dim as an ember

Prologue: Once upon a July

Yelena was paid handsomely well for a servant of the House of Correction, which was why she didn't mind taking the job in the first place.

Sure, she just cleaned and cooked for the soldiers, but she had a second job while she was going about her business near the (now deposed) Royal Family. As the Commander had said, she was to listen in, and make sure they weren't planning anything stupid, such as running away. His words, not hers. Yelena was more interested in watching than listening, truth be told, and after her mere month of work, she had a few anecdotes ready.

The Czar (a slip of tongue, really) was an intelligent fellow, eyes quiet and watching, and Yelena couldn't help but think he had to be this way. She always kept herself wary around him, because he seemed to watch her every move, as if aware of her second job. He probably was, but as long as he didn't give her any reason to report him, it wasn't any of her trouble.

The Czarina, meanwhile, seemed sick and frail, a quiet presence muttering prayers to a God above. Yelena didn't exactly understand - she prayed in foreign tongues, even against the Commander's order they speak in Russian all times. It seemed, however, vaguely similar to the prayers she remembered listening in church, long ago. Not like she had gone much to it; her parents preferred to tend the farm than to spend a few hours cramped in church.

The Royal children, meanwhile, were an assorted bag of oddness: Olga and her quiet, pale sadness, slinking in corners almost ready to cry; Tatiana and her obsessive, almost methodical way of writing poems, writing and rewriting until perfection; Maria and her muted vividness, after some incident or another with a soldier. It surprised Yelena she was still so vivid, after spending so long in the House; sickly Alexei, who longed to be running off, free as a bird, cursing his frail body, and instead, bed bound and moaning in pain.

And then the youngest of the four sisters, Anastasia, all impotent rage and fury, sitting and watching Yelena as she moved around. If Yelena could read minds, she was almost sure she'd be able to hear the girl cussing at her, swearing her off like a sailor would. She didn't need to, however; her eyes, blue-gray and angry, said enough.

The Commander, too, was a curious man to watch, but it wasn't her place to do so. Instead, she kept her observations about the family to herself - because he didn't care, as long as it wasn't about planned escapes.

She shook her head; it was late - almost three in the morning, and she should be asleep, ready for work, when the sun rose in about an hour. Unfortunately, she seemed to have a spell of insomnia, feeling something twist inside her chest. Worry, but she couldn't place a finger on a possible why, like some sort of anxiety that gnawed at her chest for no other reason than to simply gnaw her heart.

Yelena shuddered, huddling herself near the dying fire of the oven, the embers glowing dimly orange, and looked up when she heard the sound of heavy steel boots against the tiled floor. She rose, closing her thin woolen blanket near her body, and faced the soldiers. They seemed nervous, and the worry in her heart made her chest burn with pain.

"Is something needed?" She asked, and one soldier approached. Maybe food? Sure, she could probably whip something out, but it'd take at least twenty minutes.

"Vodka." One of them said, voice hoarse, and she - but a simple servant who couldn't deny anything the soldiers asked - nodded, picking up the bottle and glasses for them, hearing them sit. She could hear the sound of them fiddling with their guns, and cold dread settled in her shoulders.

Yelena slid them their glasses, and with no exception, they all drank it at once. She blinked, surprised, and poured more. Were they going to war? Was she going to die?