A/N - Warning: some mildly graphic content ahead. Nothing really bad. Enjoy! :)

Elena jogged up the stairs, the basket of dirty laundry balanced on her hip. She glanced at the hall clock. It was ten past six if you could trust it. Every clock in L'Auberge du Miroir had its own version of the time and she shook her head slightly in amusement. Her grin disappeared a moment later as she passed the door of Gleb's room. She paused, wondering if perhaps she had been mistaken, when it came again: a moan that was followed by what sounded like a muttered Russian oath. What was wrong? Elena reached out, balancing the basket with one hand and opened the door.

Gleb was in bed and apparently asleep, but as she paused hesitantly on the threshold he gave a convulsive shudder and turned over with what could only be a sob. Worry etched itself across Elena's face. What was wrong with him? Then, as he muttered again, she realized that he was sleep-talking. Quietly, she closed the door, set her laundry basket on the floor, and walked over to his bed. He turned his head towards her and Elena gave an involuntary gasp. Gleb's eyes were still closed, but his brows were knit and there were tears on his face. He muttered something then winced and turned over again so he was facing the wall.

Elena stood uncertainly by his bedside. Should she wake him from whatever nightmare was troubling him or would that be inappropriate? He did seem quieter now. Maybe she should just leave? As she was thinking, she let her eyes wander the room. They lighted on Gleb's small leather traveling bag that was sitting on desk.

I wonder if there are any dirty clothes in there. I could wash them since I'm already doing the rest of our clothes, she thought to herself.

Walking back to the door she fetched the laundry basket and carried it over to the desk. She undid the fastening of the bag and then paused again. Would it be rude to open it? She certainly didn't intend to pry and she was his main caregiver after all. Coming to a decision, she opened the top.

Inside was what had probably once been a neat stack of shirts. They were somewhat rumpled now and Elena took them out and set them on the desk. Under the shirts was a pair of trousers which she also lifted out. And froze.

The medals on breast the green-grey Bolshevik uniform glistened in the early morning sunlight coming in through the window, but Elena didn't notice. It was all around her again: the, the shots, the screams, the panic, the dark, haunted eyes and pallid face of the man who had grabbed her arm with his bloodied glove and ordered her to go home…

-xxxx-

Comrade Mikhail Vaganov hoisted up the body of the former tsar of Russia by his armpits while one of the other guards took his feet. Staggering a little under their load, they made their way outside, dropping the bloodied body next to the others which were lying in a heap a little ways from the door. The truck that was to take them to their final destination hadn't arrived yet, but it was due in a few minutes. Mikhail fought down the churning in his stomach at the sight of them. He would not be sick in front of his fellow comrades. He clenched his jaw, frowning. The man who had helped him carry out the tsar's body laughed tightly.

"Why do glum, comrade?" he said. "Not a pretty sight maybe, but better than before."

Mikhail gave a grunt that he hoped sounded affirmative.

"You aren't turning white on us, are you?" the face of his companion looked suddenly grave and he lifted his hand ever so slightly towards where his pistol rested in its holster.

"Oh no, Comrade Gorlinsky, I assure you. I am simply disgusted."

"Your duty is your duty, Comrade Vaganov," Rodion Gorlinsky's voice was venomously smooth. "You must do it no matter how you feel."

"Of course, comrade," Mikhail managed. His stomach gave a dangerous heave and he bit his lip.

"Why else do you think the tsar and his entire family is lying dead at our feet?" he added after a moment, gesturing to the ground beside where they stood.

Rodion cocked an eyebrow.

"They are there for what they did," he said sharply. "They made themselves the enemies of Russia."

"I know it well, comrade, brighter days are coming for the Motherland," Mikhail replied, trying to force an unflustered tone into his voice.

Rodion opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by a shout from inside the palace followed by a long string of curses.

"Comrade Gorlinsky!" a voice called, "give us a hand in here!"

