Several days had passed since the incident with Lev, and he kept canceling our meetings under the old oak. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all. Other times, he sent a servant to tell me he was busy. But I doubted that was true.
He was avoiding me.
But why? Had asking him what was wrong insulted him that much?
I sighed, walking down the dusty road, my thoughts circling around him. The midday sun burned brightly, but I kept my gaze low, watching my feet move rather than facing the heat.
As I neared the usual meeting spot, I lifted my head, scanning for the children. They were there, waiting for me as always. A soft smile tugged at my lips—until I noticed the two little girls crying.
Masha and Maria.
My heart clenched. I hurried over, kneeling in front of them so we were at eye level. “Masha, Maria, what happened?” My voice was gentle, my eyes quickly scanning them for any injuries. But they weren’t hurt.
They tried to speak, but their words were lost between hiccups and sobs. Instead, they clung to me, tiny hands grasping at my clothes as though I were the only thing keeping them from falling apart.
I held them close, rubbing their backs in slow, soothing circles. “I’m here. It’s okay. Just take your time,” I murmured.
Their crying softened, but tears still streamed down their flushed cheeks. I glanced over at Vladimir and Aleksander, hoping they had answers. They were only seven, but maybe they knew something. “Boys, do you know what happened?” I asked.
Vladimir only shrugged. “They were already crying when we got here.”
“Maybe their dads are going to war too,” Aleksander said, far too calmly, as if it were normal for fathers to leave for war.
I froze.
“Wait, Alesk… what war?” My voice wavered. “There’s no war going on.”
“I don’t really know,” he admitted with a small frown. “I just heard Papa say he has to leave because the country needs him. Doesn’t that mean he’s going to war?”
I forced a smile, shaking my head. “Not necessarily.” It was a lie, and I knew it.
I glanced down at the two girls and asked in a soft tone. “Is that what happened to the two of you?”
Masha nodded against my shoulder not letting go of me for not even a second.
Maria lifted her tear-streaked face from my shoulder, her red, puffy eyes searching mine. “It doesn’t?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“No,” I said softly, offering another reassuring smile.
“Then what does it mean?” Vladimir challenged. He had always been sharp, questioning what people said and overanalyzing their words, a little too much for his age. Most of the time, I admired it. Right now, I wished he wouldn’t.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, trying to sound casual. “But I haven’t heard anything about a war. I’ll ask my father later, and I promise I’ll tell you what he says. For now, I need my little mice to calm down, alright?”
Maria was already breathing easier, but Masha still sniffled, wiping at her eyes with small fists.
“I’m sure your papas will be fine,” I added, squeezing their hands gently. “They’re strong. That’s why they’re papas.”
They nodded, but doubt lingered in their eyes.
And deep down, I wasn’t sure I believed my own words.
━─━────༺༻────━─━
I stayed with them for a while, whispering soft reassurances until the girls' sobs faded into sniffles. When their breathing steadied, I urged them to go home and rest. They hesitated at first, still clinging to my sleeves, but eventually, they shuffled away, hand in hand.
As soon as they were gone, I turned on my heel and hurried home. I needed to speak to my father. If something was happening, he would know.
War, though? Why?
I hadn’t heard anything recently—no official announcements, no whispers in the marketplace. Sure, the government was unstable after the Bolsheviks overthrew the Provisional Government, but was that truly enough to spark war?
I scoffed, shaking my head as my thoughts tangled. I never understood why people chose war. It seemed like such an obvious thing to avoid. Was power really so important to some? Most of the men who fought wouldn’t taste glory—only a select few would be remembered. So if it was about power, about recognition, then why go at all when the chances of gaining either were so slim?
I remembered Babushka’s words: War is hell.
To me, war was… war. And hell was hell. But maybe war was worse. At least in hell, you were already dead.
I sighed, forcing the thought from my mind as my house came into view.
It should have felt like a place of comfort, but the closer I got, the tighter my chest became.
From the outside, it looked warm and inviting—cozy, even. The wooden window frames were decorated with intricate carvings, each one a masterpiece of detail and care. My dedushka had carved them all himself, his hands steady, his blade precise. People used to stop and admire his work, running their fingers over the swirling patterns as if they could absorb a piece of his craftsmanship.
But Dedushka wasn’t here anymore.
And the last window, the one in the loft, remained unfinished.
Father was supposed to finish it. But like everything else, he was too… busy.
I swallowed down the familiar sting of frustration and climbed the steps to the front door, bracing myself for whatever awaited me inside. Please don’t be passed out again. I needed answers before my own thoughts consumed me.
The wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, and I stepped inside.
