September 9, 1918

Weiss would grudgingly admit that she had been a pompous, pampered heiress for most of her life living in a luxurious mansion fitted with state of the art technology and a host of devoted servants at her personal beck and call. Beacon changed all that. Saint Petersburg broke everything down. Yekaterinburg shook her awake. And Arkhangelsk thrust upon her a new line of work she never thought she would actually consider herself doing.

"Hey, lady! A little help over here!"

"Coming!" Weiss replied, rolling up her sleeves and smoothing out her apron then dashed across the ward to assist the orderlies in hauling in another casualty of war.

"That bed over there!" the young man ordered.

"Got it."

If there was anything the white-haired girl was proficient at other than being a Huntress, it was basic first aid and home care. Klein's insistent lessons were paying off immensely. How ironic that she was the servant now.

Shortly after tucking in the latest victim of a Red Army ambush, volunteer orderly Weiss Schnee went outside to collect a basin of water and a towel to clean up the dried blood and grime still sticking to the patient's skin. As she turned, her gaze settled at the adjacent ward where on the bed in the far corner lay Forked Lightning comatose and wrapped in sheets of gauze.

Aura exhaustion could prove fatal, her brain reminded her. Crimson blotches seeped through his bandages; he needed changing. She was about to walk in when she heard the orderly bark at her from the other room.

"Excuse me, miss! Over here. Patient's in here."

"Sorry." Weiss mentally berated herself, holding a final glance at Jaune's still form, before walking briskly back.

The orderly appeared sympathetic. "Look, your fiancé's fine."

"He's not—"

"You don't have to argue. He saved your life—I don't know how. Maybe he really is a miracle-worker. Experiences like those tend to start something, right?"

The former heiress scowled at him. "He's my friend. I care for him."

He raised up his hands. "Fine, fine. Just, please, help me out with this guy over here, okay? No getting distracted, alright? Hell, it was the same when I volunteered for this but could you at least keep your head in order?"

Weiss grit her teeth at the rebuke. Her co-worker was right. She signed up for this. Breathing deep, she focused the best she could on her duties at Arkhangelsk's only operating hospital.

"Isha."

She jolted awake to Anastasia retracting her hand from her shoulder. "Anya? What are you doing here?"

"Helping out," the grand duchess answered, donning her own apron. "How long were you asleep?"

"I...don't know. What time is it?"

"You need to rest. You have worked enough hours."

"No, I—"

"Isha. We can take care of Jaune, too," Anya said. "We helped to care for our own wounded soldiers before. We know what we are doing."

Weiss opened her mouth to protest only to be shushed by an arriving Olga. "That would be enough work for you, Isha," the older Romanov mockingly scolded. "Unless you want to be a patient yourself. Treating your fatigue is not easy."

The former heiress frowned. "At least tell me what time is it?"

"Just passed noon."

"You should rest," insisted Olga. "The others told me you worked through the night. Don't tell me your own Aura can preserve you for that long."

It would not, she did not admit. "I've worked this much before."

"And you need to sleep. Have you even eaten?"

"Early lunch. Bread and cabbage soup."

"Isha," Anya interjected rather forcefully. "Sit down and rest."

The white-haired girl opened her mouth to argue only to receive a rather heavy glare from the youngest grand duchess. Sighing, she sunk into her chair in the staff break room. "Fine. A short nap. Just...wake me up when you need my help."

"Or when Jaune wakes up," snickered Olga.

"Oh, shush it."

Weiss awoke from her drowse as visiting hours nearly concluded. She emerged into the hallway, directly into Captain Causson whose larger frame knocked her unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I am so sorry, mademoiselle!" he apologized, helping her up. "I did not see you."

"No, no, it's fine."

"If you do not mind me asking, how are you feeling?"

Healthier than the week prior. "Better now, thank you."

"Ah, that is good. Good." He smiled. "Do not mind me. I was seeing my way out."

Weiss nodded and took one step before a thought crossed her mind. Given her light workload and the many hours she could burn off, it might prove useful later on. With a swift turn on her heel, she called back at the officer. "Captain, may I ask for a favor?"

Causson shook his head. "I am a busy man, mademoiselle."

"You don't have to grant it. If not you, I could ask some of the men under your command."

The captain raised his brow. "If that were the case, what is this favor?"

The former heiress was fully expecting refusal so she was thoroughly surprised when, after carefully wording her request, Causson actually agreed. Better to have a hobby to distract her worried mind in her downtime.

Later in the afternoon, Weiss found all four Romanov sisters standing around a gurney in the morgue with the mortician. The snippets of a lesson on cleaning the dead reached her ears when she approached.

"Ah, zdrastvuytye Gospozha Schnee," acknowledged the elderly man as he wrung a moist cloth over the basin beside him.

She returned with a nod at both him and the grand duchesses. Then she looked at the body and felt the taste of lead in her throat. "Any word...from next of kin?"

The mortician shook his head. He apologized, excused himself, and left to advise the staff to reserve another plot in the cemetery, leaving them with the thoroughly cleaned corpse illuminated by the bulbs hanging over their heads. Weiss hovered over the gurney, silently reading the solemn expressions on the Romanovs' faces.

"He doesn't have any family," she announced morosely.

"The burial is tomorrow. We will all be there to attend," Tatania solemnly said.

Weiss nodded slowly. There were five other cadavers in the room, already cleaned and prepared for interment alongside this one, casualties of this stupid conspiracy borne out of the foolish ambitions bred by this damn civil war.

"He would have wanted us to be happy," remarked Maria.

"And alive and safe," added Olga.

The white-haired girl had nothing else to say to that. She was right. Looking down at the late Semyon Klementovich Dverko and seeing the contentment forever embalmed on his face, she could find no words to express her emotions. Or her gratitude.

He was a peasant farmer. He could have easily joined the Bolsheviks but instead gave up his land and his life to preserve theirs. Doctor Botkin had come by earlier in the day to pay his respects, Olga said. The tsar, tsaritsa, and tsesareivch followed suit shortly thereafter, the three of them offering final prayers for his soul. Eventually, the Romanov sisters bade her farewell and returned to their duties elsewhere.

"Isha, if you need anyone to talk to, we are always here," Anya offered.

"Yes. I know. Thank you," Weiss answered without taking her eyes off the dead man. "Thank you," she whispered, her throat dry and her cheeks damp. "Spasiba bolshoye, Semyon Klementovich."

Shortly before she retired from her shift, one of the attending surgeons complimented her rendition of the Song of the Volga Boatmen.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 8, 2018

LAST EDITED: September 9, 2018

INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 9, 2018