This fanfic was made to take part in a quite weird challenge. Firstly, I didn't think I would be able to do it. I had to write a one-shot with one of Marvel's characters (obviously I chose Loki) set in 1917 (The Russian Revolution).
However, I just happened to read "Nicholas and Alexandra" by Robert K. Massie, and that book talks precisely about it, about the last Tsar of Russia and the Russian Revolution of 1917. Therefore, between the book and Wikipedia, I managed to complete this short fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it.
When the bomb went off, the scream was unanimous. The guard of Tsárskoye Seló, the residence of the Russian royal family, charged down the street full of agitators. People neither knew who had thrown that bomb nor why. If they had been the terrorists, there was no reason, because there was none of Romanov family, none with political power. And if it had been the imperial guard... well, in that case things got bad.
Until then, the guard had not made use of that kind of violence, and if now they started to use it, the riots would be quickly suppressed, even if the rebels' hate against the Tsar's governing increased.
A Russian young man with hair dark as the night, pale skin, elegant clothing and distinguished demeanour did not move when all the people started screaming and running. There were dead bodies on the pavement, but none of them was someone he cared about. He was part of the anarchists, and he was one of the few ones that knew that the terrorists were not the ones who had thrown the bomb. Therefore, there was only one option: it had been the Tsar's guard that was invading the street at that moment.
His mouth twisted in a dismissive gesture. Then another bomb exploded.
The explosion destroyed part of a building on the other side of the street, a ballet studio, occupied at that moment by teenage dancing girls.
Amongst the people's screams, the voice of that young Russian who stood on the other side of the street stood out.
"Dariya!"
The dancing girls scattered in all directions, jumping over the rubble, still wearing point shoes. The young man was standing in a strained position, as if he was ready to run at any time, while his emerald-green eyes ran over the groups of girls who escaped from the disaster.
"Dariya!" He called again, but she did not go out with her fellow dancers. He looked for her red hair amongst the teenage heads, but that colour was absent.
The ballet teacher came out, and Dariya still did not appear.
A strangulated sound escaped from the young man's throat as he ran towards the building in ruins, quick as a lightning. He pushed away the people, inconsiderately, with only one certain thought:
Please, let her be alive. Please, do not let anything bad happen to her.
Nobody went into the building with him. Nobody had a loved one trapped inside it.
When he crossed the rubble heap, the shouts of the people fell silent behind the obstacle, and the silence was a hundred times worse than the shouts. Somewhere he heard water drops seeping out, and the sound of his steps was too loud for his liking. A wire that stuck out ripped one of his suit's sleeves, but he did not care.
Then, somewhere, he heard a sob followed by a moan.
"Dasha?" He exclaimed, and his voice cracked absurdly on the second syllable. Dasha would make fun for weeks of that slip of the tongue, if she had heard it.
"Loki—"
The girl's voice sounded stifled, as if she had the mouth full of water. Or blood. Loki removed that thought from his mind. He tried to locate Dariya, but there were obstructions everywhere.
"Where are you?" Again. His voice had been off pitch again. Dasha would not leave him in peace for months with that taunt.
But Dariya did not answer.
"Where are you?" That time he almost shouted it.
No answer.
"Dasha?"
Nothing.
"Dariya?"
Water drops falling.
"Dasha!"
The same deathly silence.
He ran over and under the rubble, going somewhere, calling her.
"Dasha! Dasha! Dariya! Where are you!?"
He kicked a stone and he hurt his foot. But he did not care.
He banged his forehead on the edge of a stone beam, and soon he felt the hot blood drops running down his cheekbone. But he did not care.
He shouted so loud and so long that his voice cracked and his throat started to burn unbearably. But he did not care.
Then he saw her.
Her blue eyes were crystallised, staring at him. Her hair, red as fire, was out of place in the deathly grey around her. One of her hands was outstretched, waiting for a help that came too late. Her ballet suit gave an innocent and macabre touch to the desolated scene.
But the worst thing was the blood. Blood on her lips, blood on her hands, blood on her chest, blood everywhere.
Loki fell on his knees and caressed her cheek. His fingers dyed scarlet.
For a moment he stayed, silent, incapable of linking the words together. Then a whisper made his way between his lips.
"The Tsar is the one to blame."
Louder.
"The Tsar is the one to blame!"
The next time he shouted it.
"THE TSAR IS THE ONE TO BLAME!"
His fingers traced a crimson letter onto his own forehead with Dariya's blood. The letter A, surrounded by a circle, the anarchist symbol. He clenched his fists and looked up, making Heaven witness of his accusation.
"The Tsar is the one to blame!"
It was a mad shout, but the lucidity had just vanished off his mind. He roared, like an animal. He kissed Dasha's red lips one last time, almost savagely, and he ran out that deathly place.
He killed a guard and took his gun. Anyway, he did not care anymore.
He knew where the Tsar would be that day.
People cleared him a path. He was intimidating, with that mad look on his eyes and the gun raised.
The car approached down the street. It stopped and the door opened. When the Tsar came out, Loki shot him.
He hit the target, right in the heart. His madness did not hinder his aim.
They grabbed him from behind and snatched his gun. The imperial guard.
Another person went out of the car. The Tsar. Confused, Loki looked down. He had not shot at the Tsar. The prime minister had come out first.
He felt enraged. He had failed Dasha.
"The Tsar is the one to blame!" He yelled.
They took him away. Far away from the people, they tied him to a wooden-post full of scratches. When they tried to blindfold him, he frowned with such a murderous expression that they did not dare do it
He was going to die with his head held high, looking into the Death's eyes like a man.
"Ready—Aim—"
He raised his chin.
The Tsar is the one to blame.
"Fire!"
To give a bit more of information, there are some items:
- Tsar Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov and Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova's only son, Alexis Nikolaevich Romanov, was haemophiliac.
- People didn't like the Tsarina because she seemed to treat them dismissively, although it was only that she was worried about his son's disease.
- Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, a Russian peasant and mystical faith healer, was accused of being a German spy and having political influence on the Tsarina, who had German bloodline, on her ministerial nominations while the Tsar was in the war. This fact was disastrous for the tsarist system's presence.
- The Tsar was forced to abdicate (1917), and the next year (1918), he and all his family were executed by firearm while travelling by car.
Well, that's all, and I hope you liked it, or at least that you were interested on it.
I wait for your comments and opinions.
Kisses!