is here?"
Ivan shakes his head. "I don't. Even if it was, I don't know how I could find it in this place."
In the darkness, Ivan can barely glimpse the imp's legs swinging back and forth on the branch. "If I told you, yes, absolutely, complete truth that your heart was here, would you give up and go home?"
"No," he says. "It might take me many years, but I would stay in this forest until I found it." Despite himself, he smiles. "Besides, I do not think I would believe you, imp. You already stole my voice. Maybe you want to trap me here forever."
"Imitate, not steal. There is a big different," she insists. "I don't have your heart, Brave Vanya, but I can tell you what to do. Go to the cherry orchard. You'll find a maiden there. She's a big bow-wow, but she'll help you. Give her this." She throws something small, hard, and round at Ivan's head. He barely manages to catch it and slips it into his pocket for safekeeping.
"Thank you."
The imp smiles widely, the gleam of her teeth matching the mischievous glint in her eyes. "Wish I had thought of that idea of keeping you here, but oh well. All of us kiss you." Before Ivan can say anything, she scurries up the tree until her shadow melts into the darkness.
.
Leaping into his arms, she flung her arms around his neck and smothered his cheek in kisses. Her lips were sticky from the candies she had been sneaking from behind her mother's back.
"Vanya, Vanya!" she exclaimed, "Come play with me!"
He laughed and tried to escape her vice-like grip, but she clung too tightly. "I can't," he began to explain. "I need to meet with your father. Besides, don't you have lessons?"
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
Her lip stuck out in a pout. "All right, I have French. Mais je n'aime pas Français. And Mr. France is weird. He's always so 'Monsieur, Madame, très belle, très beau'!"
"A lot of people find him attractive," he commented. He's trying not to laugh too much, but her imitation of Bonnefoy is perfect.
"Well, I don't. His beard is funny, and his hair is too long."
"Is my hair too long?"
"Oh no, Vanya, you're perfect. You're the most handsome man in the world after Papa and Charlie Chaplin!" She thought for a moment. "No, you're definitely more handsome than Charlie Chaplin!" She kissed his cheek again. "You're my favorite."
.
Ivan walks until his feet are heavier than lead. The trees thin until he can finally see the stars in the inky night sky winking at him. He closes his eyes, his knees buckling underneath him, and collapses onto the ground.
He awakes to something soft brushing against his cheek. Ivan blinks and finds himself staring into the biggest, most beautiful pair of eyes he has ever seen. Their owner gasps. Before Ivan can say anything, she gathers up her skirts and makes a mad dash for the cherry trees.
"Wait!" He scrambles up, desperate to stop her from disappearing into the pink thicket. She pauses. Ivan's breath catches at the sight of her. She is tall, with a full figure and thick curly hair that shines gold in the warm sunlight. But it is her eyes that draw Ivan's gaze. They remind him of the ocean on a clear day, deep, shining, and welcoming. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he cannot summon the words.
For a moment, they remain like that, shyness hanging between them as they stare at each other from a distance. Then, she laughs, a light, rich sound that would have made his heart leap if it had still been in his chest. "My darling beloved, how are you?"
The affection in her words takes him by surprise. He has never seen this maiden in his life, yet she speaks like they have been companions for many years. "Do you know me?" he asks.
Her smile fades. "Yes." Hesitantly, she takes a few steps towards him. "Do you not know me?"
"No, although I wish I did," he replies. "Should I?"
She shakes her head. "I suppose not. Why brings you to me, then?"
"I have lost my heart. An imp told me you could help me."
"Oh." Ivan wants nothing more to make her smile again, but his hands hang useless at his sides. "Well, if you have seen her, you must be very determined. Did she give you anything?" He gives her the round object. Before he can get a good look at it, the maiden puts it in her mouth. She holds it there briefly before spitting a seed into her hand.
