1917

Russia did not spare a glance at man on the floor, crumbled and weeping. Nicholas meant nothing to him anymore, hadn't in years. Abdicating the throne only cemented the fact; and now he no longer had to pretend.

He moved out of the room, ignoring officials, nobles, and anyone that tried to stop him, not that many did. Everyone was either stunned into stillness or frantically trying to figure out what to do next. Russia didn't have the answers; he would wait for others to sort out their mess. For now he wished to go somewhere quiet, to change his bandages where the blood had soaked through, and to try and rest his aching body and soul.

Soon he stood in the massive doorway of the palace, pondering where he should make his home for the night. A blizzard was brewing; the snowflakes swirling through the air with increasing urgency, and dark clouds building in the distance. Staying in Petrograd, with its fierce anger and shrieking panic, did not appeal to him. Some place in the country would do better, but he would not get there before the storm swallowed him. Not that it mattered, he thought as he made his way out. Why would the cold affect him when he was almost ice himself?

Yes, almost ice…

Her eyes were like hot coals on his back, and when he felt them he stopped. Turning, he saw his darling, shivering in the doorway, tear tracks on her face. Nicholas no longer had any claim on him, but his youngest daughter still, and probably always would, have a tight and controlling hold on everything Ivan was. It was for that reason that he stepped forward and opened his arms. Anastasia stumbled out into the cold and his embrace, burying her face against his chest, and, just like that, sparking his heart, the only piece of him that wasn't frozen.

"I'm scared," she whimpered.

Russia didn't reply, only held his treasure tight.

He couldn't bear to think of what was to become of her.

1918

"They are being moved for their safety," a gruff, uniformed man informed him, "We would not wish for them to fall into the wrong hands, you see."

Russia considered telling this stranger that he doesn't need to be lied to. He is here, knowing full well that it is a test by his superior to see if he has any leftover loyalty to Nicholas. They need not have worried, Russia is tied to his people, and like them he despises the old Tsar. For the past two days he has had to listen to the man's whispered and desperate pleas, as if he thinks the guards aren't aware, as if he thinks Russia will listen, as if the nation would even care. Those in charge are pleased that Russia shows nothing but annoyance at the Romanov, and he takes cruel pleasure when he informs Nicholas that England didn't want him, even if he did escape he would have nowhere to go but to the hands of his neglected people.

He was set to leave that night, and thankful for it, when the head guard informed him that Nicholas's remaining children were to arrive soon. For a moment his new permanent, cruel smile twitched, before he stubbornly suppressed any thoughts that might compromise the protective chill he had fashioned for himself. Now he stood there outside the house, still with the head guard at his side, when an automobile pulled up. Only half-listening to the man's lies about this being for the former royals' protection, he watched as the door opened. In turn the guard watched his reaction as Alexi was carried out.

That explained why he was being delayed, it was not enough that he showed no loyalty to Nicholas, now they wanted to test the heir. Russia was sure he did not disappoint, he barely glanced as the boy was carried past. He'd never held much affection for the sickly child, and now he felt nothing, not even pity, even as Alexi looked at him with hope as he was brought into the house.

"May I leave now," he latched his eyes on the guard, not allowing his eyes or thoughts to stray to whom else was unloading from the car. Despite his efforts he could feel his pulse quicken and dread pool in his stomach.

The man was opening his mouth to answer when a small gasp broke through the night. Immediately, and instinctively, Russia's gaze ripped away from the guard's face and straight to the source of the gasp. She was halfway out of the car, but frozen in shock at the sight of him, an expression of disbelief etched on her face. A guard barked at her to keep moving and she did so, clumsily standing without taking her eyes off of the nation.

"Anastasia," Russia whispered, beginning to tremble.

"Ivan," she breathed, "Ivan!"

Two guards grabbed her when she attempted to rush at him, but she barely noticed, eyes still moving hungrily over the nation's face. Russia stood stock still, terrified to move in case the control he had worked so hard to cultivate was destroyed, terrified to blink in case he missed one more second of seeing the most beloved person he had ever known.

The head guard snapped at the other two to take Anastasia inside, obeying orders they started to drag the young woman away. Russia watched, still dumbstruck, until he realized Anastasia was crying out to him.

"Ivan," tears were rolling down her face, "Did you? Please just tell me, please!"

Quite suddenly the country barked at the men to stop, and they did so quickly, still holding Anastasia tightly, but frightened by the strength in this strange man's voice. Russia walked forward, and, as he had done so many times before, knelt down so he could stare into his darling's eyes. Tears were leaking from the corners, but she stared back at her old friend as boldly and stubborn as ever, demanding an answer to the question Russia had not heard.

