Ivan stood at the bottom of the stairs, the cellar laid out before him, as he looked upon the tragic scene. All of the surfaces were glazed in the now cold and coagulated blood of the Romanov family. The bodies had already been cleared away, buried somewhere in the forest near Yekaterinburg but the proof of the monstrosities were embedded with the bullets in the underground room of the imperial family's safe house. Ivan walked further into the cellar; his boots kicking around bullet casings, composing a warped chime, before collapsing to his knees once he reached the furthest wall. Hand running over the creators that were created by a storm of ammunition, Ivan looked to the ceiling, a single tear rolling down his cheek. In a flash of anger, he pounded the side of his fist on the wall, cement crumbling to the floor. Wiping his face with the back of his gloved hand, Ivan leaned back, feeling like he needed to forget.
Ivan desperately wanted to forget it all.
Fumbling, Ivan pulled a flask from his coat and took a greedy gulp. He choked on the vodka, his throat housing an inferno. Wincing, Ivan noticed how his once favored drink now left a bitter taste in his mouth, resembling the taste of blood. The blood of the Russians that died in battles he foolishly believed they could win; the blood of the families that starved to death from the food shortages he caused; the blood of the Romanov's, who were used as scapegoats for the murderers' anger that should have been directed at him. "Why?" Ivan cried out, "Why must Russia suffer so?"
"Russia has suffered for a long time now," a soft voice agreed somberly from the darkness.
"I only want to make Russia great!" Ivan buried his face in his palms, his voice tight. "Why is it that my country only feels pain from my efforts?" Suddenly, Ivan felt a light pressure on his shoulder, startling him. Looking up, he met vivid pools of mauve that seemed to shine through the gloom. Despite their cool color, they emanated an unexpected warmth that melted the chill that had been steadily creeping into Ivan's heart. "W-Who are you?" Ivan breathed, taking in the being beside him. It was a man, no older than twenty, in a simple suit with wire framed glasses. His fair blond hair parted down the middle with a stray curl sticking out to the left. This person was overall handsome with humble attire; however he was shouldering something unnaturally grandiose: a set of large, white wings. As Ivan gawked, the angel gave him a sad but knowing smile. Ivan swallowed hard, "Am I dead…?"
"You might as well be if you give up here," the angel stood gracefully, unaffected by the bulk of his wings.
"Who are you?" Ivan asked again, looking up at the man with wide eyes.
"My name's Matthew," the angel extended a hand to the fallen Ivan, "I'm here to help you."
Hesitant, Ivan looked at the hand and frowned, "Help me how? Russia is dying and it's my fault!"
"Russia is a strong country and will be able to heal from this over time," Matthew bobbed his expectant hand, reminding Ivan of his offer. "The one I'm worried about is you."
Taking the man's hand, Russia got to his feet with the aid of the angel, "Will Russia truly heal?"
"Yes, and with my help, you will heal as well."
"How will you be able to help me, Matvey?" Ivan gestured to the horrific scene surrounding them. "Russia is in a miserable state and it's only getting worse."
Placing a hand on the taller man's shoulder, Matthew's lips curved into a knowing half-smile, "I have some words of wisdom for you, Ivan." Leaning in, Matthew's breath tickled Ivan's neck, "'He that is afraid of bad luck will never know good.'"
"What are you saying?" Ivan jerked, startled by the common Russian proverb.
"I'm saying that if you only cower in a corner and regret the bad times," Matthew started to walk then, pulling Ivan towards the stairs, "You will never have any good times!"
"Where are you taking me?" Ivan slowed his pace, unsure, but the angel kept Ivan's feet moving whether he willed them to or not.
Matthew smiled brightly, "To go have some good times."