"Here." She places the seed in his palm. "Keep it safe. You need to take it to the lady. She will tell you what to do." She sighs, the sadness heavy on her face. "I don't have your heart, although I wish I did." Ivan's fingers close over the seed. With his other hand, he brushes his fingers against her cheek. She looks up, startled at the touch, a spark of hope in her eyes.
"When I find my heart, I will come back to you."
"Gentle Vanya." She takes his hand in hers. "Please don't forget me."
"How could I?" The maiden's eyes well up with tears, but her smile is luminous. A gust of wind blows the cherry blossoms into her hair. He has never seen anything more beautiful.
"I wish I could stay."
"Vanya, Vanya, you must go. And then you must come back to me." He bows so she can kiss his forehead.
.
She bounced towards him, arms outstretched, eyes pleading with him to pick her up. He obliged, hoisting her high above his head, relishing her delighted giggles. It felt good hearing someone so sweet and innocent laugh. He had almost forgotten the sound after the months of defeat and anger.
"Vanya," she said after he set her carefully on the ground, "when I get older, I am going to marry you."
Years later, he remembered that promise during a private moment away from her family's watchful eye. For a moment, he feared he would crush her, but she was strong and embraced him just as tightly. He breathed in her lilac perfume, the delicate scent nearly overwhelming him. He had begun to wonder if anything still smelled sweet, or if all the world now stank of gunpowder and rotting flesh. Closing his eyes, he sobbed. She hummed and whispered soft words, her fingers stroking the back of his neck as if she was soothing a child.
When he pulled back, her beautiful eyes were shining with tears. He wanted to kiss her, to tell her everything would be all right, even if he knew it would not. His hands moved to cup her face, but he dared not close the distance. She was everything he could ever desire, his ideal of womanhood, and yet, he could do nothing. No matter how much her parents loved him, they would never let them marry. She would find a man, perhaps even a soldier, who would make her happy. And he would be glad for them.
"I love you," she whispered. He drew her close, burying his face in her soft curls.
.
"Do you want me to go to Sverdlovsk, sir?"
A long pause. "Why would I want you to go to Sverdlovsk?"
"That American pilot?"
"And?"
"America is making a lot of trouble over it."
"No. There is nothing of interest to you in Sverdlovsk."
"Yes sir."
.
"What do you think?" she asked, turning around so he can see the entirety of her nurse's uniform. It should feel wrong. She should be in a beautiful evening gown decorated with pearls or a white linen dress and a large hat to protect her face from the sun. She should not have to be cleaning wounds, assisting surgeries, helping amputate limbs.
But the world should not be at war. He should not be losing battle after battle. His people should not be starving.
It suited her. She was the embodiment of a Sister of Mercy, he told her.
"You think so?" She smiled slightly in relief. "I was nervous at first, but once I started, it became easier. Olga's having a little bit of a hard time, but I am doing all right. At least I can help with things, such as it is."
There was a faded, barely visible spot close to the bright red cross. A bit of blood the washing could not eradicate completely. When he pointed it out, she sighed in exasperation.
"I thought I had taken care of that. Oh well." She pulled off her white veil, revealing the dark hair hidden underneath. Her hair had finally grown long enough for her to put up again. She seemed to prefer it this way, although he missed the distinctive short style she wore after her bout with typhoid.
"It's good to have you home. We've missed you so much." It was good to be here, if only for a short time. Nothing was as it once was, though. He longed for the idyllic seclusion and peaceful tranquility. He returned to palaces converted into hospitals.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, giving her the best smile he can muster. She saw through the façade, so used was she to looking after her mother during times of crisis. Gently, she slipped her hand into his and rested her head on his shoulder.
.
At the touch of the maiden's lips, the world shifts. She, the cherry trees, and the sun disappear. Ivan finds himself standing on the edge of a frozen pond, its surface as smooth as polished glass. Snow drifts down from the sky. He wraps his scarf tightly around his neck and is grateful for the good sense he had to wear his heavier coat.
The lady waits for him in the middle of the pond, a statuesque beacon wrapped in white fur. He takes a few hesitating steps toward her, but his confidence grows once it becomes obvious the ice will hold his weight. To his surprise, she approaches him as well until they meet halfway on the frozen mirror.