"Forgive me," he murmured gently, "What did you ask, Malenkaya?"

It was a terrible idea, being this close to her.

"I- I," she stammered through her tears, "I want- I want to know if you got m-my letter."

No one but her had ever been able to chase away the coldness so effectively, and, at the sight of her, at her question, the tiny, stubborn flame in his heart, the one she had lit, that belonged to her, flared to an inferno. The ice he had so carefully armed himself with melted so suddenly it pained him.

Her letter.

She'd written it to him the day she was first put under house arrest, and later a servant had managed to smuggle it out. It took months to reach him, and once it did…he read it once, twice, three times before burning it. That was when he first began to welcome the cruel frigidness that would protect him and his sanity from what he was being asked to go through, and he did his best to put all thoughts of the Grand Duchess and her letter out of his mind.

She'd confessed that she loved him.

Anastasia may have been young, she'd written, but she knew her heart, and she knew it had belonged to him for as long as she could remember. She was filled with worry for her family and their future, she wrote, but the possibility of never seeing him again made her weep. The thought of him not knowing how she felt was now unbearable, and so she had to write him, had to tell him, in case they never saw each other again…

"I did," Russia's voice cracks when he answers, "I did receive it."

When had she grown up, he wonders? When had that tiny little baby that he'd held so carefully turned into this beautiful young woman?

"I meant it," she cried, "I did, Ivan. I love you." Her words caught on a sob, "I love you so much." She was struggling with the guards but they still held her back, unsure what else to do.

Tears were still rolling down her face, he noted somewhere in his mind. That was so very wrong, Russia had always been the one to make the tears go away, he was not supposed to be the cause of his little one's pain. So he lifted a massive hand and gently brushed away the moisture with his fingertips. Anastasia closed her eyes at the contact, a broken sound falling from her mouth.

How could Russia have done this to her? How could she have done this to herself?

"I do too, Malenkaya," he whispered, words floating softly in the crisp air.

Anastasia's eyes snapped back open, her gaze locking on his with a clear question.

"I love you too," he said softly.

The words felt magnificently light and unbearably heavy, and the world had suddenly slid to a stop.

"I always have, I always will. Until the very end of my days, and even after that, I will love you."

Russia leaned forward, then, and placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

The moment his lips touched her skin his heart seemed to be devoured by flames, never having been warmer, not even on the day she had first quieted in his arms. He lingered for a moment, before drawing back slowly with a lone tear sliding down his cheek, so very regretful that was to be their first, last, and only kiss. Anastasia stood still, her mouth now opened in a surprised little o, shock scrawled across her face, but the beginnings of hope glinting in her eyes.

"I love you Anastasia," he whispered one final time.

His darling's expression lit up with joy, the smile that stretched her lips was genuine, and her eyes sparkled brightly with delight and love.

So, so beautiful it hurt for Russia to even look at her.

"Take her away," the head guard, forgotten until now, snarled suddenly, sounding very displeased.

Even as she was dragged to the house Anastasia's happiness did not fade. She kept her sight locked on beloved friend, and only at the last moment possible did she call out to him.

"I'll wait for you, Ivan! I promise!"

As her words made him fall to his knees, Russia had one last sight of the grand duchess before she was pulled into her new prison.

She had still been smiling.

He held on to that thought as he knelt on the ground, a great country brought to his knees by a young woman, unnoticed tears falling from his face and onto the snow.

At least he had been able to make her smile one last time.

July 17, 1918

It was very late. He was sitting on his bed after another long day, taking off his boots, an empty-minded, common task, when he felt it.

That tiny flame in his heart died out.

His sanity shattered as the ice reclaimed him.

ooo

A/N: Interpret as you wish.

Special thanks to SMARTGIRL1021 and LynnSFair for reviewing the last chapter. It means a lot to me.

Historical Notes

-After the incompetence of Nicholas II lead Russia into a collapse during World War 1 he was forced to abdicate on March 15th, 1917.

-A political struggled followed for power over Russia, one that would eventually lead to the rise of the Soviet Union.

-The Romanov family was imprisoned for their 'protection'. Nicholas wished to go into exile in the U.K. or France but neither agreed to accept them. As the Bolsheviks gained power the conditions of their imprisonment became stricter.

-Anastasia, as well as her siblings Olga, Tatiana, and Alexi, had been originally been separated from her parents and her sister Maria but were reunited in 1918.

-Anastasia Romanov was executed, along with the rest of her family, on July 17, 1918. There have long been rumors of her possible survival, however, DNA shows that she was killed in 1918.

I have one more chapter left, hopefully to be published in a week.

Thank you so much for reading!

Nicole