The Bard really tries to write funny things. He/she doesn't care for angst or tragedy in the least, and tries to fit in at least "dark" humour in even the most dramatic pieces. Unfortunately for me (and the treasured reader), this sad little plot bunny settled in the chest cavity that contains the cardiac muscle and refused to leave until this was written. Forgive me.
"Toris, we should not be here!" Lithuania's shaking hand finally pushed the key into the front door of one Ivan Braginski's house. "Mr. Russia specifically 'granted' us the day off."
"I know, Eduard, but he asked me to return a few books to the library, and if they're overdue..." He let his words trail off as he pushed the front door open. "Mr. Russia?" he called out.
"He must have left right after we did." Latvia peered around Estonia and Lithuania. "Let's just get these books and leave." The other two nodded and cautiously entered the house.
"I know exactly where they are, just give me one sec." Lithuania scampered off. Estonia and Latvia loitered by the door impatiently, not even daring to flip a light switch. As Lithuania came jogging back with a massive pile of books in his arms, he suddenly tripped, the books flying everywhere as he face-planted.
"Toris!" the other two cried in unison, rushing to his side.
"What was that?" Lithuania groaned, rubbing his face. Estonia, ever the eagle-eyed, spied a glint in the dim light of the room.
"What is this?" he mused. Feeling in the semi-dark, he touched something cold. Taking it in his grasp, he pulled the object into the light. It was Ivan's pipe. "If he left, why didn't he bring this?"
~Scene jump brought to you by Ra-Ra-Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine~
No, Ivan hadn't brought his "magic cane". She never liked it. Sure, she liked magic, but she seemed to see the dark and questionable stains no matter how many times or how diligently Ivan cleaned it. He hadn't brought his Soviet coat either. He figured she wouldn't like it, the example of how bleak the world had become. He wanted nothing more than to make her days as bright as possible.
No, Ivan Braginski had dressed in the way that she always loved, that made her smile that wide, proud smile. He had dressed in his Imperial Russia finery, almost as white as the snow, slightly yellowed to a light cream with time, complete with a shimmering sashes and medals, and gold epaulettes. He still wore his beige scarf; she always wondered at how soft it was, would wrap herself in the long tails that fell behind Ivan, and let herself be lead about like that. Ukraine offered to make her one as well, but she insisted that Ivan's scarf was infused with love, so Ukraine could never make another quite like it. The last touch to his ensemble was, of course, a solitary sunflower that he hugged against his chest so as to shield it from the cold that swirled through the air around him. Those were her favourite flower as well, the common preference that led to the two of them meeting in a field of sunflowers. She often said that they reminded her of the sun during an eclipse.
Ivan continued reminiscing like this as he strolled down the secret path that would lead him to her. Every year he took this same path, in the same manner. He told no one what he was doing or where he was going. The harsh wind on this cloudy evening whipped the snow across his face and made his scarf fly wildly behind him. He didn't mind; he was used to the cold now, and he relished, no, thrived in it. He simply smiled and hummed a song of the pechka, and that was all of the warmth he needed to carry on with his journey.
The black, bare, frost-dusted trees grew thicker on each side of his path as he drew nearer to his destination. Ivan continued reliving his memories. Subconsciously, his feet began swaying as he remembered the grand balls she would accompany him to, the galas and parties. He, dressed in his finery much as we was today; she, always draped in gowns of the brightest golds, as though she were a sun to the cold Russian countryside, or gowns of glittering silver, as though she could slip into that same countryside and dance as the snow did among the stars. Oh, how she and Ivan would waltz and sway throughout those evenings! But there were also the quiet times. Some stolen lunches in the greenhouse, among the sunflowers and various flowers of the tropics that her family's wealth could procure. Ice skating, during which he would constantly catch her as she stumbled across the frozen ponds, both of them laughing. There were the silent sleigh rides through the frozen plains, both of them close enough to not only share the soft furs piled on top of them, but body heat as well as they leant on each other, her head resting upon his shoulder, their fingers gently intertwined.
Ivan's long trek was finally coming to a close. The narrowing path suddenly split into a clearing that, despite the howling wind and biting snow just outside of the line of trees, was inexplicably and completely still. In the middle of the clearing stood an ornate brass vase, in which was a single withered and frozen sunflower. Remnants of the previous year. Ivan plucked the dead plant from the vase and replaced it with the vibrant one he had brought all this way. He tossed the worn flower into the surrounding wood. Returning to the vase, Ivan stilled, as though he had finally succumbed to the harsh cold and let it freeze him over. This was where she had confessed to him. Where he had finally, finally, after all of the fighting, all of the abuse, all of the hurt and pain and suffering, had finally found love. He remembered how she had taken his gloved hand into her own. How she had raised herself on tiptoe and yanked his two-meter height down by the scarf to kiss him right on the shocked and flushed cheek.
"Russia, I am and always have been one with you. To you, Ivan, I will always be true; to no one else. Ya tebya lyublyu."
The next day had been the start of the February Revolution of 1917.
A solitary hot tear rolled down Ivan's face. He knelt down on one knee. As he did so, another tear dripped from his chin, melting the snow at the base of the vase and revealing a golden dot of brass. Tears flowing freely now, Ivan slowly pushed aside the snow at his foot, as he did every year. A plaque was revealed in the retreating daylight. There, he read, as he did every year, two words: Anastasia Romanova.
Then, as he did every year, Ivan Braginski wept.
"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu."
A/N: For those who don't know, the entire Romanov family was slaughtered by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Yes, including Anastasia Nikolaevna. The woman who later claimed to have been the lost Grand Duchess was just a nutter. Anastasia died only seventeen years old, and though enough of her DNA and evidence has been recovered to conclusively prove that she perished with the rest of her family, no one knows where she is "officially" laid to rest.
Update: Oh, my, this is embarrassing. I've been meaning to correct the historical inaccuracies in this story for a few weeks, then I check my stats today to find that a few Russians have read it. The Bard apologizes to them for his/her astounding laziness. I'm so embarrassed. But I hope that we can put this behind us.