"I hoped you would come," she says. "How do you feel?"
"Anxious. Empty." He does not question how she immediately knew why he was here.
"That is understandable. I am sorry you must go through this." She slips one gloved hand out of her white muff. Ivan gives her the seed. She raises it up to her eye as a snowflake rests on her cheek.
"'When did it bloom? The last spring? Earlier?
How long? Where was it plucked? By whom?
By foreign hands? Or by familiar?'"
She trails off. "Of course this is a seed, not a flower." When she drops it into Ivan's palm, it is a diamond.
"I am afraid you have further to go, Brave Vanya. Go to my sister, the princess. You are almost there." She sighs wistfully at the glistening snow building up on the pond's edge.
"The trees are beginning to blossom here now, it's very beautiful."
Ivan does not understand. They are still encased in snow and ice, but he does not contradict her.
"'When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers.'"
She laughs, shaking her head. "It is funny. I am not usually the one quoting poetry." Her smile is warm enough to melt the entire winter around them. Wisps of dark hair have escaped her fur hat. "Maybe seeing you again brings it out of me. Or," she adds with a shrug, "it is a reminder that I must hurry and send you to my sister."
"I would like to come back and read poetry with you," he says.
"How about a walk in the springtime instead?" Ivan nods. That does sound better.
Her dark gray eyes turn serious. "Now Vanya, listen to me. Hold your breath and do not panic. Swim to the light, and you will be fine."
"What do you mean?"
Face resolute, the lady raises the hem of her dress, revealing her white and silver boots. She stomps three times. At the third strike, the ice splinters and cracks under Ivan's feet, and he plunges into the freezing depths.
.
"May I?" Grinning, she placed her gloved hand in his. They glided across the grand room easily, the waltz steps familiar to them both, ignoring the eyes that watch their every move. He should not be surprised. It was her day after all. She was certainly the loveliest one here. The gold strands of her hair gleamed under the chandelier lights, and her simple diamond necklace sparkled. She was not used to so much attention, but she seemed to enjoy it, at least for one night. The flush of her cheeks matched the delicate pink of her gown.
It was strange, seeing her look so grown up. She was sixteen, not yet an adult but a child no longer. Soon, princes would begin extending their hands towards her. He wanted to think that she was still too young for that, but the day would come when she would have to make a decision.
"Vanya, may I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Promise you won't hate me?"
"Promise."
"What if I decided not to leave Russia?"
He did not know how she read his thoughts so easily. "You could do that." He spins her under his arm.
"What if I decided I did not want to marry at all? Would I be terrible?"
"Not at all." Perhaps one day, she would change her mind, but she was nothing if not stubborn. If she truly did not want to marry, she would get her way.
"It would be nice if you never had to leave," he told her. She smiles, relieved. Her steps picked up in energy as the music quickened.
"Vanya, I am so happy."
"As am I."
Tomorrow, she will hang up her dress, put her necklace into its jewelry box, and happily curl up with a thick book. But for now, they danced, simply content in each other's company.
.
The icy water pulls all the air from his lungs in one breath. Ivan sinks, limbs paralyzed. His body is numb. Darkness clouds his vision. Despair threatens to overwhelm him. He will be lost in the depths.
The sun's rays pierce through the waters. In the recesses of his mind, he hears the lady's words, "Swim to the light, and you will be fine." He forces himself to move. His limbs ache, and his lungs feel as if they will burst, but he continues climbing upwards. As he swims, the light grows larger, brighter. The stabbing cold recedes. The water's warmth spreads through him, urging him on.
He breaks the surface, sputtering, coughing, and gulping large lungfuls of air. A bit of seawater splashes into his mouth, which he quickly spits out. He drifts in the ocean. In the distance, he spies a dazzling white palace situated atop a pebbly beach. Ivan swims to the shore, his clothes and boots threatening to weigh him down. Stumbling out of the surf, he collapses onto the hard rocks, trying to catch his breath. The sun is hot but not unbearable. By the time, he climbs up to the palace, his hair is dry and his clothes are only a little damp.