"I'm coming, Comrade Captain!" he called and walked to the doorway. Pausing on the threshold, he looked back at Mikhail, his expression bordering on suspicious.

"See that nothing happens to them," he gestured to the bodies of the Romanovs.

Mikhail raised his hand in a reassuring gesture, "You have nothing to fear, comrade. I know my duty."

Rodion remained unmoving a moment longer, staring at him, then turned and disappeared into the dimness of the hallway. He swung the door shut behind him.

Mikhail stood there, fighting desperately to stay in control of himself. He could feel his body trembling as the adrenaline of the past fifteen minutes began to wear off. Suddenly he stood up straighter, his hand going automatically to the pistol at his side. From somewhere in the darkness came the sound of sobbing.

Mikhail strained forward, staring into the gloom. His eyes darted around, trying to find the source. They lit on a bit a white visible behind one of the sparse bushes. Carefully, every nerve tense, he walked towards it.

"Who's there?" he asked harshly, stepping suddenly around the bush.

A figure sprang up from its formerly crouched position, starting away from him with a gasp of fear. A pair of terrified eyes was raised to his own. Mikhail's heart gave a lurch. It was only a little girl. She was about eight, dressed in a nightgown, her blond curls disheveled. Utter shock and terror were written across her tear-streaked face. She tried to run, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay.

"Who are you," he demanded.

"Mama!" the girl shrieked, trying desperately to free herself.

"Be still," he ordered and she stopped struggling, looking up at him in terror.

"Who are you?" he repeated sternly.

"L-lena," the little girl sobbed out.

Mikhail crouched down so he was level with her.

"What are you doing here, Lena?"

"I h-heard guns a-and shouting a-and I-I ran out to find Mama bec-cause she w-as with G-grandmama" her voice faltered with both fear and crying, "a-and they opened the d-door and I hid and th-ey pulled bodies out of the d-door and l-left them on the g-ground a-a-and…"

She dissolved into sobs, crouching low with her free hand pressed to her face. Mikhail felt a stab of guilt prick into his heart like a knife.

"You poor thing," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "having to witness something like that. And at so young an age…" he shook his head, his thoughts going to his own young son. Mikhail's house was practically across the street and his poor boy would probably be scarred for life by what had happened tonight. Just as this girl would be.

"Where do you live," he asked more gently.

The little girl raised her head.

"F-far a-away. We're visiting Grandmamma and I wanna go ho-o-ome," she wailed.

Mikhail swore to himself. She wasn't even from around here! If only her family had chosen any other time to visit Yekaterinburg.

"Do you think you can find your way back to the house you're staying at?" he asked.

"I want Mama," she wept, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

He gave a slight gasp, her words bringing back the images from a few minutes ago; of the Romanov children making similar entreaties as they were dying…

Mikhail actually lurched this time, fighting down the wave of nausea that flooded over him.

"You have to go back to the house," he told her with all the firmness he could muster, "can you find your way back?" He gave her arm a little shake, "Answer me."

"Y-yes, I-I think so," she replied tremulously.

"Then go," he gave her a little shove to send her on her way.

She stumbled a few paces and then paused, looking back at him. He made a shooing motion with his hand and she fled off into the darkness.

Slowly, Mikhail rose to his feet and headed back to where the bodies lay. He glanced at them, making sure they were still as he had left them. One of the corpses moved. He gave a startled gasp, and bent closer, his hand flying to his pistol again. It was one of the girls, he saw. Again there was a slight movement then to his astonished ears came a feeble cry for help. There could be no doubt of it: one of the daughters of the tsar was still alive. Reaching down, he pushed off the bodies that lay on top of her, cautiously bending closer. She blinked and turned her head slightly. Mikhail sprang back, drawing his pistol and aiming it at her head. She gave a shuddering gasp that was half a sob.

"Mama, help me...I…I can't ...breathe."