The scent of stale alcohol and sweat usually clung to the walls like a second skin, but today, something was different. The heavy haze of my father’s pipe smoke was gone. The suffocating stench of vodka still lingered, but it wasn’t as overpowering as it should have been.
That was my first warning.
The floor groaned under my weight as I walked further in, my fingertips grazing the edge of the wooden table. The surface was sticky—remnants of spilled liquor drying into a tacky film. I expected to see my father sprawled in his chair, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, muttering curses at ghosts only he could see.
Instead, he was sitting upright.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the tabletop, his gaze sharp and alert. No glassy, unfocused stare. No sluggish movements. He looked at me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a prickle of unease.
"You’re home early," he muttered, reaching for the tin cup beside him. I waited for the familiar clink of glass, for the acrid scent of vodka. Instead, he took a slow sip. Tea.
I blinked, startled. He’s sober.
"The children were upset," I said cautiously, watching his face. "They said their fathers are leaving. Some of the men in town, too."
He snorted, shaking his head. "Of course they are. The fools in Petrograd think they can rule over us and expect the tsarists to behave. They’re going to fight back, and we have to be ready."
My fingers tightened around the back of a chair. "Fight back? Against the Bolsheviks?"
His scoff was sharp. "What do you think, girl? You think the nobles will just sit back and let a bunch of starving workers tell them what to do? No, they’ll come for us. For me. For every man who dares to raise a hand against them." His voice carried a dangerous edge, laced with something that sounded almost like anticipation.
"So that’s why the men are leaving? To fight?"
"To be ready." His lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "The tsarists will make their move soon enough, and when they do, men like me will be there to stop them."
I studied him carefully. His eyes burned with something I couldn’t quite place. Conviction? Or just the desperate need to believe in something—anything—other than the hollow life he lived?
"And what about you?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. I had learned the hard way not to let my emotions show. "Are you going, too?"
He leaned back, exhaling a low, humorless chuckle. "What do you think? The Reds need men like me. Strong men. Fighters. Not spineless cowards like those aristocratic boys hiding behind their father’s money."
I flinched. Lev.
My father didn’t know about him, but if he did, he’d hate him. Hell, if he ever found out, he might even kill him in one of his drunken rages.
I forced the thought aside. "Wouldn’t the aristocrats—or tsarists, or whoever you're all fighting—have their own army?"
His expression darkened, but his voice was dripping with arrogance. "What if they do? People like me can take care of them easier than they think. As I said those aristocrats are not real men. They don't have the balls to fight."
I bit the inside of my cheek. He’s so sure of himself. But my father wasn’t some disciplined soldier—he was violent, unpredictable, and refused to follow orders. How could someone like him fit into any army?
He must have noticed my hesitation because he exhaled sharply, annoyance flashing in his eyes.
"You shouldn’t concern yourself with things beyond your understanding, Natalia," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "War isn’t for girls to worry about."
My jaw clenched. I wanted to argue, to throw his words back at him, but instead, I forced my voice to remain steady. "What if you don’t come back?"
His gaze hardened. "Then you survive. Just like I did. Just like my father before me. The world doesn’t stop for us, you ungrateful brat. You keep moving, no matter what."
I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. He doesn’t care. He never had. Why would that change now? I knew I could survive without him, but what about the others? What about the children who still depended on their fathers to keep food on the table?
I hesitated before asking one last question. "And if the war comes here?"
A slow smirk twisted his lips, and something cruel glinted in his eyes.
"Then you’ll see for yourself what kind of world we live in," he murmured. "And maybe, finally, you’ll understand."
I stayed silent, nodding slightly as I lowered my gaze. How can people think like that?
"Since you’re here early, make yourself useful and start on dinner," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
How about I make myself useful by throwing a chair at your head?
"Yes, Father," I replied instead, keeping my voice even. There was no use in arguing. "Would you like Shchi today?" I asked as I moved toward the stove in the corner.
It wasn’t that I was eager to cook—I just needed to turn away. If he caught even a flicker of the frustration on my face, he’d notice. He was sober. He would see everything.
"Shchi?" He scoffed. "You think cabbage soup will be enough? Make some Pelmeni, girl. And be quick."
Of course he wants Pelmeni…
Since my back is turned to him I rolled my eyes at his words and grabbed a bowl to make the dough.
“Of course, father. What was I thinking?”
I cracked an egg into the bowl, the yolk settling into the flour like a drop of gold in snow. My fingers moved on their own, kneading, folding, pressing. The motions were familiar, automatic. I had done this so many times before, I could probably make pelmeni in my sleep.
And yet, my mind wasn’t here.