He has been here before, but his memory is filled with holes. Was it a festival? A ball? Diplomatic negotiations? All three? Touching one of the white stone columns, he shivers.
He finds the princess inside sitting in front of a large painting. She stands when she hears him enter. He bows low. Immediately she rushes to his side.
"None of that, none of that, Vanya" she insists. Strings of pearls dangle from her red kokoshnik and shift with every slight movement of her head. She takes his hands as he rises.
"I am glad you made it."
"It was not easy," he confesses. His eyes fall on the painting she was studying. "That was not here before." Following his gaze, she shakes her head.
"No, it was never here." She gently pulls him to a bench placed in front of it. "Come with me, Vanya." They sit.
The painting is a haunting thing. A tsar, his eyes wild with terror and grief, cradles the body of the son he has just struck down in a fit of rage.
"What do you feel?"
It is hard to articulate the uneasy swell of emotion churning in Ivan's gut. "Horror. Regret. Pity."
"Pity?" she asks. "Me too."
"Why?"
"Because he loved his son, despite what he did. He acted in anger and had to live with the consequences."
"And how does one deal with those consequences? What can withstand the onslaught of evil deed on evil deed?"
She inclines her head, her eyes still fixed on the painting. "Only love." She closes her eyes.
"Give patience, Lord, to us thy children
In these dark, stormy days to bear
The persecution of our people,
The tortures falling to our shore."
He gives her the diamond. Cupping it in her hands, she brings it to her lips and blows on the jewel. It swells into an egg, gilded and covered in red enamel. A clasp Ivan cannot open rests in the center.
"Go to the birch wood. He is waiting for you."
.
He walked through the white colonnade of the former palace, head held high. He was pleased. Negotiations went well, despite the dark looks England's boss kept sending Comrade Stalin. It was a beautiful day. Peace was near. For the first time in years, Russia was excited for the future.
"Hey, Russia!" He turned to see America running up behind him, England close at his heels, a wary expression on his face. He grabbed America's arm and furtively whispered something in his ear. America just shrugged him away.
"I was just wondering, been meaning to ask. That woman who said she was one of your princesses? Is she real?"
Russia glared at him coldly. "I do not know what you are talking about. I have no princesses."
.
"Is this big enough?" Russia asked.
"Perfect." Taking the string, he immediately began twisting it into loops around his fingers. Russia watched, bemused, at the patterns he made.
"Thank you. This will keep me busy for a while." He could get bored so easily. Boredom brought restlessness. Restlessness brought recklessness, something they were desperate to avoid. He glanced out of the window at the soldiers marching by and cast a disdainful look at his knees.
"It's only a little pain today. I should be up and about tomorrow."
"I'll bring you some books," Russia offered.
"Not War and Peace. I'm not ready for that one."
"A book of fairytales?"
He scrunched his nose. "Not anything with a lot of romance."
"The tale of Koschei the Deathless."
Interested, he leaned forward. "How is he deathless?"
"He hid his death in a needle and then put that needle in an egg, which is in a duck inside a hare inside an chest buried under an oak tree on the island of Buyan."
He grinned. "Easy to keep it safe." He fell back against the pillows, his expression suddenly serious.
"Vanya, do you love me?"
"Of course I do."
"I mean, do you love who I am or who I am?"
Russia understood. "I love you for both. You are my friend, and you always will be."
"Is it awkward? When things change? I can't imagine what it would be like getting a new father every twenty years."
"It is not quite like that. But yes, it can be, specially when the change is sudden," he replied honestly. "I'm sure we will be fine when the time comes."
.
Ivan finds him sitting cross-legged on the ground, resting his back against a tall birch tree. He is building a little tower of stones. A lacquered box decorated with a red and gold image of the Firebird rests beside him. Ivan sits across from him.
