I just read RosiePosie's fanfiction of the Romanov executions and I just can't resist the urge to post one I wrote last summer for Holly. This is from Anastasia Nicholaievna's view, I tried being witty like her and failed. Horribly. I took liberties also only with the matter of her jaw. From the source I was using she was shot in the head, but apparently did not die from it. I know some of the girls skulls had dislocated jaw bones so I went with it....
Please read and tell me what you think : D
Liubov Sviataya
There are footsteps coming from the drawing room. Someone is coming. They glide across the dining room, around the large table, six-seven-eight, why do I bother counting? It’s late. I’m far too tired for this. There isn’t any other choice but to answer when the footsteps knock on our bedroom door. I let Tatiana do this, she’s already thin as a stick, why waste my effort, I can’t imagine that walking to the door or any amount of exercise could help my appalling weight gain. Even Mama had mentioned it.
Spasiba Mama, I love you too. That’s a quip, but what the footsteps say sounds like anything but a funny prank.
“Tatiana Nicholaievna? Could you inform the family we must get dressed? Commandant Yurovsky has told me we all must prepare for an hour or two in the lower area of the house. It seems our Czech friends have come for us! Pray let it be so, I’m sorry for this disruption your highness”This last bit is whispered, the Lord forbid those pigs hear our own loyal servants use our old titles! I couldn’t be bothered to even care for that right now. I’m tired. Let me sleep for a thousand days and then a week! I know its Eugene Sergeievich, I can see his glasses reflecting what little light is filtering through the painted windows. Trust the red pigs to think we’d try to escape by staring out the windows. We’re clearly such devilishly crafty people. But now I don’t care about the Bolsheviks and their silly imaginations, I need sleep. Why can I not have it?! The door closes after Tanya thanks Botkin—trust her to use manners at the devil’s hour—and she strides over to Papa and Mama’s room. Stride is a good word, she’s like some gazelle. A deeply emaciated and skinny one.
I can hear Tatiana say what Eugene Sergeievich just told her.
Papa utters a weary
“Shto? What? Yes my malenkaya, lets us get up then.”Tatiana comes back into our airy little room, and moves for the switch to the ormolu light fixture overhead. I have never hated her so viciously as now. It’s too late though, the burning light hits my eyes as they adjust to the sting.
“Urrrghhhhhh! What fool dare invade my slumber?!” I mutter aloud to my sisters in the room.
Tatiana gives me a frighteningly stern look and tells me to get up. I defy her. Already Mashka and Olga are rising like phantoms from their cots near mine. I should like to think they have the same thought on their minds as me: what nonsense can this be? They move to get up but the lateness of the hour still casts its spell over them and Maria falls back onto her pillow with an entertainingly loud plopping noise. I giggle like a rodent. Papa comes into the room and looks us over.
“My darlings, this could be serious, please, get up now and get your things ready,” he says while staring at me with his sweet crinkled eyes.
If papa wants it, then so do I. I fight against gravity and all that other nonsense to get my bottom out of my blankets. The floor feels cool beneath my feet. Lovely. Olenka is already busy at the drawers getting out day clothes and undergarments, Tanya at her side. I sit at the edge of my bed staring at them. I look at Maria and smile at the stupid grin she has on her face, still lost between dream and reality. No doubt some mushy romantic fancy about that guard. He’s gone, a pity. I’m sure they would have set records with the scores of children they would have had. That’s improper to even think, but again, I don’t care. Right now I focus on getting over to my stockings and chemise waiting in my drawers over by the Big Pair.
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