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A biennium had passed since the tsar's passing, and tsesarevich Natalya continued to cling to her crown for the sake of survival. Rumors were more than whispers now: accusations and impeachments became more commonplace.
Her mother was a recluse now, her public appearances diminishing to occasional balls and politically inadmissible meetings. To her own daughter, she was not much of a mother anymore, the reminder of her husband in her daughter's eyes a powerful deterrent.
^^^
"How are the defense lines today, General?" she asks, struggling to keep the tired smile from falling apart. She had begun to despise the façade that she had created for survival, the unreality strangling the small portion of her existence that remained true. It drove her to a familiar insanity, the desire for survival conflicting against her need for authenticity.
"We've lost some territories, gained others," he replies as usual, and she becomes uncertain of whether he'll ever say anything different or if she'll ever reply anything different. The thought dizzies her, but she manages to force an answer to his monotonous explanation.
"Thank you, General." She leaves the room, then, a trail of dark green following her as a shadow. Natalya spends the rest of the daylight addressing the few peasants who gathered the courage to enter her throne room. A queen on her throne; an outcast in her place. Moments stretch into hours and when night finally falls she doesn't hesitate to escape into the darkness it brings with it.
"Tsesarevich Natalya," a gruff voice calls as she makes her way to her chambers. She remains guard-less, protection unnecessary for someone already sentenced to death.
"Yes?" she replies.
Rough hands grab her by the arm, labored skin against fragile privilege. His large palms press against the sides of her stomach, pushing her into the ridged wall behind them.
"Stop," she cries out, trying to command authority that doesn't exist. She looks around hopelessly, but the night had driven everyone away. "What are you doing?"
"Submit. It will be much quicker if you don't struggle," he orders, his fingers fumbling around the tight knots that laced her corset into place.
"What are you doing?" she asks again, this time the question coming out as a plea: to him, to a bystander, to her dead father watching from the grave.
"Exacting vengeance," he tells her, her overgarments coming undone and falling to the stone ground. "You've induced worse horrors on others. You deserve this."
"I haven't done anything," she disputes, her breaths coming out uneven and raspy. He ignores her violent words, gathering the fabric of her petticoat in his fists. Cold fingertips graze against the top of her garters, their trail blazing upwards without hesitation. "Please," she moans, "I haven't done anything."
"You're a liar. An imposter who killed for the throne and any other power you could get your hands on."
^^^
She ran back to her chambers, the heavy padding of her bare feet hitting the unforgiving stone echoing through the empty halls. Night had fallen completely by now, the only light filtering in from bleakly lit candles.
Her door opened with a forceful thrust, falling closed behind her huddled figure. Her composure was decimated, sobs wracking through her small frame. The shaking sweeps from her chest to her arms and legs, slowly infecting her body piece by piece. The iron knob digs into her back as she slumps to the floor, the cold surrounding her body native and comforting.
Her two maidens still wait for her, eyes wide with horror at the vision of the disintegration of their tsesarevich.
"Tsesarevich Natalya," one of the maidens greets, the maiden's voice shaking with the same fear dripping off her skin. She continues her speech as rehearsed, deluding herself into believing normality would be efficacious in the situation. "How may we be of service?"
"You're covered in blood."
The observation originates from the other maiden: the newer one. Her pale hair tied back tightly revealed large green eyes and perfect pink lips, parted in surprise. A girl with a face suitable for a queen.
Natalya turns to face this maiden, spite bubbling in her throat without her permission.
"It's not all mine," she declares, leveling her glare on the new maiden while constraining the emotion clawing at her expressionlessness. The maidens stay quiet at this revelation, and Natalya takes the moment to regain her power, pulling herself to her feet once more.
"Run a bath for me," Natalya commands with ease, her eyes falling on the blonde. "Anzhelina, help me undress."
"Yes, Tsesarevich Natalya," they assent in unison, parting ways to complete each of the tasks assigned to them. The blonde's words have a snark to them, but Natalya suppresses the festering hatred by shifting her gaze to Anzhelina.
She dismisses the maidens once they finish running her bath, their presence a constant reminder of the preceding events. Once she's certain of their retirement, she dips her head into the water, submerging herself until she reaches a place where no one can hear her screams.