"What are you doing, Alyosha?"
"All sisters send greetings to you," he tells Ivan. "I am building a little monument for myself in the woods, since no one else will do it. Why are you here, Ivan?"
"I am looking my heart. Do you have it?"
"I do. But do you really want your heart back?"
Ivan frowns. "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"Someone once said, 'It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise'. I understand what he meant, but at the same time, I cannot hold anyone's dreams against him. Are you sure you want this?"
"Yes," Ivan breathes. "Even if it causes me pain. Did that same author not write, 'On our earth we can only love with suffering and through suffering. We cannot love otherwise, and we know of no other sort of love'? I want to be whole again."
Alyosha stretches out his hand. Ivan gives him the egg. With quick fingers, Alyosha solves the riddle of the clasp. The egg pops open, revealing a key. It fits easily inside the box's lock. Slowly, Ivan lifts the lid. Inside is a large golden egg.
"Only love." The princess stands beside him. Quickly, Ivan finds the invisible seal. The egg opens. Inside is a golden hen with ruby eyes.
"The trees are beginning to blossom here now, it's very beautiful." The lady joins her sister. Ivan opens the hen. Inside is a crown.
"My darling beloved, how are you?" He turns to see the maiden watching him, a few cherry blossoms still clinging to her curls. The crown cracks apart, and there is his heart.
"All of us kiss you." With the sunlight streaming through the trees, Ivan sees the imp more clearly now. She is shorter than he thought, but her blue eyes still gleam bright. With trembling hands, he opens his shirt and brings his heart to the great hole in his chest.
"All sisters send greeting to you." Alyosha has risen. He rests his weight on one leg.
His heart slips easily inside his chest. The sudden weight shocks him, sending him doubling over and shuddering until he feels the familiar beat grow steady and calm. He takes a deep breath and looks up at his beloved maiden.
"Mashka." His eyebrows draw together in confusion. "Your dress is red?"
She shakes her head sadly. "No, Vanya, it's white."
No, it's red. It's…Ivan's eyes widen.
And he sees.
He screams. His hands fly to his eyes as hot tears start to flow down his cheeks. "May I be damned! May I be damned!" he cries out.
"Vanya, stop!"
"Please, don't!"
His fingers tear as his eyes until red fills his vision. "May I be damned!"
"Russia, stop!"
He throws his head back and cries, his voice raw. "Lord, forgive me for everything!"
The scent of leather, cigarette smoke, and wood halt his lamentations. He blinks, his eyes whole and dry again, finding himself in a dark-paneled study. There is a desk in front of him with papers and framed photographs covering its surface.
"I'm afraid you frightened the children." Ivan turns. His voice catches in his throat.
"Bat—bat—," he stutters.
"Now, Russia," Nicholas says gently. "You and I both know I have not been batyushka for a very long time." He presses a small glass of vodka in his hands. "Drink. You look like you need it."
Russia downs the vodka quickly. The burn helps ground him a little. He sets the glass on the table. He does not know how to begin. "It's strange, seeing you. I spent so many years hating you." He sighs, taking in the familiar ship-like design of the study. Alexandra, his matushka, lies half-reclined on a sofa he does not remember being there. She says nothing but watches him with sorrowful eyes, her hands clasped tightly in prayer. "I forgot everything else."
"I wonder if it was always going to be like this." Nicholas sets his glass next to Ivan's. "Do you remember when my birthday was?"
"May 6th."
"And do you remember what saint is celebrated on that day?"
Russia does not.
"Job the Long-Suffering," Nicholas answers. Peaceful resignation lines his face. "The world was changing, and I lived in a different era." He shakes his head. "I did not realize what you really needed. Even now, I do not know if I would have been able to give it to you."
His fists clench. His temper burns. "Do you know," he begins through gritted teeth, "do you know what you put me through?"
Nicholas bows his head, penitent. "I am sorry for all the hurt we caused you. Both of us."