The whispered words came faintly to his ears. Mikhail paused, his finger in the trigger, trying to steel himself to the task. He could hear Rodion's voice echoing in his ears: Your duty is your duty, Comrade Vaganov. This was his duty, both to Russia and himself. He stared down at the blood-covered figure on the ground. He couldn't pull the trigger.

Inside the palace, someone called something to another comrade, reminding him that he was not alone. He looked down at the tsar's young daughter, thinking of the little girl he had just seen and of his son. Suddenly, he realized that he couldn't let her die. He glanced around and coming to a decision, reached down and took the girl up in his arms as if she were a baby. She gave a low moan and he winced, not wanting to think about the pain the movement must have caused her. Her head slumped to his shoulder as he hurried towards the edge of the woods that grew about fifty meters away.

Once he was under the shadow of the branches, Mikhail went on for a little ways until he reached a shallow depression near a tree. He set her down as gently as he could and crouched beside her, trying to think of what he should do. The grand duchess groaned again and then, to his immense surprise, sat up. She swayed a little, but the eyes that looked into his face were both alert and fearful.

"Who…you?" she whispered.

"I'm… saving you," he replied.

She braced herself a moment, her hand crawling backwards for support. It met the tree and amazingly, she pulled herself erect only to stumble a moment later with a shallow gasp of agony. Mikhail sprang forward and caught her before she could fall.

"You can stand?" He couldn't contain his astonishment.

She nodded slightly her breathing shallow and tremulous. She stood still for a moment, supported by his arms, and then pushed back, trying to stand on her own.

Suddenly, Mikhail heard voices. He bent his head so he could look the girl in the face.

"Listen to me," he said urgently. "Stay here. I'll come back and get you in a little while, but if I don't leave now they will come and find you."

She nodded and he eased her back against the tree. He wished he could help her sit, but he had no time. He set off at a run, making it back beside the bodies a few seconds before the little back door of the palace that they had been using was pushed open again. He frantically tried to slow his heavy breathing as they came closer.

"All clear, Comrade Vaganov?" called a crisp voice.

Mikhail felt panic rising up in his throat as he recognized the voice of the captain.

"All clear, Comrade Captain," he replied, trying force a normal tone. Luckily for him, the truck driver chose that moment to arrive and the sound of the engine helped hide his still-labored breathing. Mikhail felt cold dread in his gut as the others began loading the bodies into the back of the truck. Would they count them? Would the girl be missed?

Despite his fears, it didn't appear that the others noticed anything amiss. After the remaining bodies had been loaded and a cover spread over them, the driver said a few words to the captain, saluted, and drove off. The captain turned back to his men.

"Good work tonight, comrades," he told them. "To all of you that live in the town I am granting a day's leave. Go home, see your families, celebrate a good job done. Tomorrow evening, I expect you to be back in the guard barracks as usual."

There was a general chorus of, "Yes, Comrade Captain." Mikhail couldn't believe his ears. It was too good to be true. He and the other men gave their thanks and goodnights and headed towards the town. He lagged behind the others, walking as if lost in thought, but as soon as they had turned the corner, he carefully retraced his steps. It was beginning to snow, he noticed, he'd have to hurry.

Mindful of guards, he cautiously worked his way to the edge of the woods. He had made a mental note of the place that he had left the girl. A short ways from the little depression was a rock with a stick leaning against it. He saw them now and turned to the left, walking around the tree that she was leaning against when he left her.

She was gone. Nothing remained but the faint smell of blood. Mikhail Vaganov stood staring for a moment then collapsed forward onto his hands and knees and was violently sick.

-xxxx-

Gleb stirred and mumbled in his sleep, snapping Elena out of the paralysis of memories that had taken hold of her. She snatched up Gleb's clothing and flung them back on top of the uniform. His uniform.

Gleb Vaganov, who you thought was your friend, is a Bolshevik soldier. The thought hit her like a load of bricks, nearly causing her to stagger. She pulled the lid of the bag closed, not bothering to fasten it. Picking up her laundry basket, Elena turned and fled from the room.