I thought about my father, about the way his eyes gleamed when he spoke of war—not with fear, not even with anger, but with something else. Excitement? Was that really it? Had he been waiting for this? The chance to fight, to lash out, to have a purpose beyond drowning in vodka and regret?
Maybe that was why he wasn’t drunk today. Maybe, for the first time in years, he actually felt alive.
I pressed my palms harder into the dough, my arms tensing.
He spoke as if war was something inevitable, something that was coming whether we wanted it or not. And maybe it was. Maybe it had already begun, and we were just waiting for the first gunshot to reach us.
But I still didn’t understand. He said men like him had to be ready. Ready for what? Killing? Dying? Did he think this war would make him into something more than what he was?
I inhaled sharply and exhaled through my nose, shaking the thought away. It didn’t matter. My father had never cared about what I thought. And in the end, he would do what he wanted, no matter what it cost him. No matter what it cost me.
I scooped the dough into a ball and covered it with a cloth to rest.
Then, without meaning to, my thoughts shifted.
Lev.
His name flickered through my mind like a whisper, and suddenly, the weight in my chest grew heavier.
He had been distant lately. Not in an obvious way—Lev wasn’t the type to push people away outright. But the excuses, the way he barely met my eyes, the way his smiles felt smaller… forced, like he was holding something back.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. That maybe I was being paranoid. But then came that trip with his father. He had barely spoken about it, brushing it off as nothing important. And yet, after he returned, something had changed.
I dusted the table with flour and set to work rolling out the dough, forcing my hands to keep moving.
He had always been quiet about his family, about his father’s expectations. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew the kind of life he was meant to live—the kind where boys like him became men like his father, where their futures were already written before they even had a say in them.
And then my father’s words echoed in my mind. The tsarists will fight back soon. Men like me will be there to stop them.
My hands faltered.
What if Lev goes too?
What if that’s why he’s been so distant?
My stomach twisted at the thought, but I kept kneading, kept rolling.
That can’t be right. He doesn’t support war or violence…
"I am a monster!" I declared in a deep, growly voice, raising my arms and imitating a monster’s walk—though it probably looked more like a bear’s. The children burst into laughter and shrieked as they scattered, running away from me.
I chased after them, their little voices ringing with joy as they called for help, pleading to be saved from the monster. "Run, before I catch you!" I teased, pretending they were too fast for me. But eventually, I wrapped my arms around Masha, one of the neighborhood girls. She squealed, her blonde hair flying wildly as she tossed her head from side to side.
"I caught you, little mouse, and now I will eat you! Num num num!" I announced dramatically, tickling her sides. Her laughter grew louder, and soon the other children were giggling too, watching their friend get "devoured" by the monster.
I had always loved making them laugh. Their joy brought me joy.
"Let go of her!" Little Vladimir commanded, his tiny fist landing against my leg. I grinned down at him before swooping him up in my arms. "I guess I’ll have to eat you too!" He tried to resist the giggles bubbling in his throat, but he didn’t last long. The moment the other two children rushed in to "rescue" their friends, they were caught as well, all of them shrieking with laughter until tears threatened to spill from their eyes.
When I finally stopped tickling them, I sat down, watching as they tried to catch their breath. Their faces glowed with happiness, and warmth spread through me.
"You’re mean, Nat," Vladimir pouted, crossing his arms. That little brat—always complaining. But with those big brown eyes staring up at me, it was impossible to be annoyed.
"Is that so?" I smirked, wiggling my fingers toward him.
He squeaked and swatted my hands away. "No! No. Don’t do that again! You’re not mean, fine." He huffed, turning his head in defiance.
I chuckled, ruffling his hair despite his attempts to dodge my hand.
"Stop it!" he whined.
"Alright, alright. My bad," I said, holding my hands up in surrender.
With a sigh, I pushed myself up. "Alright, little mice, I really have to go now."
They groaned in protest, just like last time. That was how I had gotten roped into playing with them in the first place. And, of course, they were about to try it again.
"Noooo, don’t leave yet, Nat! We’re having fun!" Maria clung to my skirt, as if her tiny hands could possibly keep me from leaving.
I crouched down, resting a hand on her head. "I know we’re having fun, but like I said before, I have to go. You know it’s not polite to keep someone waiting."
She pouted, opening her mouth to argue, but I cut her off before she could. "And I promise that when I’m back, I’m all yours. We’ll play as much as you little rascals want."
That seemed to satisfy them. After a moment of consideration, they let me go. As if I wouldn’t leave without their permission… I wouldn’t. But they didn’t need to know that.
