The Tsarina stood in the Tsar’s Winter palace. Elsa was dressed as elegantly and gracefully as an Empress, because she was one.
She stood neatly by her husband’s side as he entertained his generals, and court. Russia had erged victorious, and this ti around with far more gains than the Great War before it.
For decades Russia had played second fiddle to the German Reich. And while they had been rewarded for their loyalty ti and again Alaska was far more significant than annexing the Ottoman Empire’s northern most borders.
It wasn’t just a significant strategic asset filled with oil and natural gas. Nor was it just a warm water port on the other side of the world. No... Alaska was far more significant to the House of Romanov.
It was the symbolic undoing of the House’s greatest humiliations. Since the Crian War, and its disastrous defeat, Russia had been permanently marred by selling its only colony in the new world to the United States.
Not from a position of strength but desperation. Now... after seventy-five years Alaska had returned to the hands of the Tsar, and Alexei would forever be known as the man who facilitated this.
It was only natural that the Tsar was being fawned upon by his generals, admirals, and the nobles of his court.
anwhile, Elsa stood proudly by her husband’s side, but utterly exhausted with the ceremony. Instead, her gaze was not cast towards her husband, rather towards their eldest son, Prince Nicholas. Who was nad after his late grandfather?
Nicholas had served in the war among the Russian Army as a field officer, and though Elsa doubted with complete sincerity whether all the dals on his chest were truly earned in combat, or simply preferential treatnt for being the Tsar’s son and heir.
In truth, it didn’t matter to Elsa. She was simply happy that the young man had returned ho safe and sound. She gave Nicholas a graceful smile, which he either didn’t see or ignored entirely.
Instead, he simply stared at the bottom of his glass of champagne, standing alone at the party. It was indeed concerning to Elsa. After all, her son had not quite been the sa since he returned ho from the war.
If it weren’t for the fact that her husband was currently speaking with Marshal Zhukov and other important military mbers, Elsa would have found her way down to check on her son.
However, as she kept a close eye on the man, he seed to have begun to wander off. Alexei noticed the look of concern on his wife’s face and shot her a glance that told her it was okay to run off after their son.
She didn’t know how many conversations she had to dodge as she walked through the crowded palace halls. Too many guests wanted to get on her good side; it was always this way.
And if Elsa was being honest, she absolutely understood now why her father always hated events like this. A sentint she had grown to share as the years passed.
In the end, she managed to catch up to her son, who stood alone on a balcony overlooking the city of Saint Petersburg.
It’s clean skies and beautiful lights attracted her attention to the world below. And her son who was leaning against the edge of the railing with a drink in hand.
Elsa dropped all false pretenses as she stepped forward and announced her presence.
"Miserable vultures... the lot of them.... All they care about is what they can siphon from the House of Romanov and not what they can contribute, wouldn’t you agree, Nicholas?"
Nicholas didn’t turn to face his mother, not at first. And when he did, there wasn’t the slightest trace of emotion on his face while he answered her.
"I’d say that’s an accurate assessnt."
Elsa sighed; she couldn’t reasonably guess what kind of horrors her son had witnessed on the battlefield to make him overco with such lancholy. But she knew she couldn’t let him stay like this any longer.
"Co, join ; there’s sothing I want to show you..."
She began to walk off and stopped halfway in her tracks as she realized her son was stubbornly refusing her orders. Calling her to look over her shoulder back at him with a chilling gaze.
"That wasn’t a request..."
Nicholas had never seen his mother act so sternly before, and compulsively bowed his head as he scurried after her.
In the end, they arrived at a hall sealed off from the celebrations being hosted by the Tsar. This hall in particular had plenty of paintings hung about. From the House of Romanov, and its ancient lineage.
Past Tsars and Grand Dukes. Each of which had a legend of its own to spin. In the end, however, they stopped at a very specific section of the hall.
Secluded from the paintings of the family line, sat one portrait in particular. The one Nicholas II had once commissioned of Bruno, as a sign of thanks for all that the man had done for Russia.
When Elsa stopped in her tracks, she gazed upon the work. As a painter herself, she considered her ability to judge the work of others’ art fairly well.
And while the quality of the work itself was immaculate, she had always disliked this specific painting.
Nicholas looked at the painting, not understanding why his mother had dragged him here, until she began to speak.
"This is my father... he was so young then. This is obviously an artistic interpretation of the man, and one that I have never truly enjoyed. But your grandfather, Nicholas, I an. He always loved this painting... commissioned it himself. Do you know why that is?"
Nicholas was quick to repeat the sa answer that had been drilled into his head since childhood when the family spoke of its many paintings and portraits.
"Because your father is the savior of the House of Romanov, we were exiled in Siberia and waiting for the Bolsheviks to co for our heads when he arrived with the Iron Division. The way father tells the story, he is the reason we won the war."
Elsa nodded her head in agreent with this assessnt, sighing heavily as she looked way from the painting as if it were too much to bear.
"That is correct, and so your grandfather decided to commission a painting that portrayed my father in the light of a Saint... And yet despite this... I truly detest this painting...."
Nicholas looked confused at his mother, stepping forward and hesitating over whether or not he should comfort her.
Luckily, she made the choice for him, grabbing hold of her son and hugging him as the dim light of the fireplace illuminated the paintings in the hallway.
"I despise this painting because my father is not a saint... He was a soldier, like you... And you know all too well that saints and soldiers don’t mix, do they? Not without washing away the filth, and painting over what remains with a beautiful lie.... No matter how beautiful that lie may be, it is still a lie. And the world should rember the price paid for peace."
Nicholas didn’t speak; he just let his mother hold him, scoffing at the absurdity of it. He was a grown man, a decorated combat veteran. And he was here after the bullets had stopped flying being held by his mother in an act of comfort.
For a long mont, Nicholas said nothing.
The words did not strike him like an accusation, nor like comfort. They settled instead, heavy, inevitable, like a truth he had been circling since the war ended, but had never dared to na.
He thought of the dals on his chest, how easily they had been pinned there, how little they seed to weigh compared to the mories he carried back with him.
He could still hear the crack of distant fire, still sll oil and cold steel, still feel the hollow quiet that followed orders obeyed without hesitation.
He had survived. Others had not. And yet history had already begun sanding those edges smooth.
His gaze drifted past his mother’s shoulder, back to the portraits lining the hall.
Generations of Romanovs stared out from gilded fras. He had grown up beneath those eyes, taught to admire them, to emulate them. Only now did he understand how carefully their stories had been arranged.
When his eyes returned to his grandfather’s portrait, he saw it differently. Not as a lie ant to deceive, but as one ant to console.
Elsa finally loosened her hold on him and stepped back, her expression gentler now, resolved.
"The world will always want its heroes clean," she said softly. "But that doesn’t an you have to be."
She turned and began to walk away, leaving Nicholas alone with the paintings and his thoughts.
For the first ti since returning ho, he did not feel hollow. He felt understood.
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