Winter was nearing its end in the Ural Mountains. I have always loved that time of year, that time when winter's grasp begins to loosen on the land and the world seems filled with the hope and possibility of new beginnings.

Cliché? Very much so!

However, I think that it is a cliché because it is true. For me, the hope of new beginnings was as intoxicating as the strongest Russian vodka, especially in this dismal time.

Surely, I dared to think, surely any day the White Army will find us and free us. We could have a respected life again, a comfortable life. I wanted my son to grow up as a boy his age should. No more politics, no more guards, no more intrigue, no more Bolsheviks…

Ah, but I mustn't let my thoughts run wild, I scolded myself. Too much thinking is bad for any person, after all.

I looked at my watch. My family should have boarded the train twenty minutes ago.

The Grand Duchesses were probably taking their time packing, I reasoned. And at their mother's expense, no doubt. I'd be hearing about this all the way to… well, wherever it was they were taking us.

I allowed myself the luxury of a heavy sigh, and on a whim, I reached into my luggage and pulled out my copy of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina.

I opened it to the page I had marked and began to read.

Or, tried to.

Every other paragraph or so, I found my mind wandering away from the words I was reading. I would come to the end of a sentence and I realize I had no idea what just happened. This happens to people rather frequently, I hear, but I had seldom experienced it before. I immediately dismissed it, although I couldn't help but feel that there was something out of place.

Had the air gotten cooler all of a sudden?

"Dobryj' dyen, Nicky."

I dropped my book.

That voice… Cheerful and innocent, yet there was an unmistakable ill will behind it.

"Ivan Braginski," I intoned, keeping my voice level and eyes focused ahead of me. "It's been a while."

"Da, far too long, wouldn't you say, Nicky?"

I was accustomed to that nickname, hearing from my wife it on a daily basis. Coming from him though, it sounded- wrong. Indescribably yet terribly wrong.

I didn't respond.

Ivan put a hand on my shoulder. I slapped it away.

"Oh Nicky, you haven't changed a bit," He chuckled, placing his hand back on my shoulder and squeezing. "Always resistant to Russia's will..."

"Shut up," I hissed back.

He leaned in. I could feel his hot breath on the side of my face. It smelled of vodka.

"The tables have turned now, of course," he continued. "Nicky's life is in Russia's hands now. Poor Nicky is powerless."

I'd heard enough. I turned sharply and swung my fist at him, but he was too fast for me. In one fluid motion, he grabbed my wrist, pinned it behind my back and forced me up against a frigid windowpane.

"Tut tut, Nicky, is that any way to treat me, after all we've been through?" The sweetness of his voice was sickening.

To my disgust, he then reached his free hand around to my shirt. He undid a button and slid his hand inside it. I shivered at his icy touch.

"Hmm, you've aged well, Nicky. Still as strong as I remember you…"

In that, Braginski was not mistaken. The years had been kind to me, even these wretched past few months. In fact, I had probably gotten more exercise in that relatively short time than I had in years.

God, that cold hand on my skin… it haunts me to this day. It felt so unnatural. So wrong.

Finally, he withdrew his hand and released my wrist. Seeing my window of opportunity, I lashed out once again, hoping to catch him by surprise. This time, though, Ivan did not hold back. He delivered a powerful blow with his fist to my groin, and then picked me up by the neck.

"The Czar just doesn't realise he is no longer a Czar," Braginski mused, a catty smile appearing on his face. "He still wants to think he holds power. He wants to dominate Russia like he did once. Those days are over, little Nicky."

He pulled me in close, his face only a few centimetres away from my own.

"My sisters and I suffered at your hands. We starved, we froze, we were beaten for trying to take some flour. You don't even know what we went through. Even the life you have now is miles away from the life of one of your poor peasants."

Again, I didn't respond. How could I? This was all too much.

He spat in my face.

"Oh, but it's not Nicky's fault, is it?"

I sneered at him with all the venom I could muster.

He spat in my face again.

"He was just too stupid to realise what was going on. He never knew what his family had done all those years to poor Russia…"

Braginski began to unbutton his coat. I saw that his shirt was already unbuttoned, as if he had been prepared for this, eager to create some sort of dramatic effect.

I cringed at the ugly scars that ran across his chest, and suddenly felt incredibly ashamed at myself, my family. It was a feeling that I had been experiencing quite often in the past few months, I realised.

One of the scars stood out among the others. It was an ugly one, the scar tissue still very fresh. I recognised it immediately.

That was the scar I gave to him.

"Ivan, you can't hold me responsible for that! It was a mistake, I was careless!"

Oh, don't insult me, Nicky, you know we're both smarter than that." He replied. "One can not afford to be careless when responsible for millions of lives."

When I didn't respond, he drew a pistol from God-knows-where and brought it to my skull.

"No matter, I suppose. Many before you have escaped justice, but you will not," He giggled like a madman. "I've waited for this a long time, you know."

"Please, Ivan," I choked. "Be reasonable. What do you stand to gain by killing me? Isn't it enough that you've taken all but my life and my family?"

To this day, I do not know how I managed to maintain my composure. Perhaps facing death had become far too regular an occurrence.

We stood there, he and I, eyes locked for an eternity and a day before he finally lowered the pistol.

"No, you're a waste of a bullet," He decided. "Mark me though, you'll be brought to justice soon enough. That is a promise, Nicky."
And with an unnerving giggle, he dropped me on the floor, and turned to leave. I watched him exit, scarcely daring to believe that any of what had just happened had indeed happened. How long had he been there? Thirty minutes? An hour? I glanced at the clock.

Six minutes.

I heaved a sigh, glad the ordeal was over. Braginski's warning still rang in my ears, however.

I stood to look out the window again. The scene outside was much the same as it was earlier. But now, rather than offering new hope, the thaw seemed to be mocking me. As if to say, look, all the world is being renewed, leaving you behind. You will die and fade away, and the universe will hurtle forward without you.

I could not shake the feeling of dread from my shoulders. I knew not what awaited us in Yekaterinburg, but whatever it was, I could no longer find any reason to be joyful. It was as if Ivan Braginski's very presence had managed to kill all the hope left in my world.