I waved as I walked away, and when I was finally out of sight, my pace quickened, a smile tugging at my lips.
I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t seen Lev in a while.
He had left with his father on a trip to visit some distant relatives—or something like that. I didn’t really remember the details. I hadn’t been paying attention to his words, just his eyes. Those green eyes that always put me in a trance every time I looked at them.
As I neared the Sokolov house—where I knew Lev was waiting for me under the old oak—I smoothed out my skirt and dusted off the fabric before trying to tame my hair.
Why did my heart race every time I came here?
As soon as the old tree came into view, I spotted him—standing in its shade, waiting.
Lev.
A breath hitched in my throat at the sight of him. Even after all this time, he still had that effortless beauty that made my heart race. I quickened my pace, a smile breaking across my face.
"Lev!" I waved enthusiastically.
He turned to me, his lips curving into a smile, but… something was off. It didn’t reach his eyes.
"Natalia," he greeted, but his voice lacked its usual warmth. It was controlled, restrained—like he was forcing himself to sound normal. "It’s good to see you again."
I slowed my steps, my eyes scanning him closely. He looked… tired. The weight in his posture, the slight redness in his eyes—I knew something was wrong.
"Is there something on my face?" he asked, frowning as he lifted a hand to touch his cheek.
"No." My answer was short, but my gaze didn’t waver.
"Then why are you staring at me like that?" His voice took on a teasing lilt, though it lacked its usual playfulness. "Feels like you’re trying to burn holes through my face."
I looked away, suddenly self-conscious. "It’s just…" I sighed, my shoulders dropping. "Something’s off about you, Lev. What’s wrong?"
His expression barely shifted, but I caught the way his jaw tensed.
He had been crying. Or maybe he hadn’t slept. Either way, something had unsettled him, and I hated the thought of him hurting—someone like him shouldn’t have to carry burdens like this. He deserved warmth, kindness, not whatever had left him looking this way.
"It’s nothing, Nat." His voice was quiet, but unconvincing.
I narrowed my eyes. "Come onnn, tell me." I dragged out the words playfully, hoping to coax the truth out of him the way the little ones always did with me.
"Cut it out, Nat." His tone sharpened, but I pressed anyway.
"Just tell me." I barely had time to finish before his voice cracked like a whip.
"I said cut it!"
I flinched, taking a small step back, but I shut my mouth. The air between us grew thick with an awkward silence, neither of us willing to break it.
When I finally did, my voice was barely above a whisper. "Sorry… I was just worried about you."
Lev exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "I know." His voice softened, but the distance between us remained. "I just don’t want to talk about it."
I nodded, though I hated it.
And then silence settled over us again.
The silence between us thickened, heavier than before. Neither of us spoke, until Lev’s voice finally broke through, quiet and distant.
"You were late..."
I exhaled softly. "Yeah, sorry. You know how the little ones get when I try to leave." A small smile tugged at my lips, though the tension in the air made it feel misplaced.
"You could just tell them no, you know?"
"I know." I lowered my gaze to the grass beneath my feet. "But you should see how happy they are when we play." My smile lingered for a moment before fading, turning faintly bitter. "I wish someone had made me smile like that back then."
Lev said nothing, just nodded slightly with a quiet hum. He turned away, his gaze lost in the distance.
I watched him closely, waiting for him to say something—anything—but he didn’t.
"Lev…" I hesitated, reaching out to touch his sleeve, but he pulled away before I could.
"Let’s not do this, Nat." His voice was quiet, but final. "Not today."
The words stung more than I expected. But as I studied him, I saw the exhaustion in his posture, the weight he carried.
Maybe he really didn’t want to talk about it.
So I swallowed down my frustration and forced a small smile. "Alright," I murmured. "Then what do you want to do?"
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he sighed and sat down beneath the oak tree, patting the ground beside him.
"Just stay here for a bit."
That, I could do.
I settled beside him, knees pulled to my chest, as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grass. Silence stretched between us, but it was no longer awkward. It was something else now—something fragile, something that felt like it would shatter if either of us spoke.
I wanted to tell him that whatever was wrong, I was here. That I would always be here.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee
Prayer
my tormenter is not a devil,
She is of human nature.
She has no intentions of evil,
simple sin that lacks repentance.
Her sins become my own.
drawn in by Her prayers,
She wants to be one with me.
She calls me her savior.
Her love is meant for a god,
which i could never be,
and is poison to my senses.
like a drug she gets me high,
yet she becomes dependent.
Her helplessly human flaws
cause Her to overlook my own,
stripping me of humanity all the same.
She desires what She cannot touch,
like a moth, to a dying flame.
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