Ivan's last letter to his ruler, Catherine the Great.
Dear Catherine,
I once thought that writing letters to you would sate the growing beast inside of me. Sate it for awhile, as I poured my heart and thoughts, my visions and hopes, into those meager pieces of paper; paper that held no substantial power except to convey to you how desperate and pitiful the me was then. I thought that, even though you had passed away - moved on into a world, a time and place, where even I could not follow - you would still be there to receive me with your warm smile and soft laughter. That you would, as you always did, soothe me with your words and the arts those words lavished upon, the poetic and melodic wonderland that only existed in the vague glimpses you showed me. I thought that, in time, everything would fall into place as the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle did, and when I came to your chambers that cold, November morning, your pale body the only visible proof that you had once existed - once breathed and laughed and danced with the country that continued to change under your reign and even centuries after - I refused to acknowledge how broken, how misshapen and lost, the most vital pieces of that puzzle were.
I do admit, I was surprised at my fall back to reality. I never realized how brief, how easily, humans lives ended. It can be crushed as easily as a leaf, as easily as stepping on an intangible ant on the ground - or as easily as putting a bullet through a person's body. And when a vein is ruptured, when an organ is pierced, and a heart ceases to beat, the blood that pours out is an endless, murky array of water. Water that has no right to exist, water that has no right to stream out of those tainted bodies; bodies that were once living, talking, smiling at the thought of tomorrow and its future...but are now dead.
I have always been afraid of seeing that water. When I reach down to touch it, to collect its crimson liquid drops in my hands, I am always so shocked to discover how eagerly it sticks to me. It clings to my skin, as though wishing to enter my very body, to supply this cold, inert vessel with its warm and pulsing life. But, the thing is, Catherine, it ceases to be warm once I have touched it. This blood, that escapes so animatedly from an opened wound, loses life as soon as it touches the air. And you may be thinking, "Life? Blood is not a living thing. It does not have the right to be deemed 'living' or 'nonliving'." But - it does. How can humans have this liquid, this unlimited supply of life, flowing in them, that allows them to live, allows them to breathe and smile and laugh and love and cherish and hope and wish, and not realize that this itself is also living? How is it that humans, who are blessed with this beautiful gift, are so very ignorant of it? Blood, which I continue to see everyday of my life. Blood, which I have shed, and which I have made others shed. Blood, which will always, always be a part of me. But - my blood is not the blood of a human.
And how I wish it was.
Then I could be like you. I could be like your people, the people around you, the people living in this country, in other countries, and the world. I would be able to make friends, people who wished to talk to me because they like me, not because they need what my leader can supply to them. I would be able to smile as you once smiled, with a laugh that accompanied many joyful things, many past memories of childhood oblivion and happiness, and not feel the cold emptiness that trails behind me every time I open my eyes and see nothing but a vast, barren field of snow - and the knowledge that I am alone, and will continue to be alone for reminder of my immortal life.
I look back now. See the many years I have spent in your majestic, beautiful presence, and I realize how jealous I was of your vitality. How could it be that a woman like yourself, thrust into a hectic, frenzied life full of death and war, still be able to retain such dazzling grace and optimism after all the things you've witnessed? How could you still laugh and dance and chase after the things you yearned for, the things you wished to attain, keep, and cherish, when all around you was nothing worth cherishing at all?
Now, as I sit here bathing in the dark candlelight of my office, I can finally say how much I admired your courage, how easily I submitted to your strength, and how I undeniably, idiotically, fell in love with your life. You, who treated me not as though you owned me and my people, but like the special, unique human beings - or in my case, country - we are, deserve so much more the sacks of letters I have sent you, and the pleads of a dead man wishing for his beloved ruler back. I once thought that my memories of you, the things I wrote to you when I arrived home to a cold and empty house, was enough to sate the beast ravaging me inside. I once thought that the vital puzzle pieces that would complete my life, the life of Russia, were lost when I lost you. I thought that nothing would ever go right after your death, and even more so after Nicholas' and my beloved Romanovs' deaths. Who let you all, I said to myself, die like that? Who let you all leave me alone, to suffer through things, through wars and revolts and revolutions, I never wished to witness or experience at all?
Why couldn't you all be immortal like me? Then we could laugh, and play games, and have fun, and never ever be alone again. We would have each other, and it would be enough.
- Ivan Braginski, 1991
~.
The story before:
Of course, we can all easily say how much Catherine the Great meant to Ivan, in real life and even in the made-up fictitious world. She was perhaps the greatest ruler of Russia (or one of the greatest) and the people of Russia grew to love her, and in turn so did Ivan, Russia himself. When she died, he was very upset. She, unlike some of the many rulers before and after, bathed in the fine arts, promoted wonderful ideals and expanded the horizon of her country. She bettered Russia, bettered Ivan, and for that, he cherished her. He wasn't truly devastated by the loss of her quite until the Bloody Sunday incident, and then the death of Nicholas II, and the Romanov children, which he grew to love also. When the Bolshevik revolution occurred and Ivan had to shift himself into a whole new government, leadership, and communist ideal that he wasn't especially keen on, he began to wilt. The other countries that he was once close allies with, especially America, grew to hate him, becoming wary of him even before the establishment of communism in 1917 and the Cold War. Before he had been friendless, now he was utterly alone. Without a leader who cared about him (Lenin and then Stalin barely gave a shit about him or his people), and without any countries on his side (they had never really liked him in the first place), Ivan gradually retreated into himself, and began writing letters to his deceased ruler Catherine. He used this as a means to express his tormented thoughts, to try to keep his mind sane during the years of World War I and II, the Cold War, and many more political changes in his life. However, after 1991, with the fall of the Soviet Union and communism, Ivan finally decided that he needed to stop dwelling in the past, and wrote one last letter (above) to Catherine.
~.
A/N:
Well. This is all made-up, ofc :'D The story before, and the letter, though all the history in it is true. No, I am NOT sure if Ivan considered Catherine the Great as his favorite ruler, but based on actual history and other fanfics I've seen, I believe she has a large place in his heart. There's not much else I want to say about this fic, except that most of Ivan's words above reflect some of my feelings right now, and the pain and hardship he must have gone through; the pain no one else seem to realize.
And the contrasting way Ivan said in his letter, that he wished to be human like Catherine so that he could feel and experience 'many joyful things', and then how he wished that Catherine and the Romanovs could have been immortal like him so they would 'never ever be alone again', shows you how great the state of confusion his mind was in when he wrote it. So no, it wasn't a mistake how crazily and weird I wrote that letter XD"
If anyone stumbled upon this, thank you for taking time to read this kinda historical, random fanfic. o: It's much appreciated!