Russia lets out a shuddering breath. He wants to collapse to his knees and let the earth swallow him whole. "I loved you," he whispers. "I loved you so much. Until I didn't. They kept me away from you, in case I might feel conflicted. They did not tell me until later, and by then, I did not care."
"I always knew something would happen to me," Nicholas sighs. "But when they told me everyone, I could not believe it." He traces the faces in the photographs with his finger. "'All my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop'."
"'Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and thou set thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down, saith the Lord.'" He does not know if he is talking about Nicholas or himself.
He is tired. They both are. "What do I do?" Nicholas takes his face in his hands. Russia towers over him, but at this moment, he feels like a small child.
"Oh Vanya. Poor Vanya. 'You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again'." He kisses both of Russia's cheeks. "'Life will bring you through'."
.
The empty eye sockets stared back at him. Carefully, he ran his finger along the edges, across the gap where the nose should have been, around the side where a small hole had penetrated the skull. He set it down with the other fragments laid out in the fragile shape of a skeleton.
"Everything all right, Mr. Braginsky?" one of the scientists asked.
"Yes, yes." He was calmer than expected. Russia looked around the room. "Only nine?"
"Yes," the scientist said. "The tsarevich is missing. And the third daughter, Maria."
"Or Anastasia," one of the American scientists interjected.
Russia slipped out unnoticed as the two fell into their worn, useless debate. He had no time for such speculation. He went to the archives. He read the reports. He saw the photograph of the cellar room. He knew.
.
The sun shone bright and hot as he exited the cathedral, the sound of solemn hymns and ringing bells echoing in his ears.
He took a train east. On the way, he read Dostoevsky. Olga Nikolaevna sat on one side of him, her hand in his. Tatiana sat on the other, resting her head on his shoulder.
He left them at the station as he ventured into the forest alone. There he found an upturned grave, a wooden cross placed in the soil. His hands felt awkward, empty. He brought no flowers, no icons. He dropped to his knees in the soft earth.
"Here a cedar
was marked by an axe,
incisions to the root of the bark,
at the root,
under the cedar,
a road,
and under it –
an emperor is buried."
"Sometimes, I wish I could forget again."
"You could," Alexei said from behind him.
"How?" Anastasia asked. "There are monuments now."
Alexei shook his head. "Moments are not memories."
Maria knelt beside him. "Do you want to forget, Vanya?"
He bowed his head. "I do not know," he confessed. It would be so easy, and yet…He turned to her and gazed into her beautiful eyes. "I am too old, and I loved you too much."
.
He still saw them. In the snap of a camera. The laughter of two girls as they strolled down the street arm in arm. The glint of sun on freshly fallen snow. A loose ribbon lying on a table.
Some days were better than others.
Some nights he still woke up screaming, guilt and grief pressing hard onto his chest. On those nights, he locked the gun away and gave the key to his older sister. He avoided the canals and train stations for fear that he would throw himself down.
But Russia did not throw himself down in a canal or the path of an oncoming train. He did not shoot himself.
He lived.
Another story I've been working on for much, much longer than I care to admit! Yes, this is the final version of "Kingdom" that I teased on my profile a few years ago.
Russia's historical flashbacks are early 1914 (Anastasia), 1905 and 1916 (Maria), 1960 (the U-2 incident), 1915 (Tatiana), 1911 (Olga), 1945 (Yalta), 1916 (Alexei), 1991 (identification of the bones), and 1998 (the family's burial).
I admit, I shamelessly stole from Tolstoy's ending of Anna Karenina. "I am too old, and I loved you too much is an tweak of Dostoevsky's "I am too young, and I've loved you too much." from The Brothers Karamazov.
Olga and Russia are looking at Ilya Repin's painting Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on November 16th, 1581.
Is Nicholas a little too self-aware? Probably, but he's had 70+ years (at the time of Russia's dream) to reflect.
A lot of fics focus on Russia's relationship with Anastasia, but he would have been crazy about Maria.
Also, I promise I haven't abandoned "Pro Patria Mori"!