Chapter Text
For ten years, Tsesarevich Victor Nikolaevich Nikiforov lived an idyllic life. As idyllic as the life of the heir to the Russian imperial throne could be. Too young yet for the arts of state, Victor studied the arts of court. Dancing, etiquette, imperial history. For as many hours a day as his tutors could manage Victor learned of the opulent beauty and genteel manners of his imperial birthright.
The prince was beautiful, like his parents, with his mother’s ice blue eyes and the famous silver hair of the Nikiforov line, which he wore long, nearly to his waist. He was thought by all to be a charming, happy child, beloved by all of court, and of course carefully insulated from the growing unrest among the common people of Russia. Victor knew only his loving family and dedicated servants, his gilded home, and the excitement of the sparkling balls his mother and father would host regularly at their St. Petersburg palace.
It was at one such ball that Victor found himself tonight. Finally deemed old enough for a proper suit, the young prince was feeling very proud in his white silk and red sash, a perfect miniature of his father’s imperial garb. His mother the empress Maria indulged him with a dance, playfully following Victor’s fervently practiced steps across the floor as Victor focused on not tripping over his mother’s ample skirts.
“Your waltzing has certainly improved since our last dance, Vitya,” his mother says warmly, allowing Victor to lead her carefully around a clear spot of the ballroom, “You’ll be highly in demand as a partner, as soon as you grow a little taller.”
“Mama!” Victor objects, indignant as his mother laughs. It’s true, the top of Victor’s head hardly yet reaches the empress’s shoulders, but he’ll be tall someday, like his papa! Victor informs his mother of this fact and she laughs again, bending to kiss Victor’s brow.
“I know, little one,” she agrees, “But don't hurry to grow up too fast. I’ll miss my sweet Vitya when you are tall and strong.”
“I’ll always be your Vitya,” Victor promises, foregoing the steps of the waltz to give his mother a hug, mindful of the delicate jewels adorning her gown. His mother pets her fingers through his long hair.
“Of course you will, moya zvezdochka,” the empress replies, “Now run along, I see your Uncle Yakov has arrived and I'm sure he’s eager to speak with you.”
Indeed, Victor turns to see his great uncle announced and offer his respects to the Tsar before casting his eye about the ballroom for Victor.
“Uncle Yakov!” Victor calls, waving as he did his best not to run across the marble floors. Duke Yakov was known by many as a reserved man, but it was little secret that Victor was his favorite. Having no children of his own the duke doted on the crown prince as much as his stern nature would allow, treating Victor as he would a beloved grandchild.
When he reaches his uncle Victor stops to bow, never forgetting his manners in the sight of the court. Yakov bows in return, slightly lower as is due the Tsesarevich, before Victor practically throws himself into his uncle’s arms.
“Ah, Vitya, you’ll knock an old man down with your enthusiasm,” Yakov greets him, returning his hug more carefully.
“I’m glad to see you, uncle,” Victor replies, “You don't come to enough balls, only papa’s stuffy meetings!”
Yakov laughs. “Parties are for young people and politicians. I'm not sorry to say I avoid them. But I could not avoid tonight, because I have something important to tell you.”
“What is it, Uncle Yakov?” Victor asks, but from his uncle’s solemn face he can guess, “You’re not leaving us again?”
“I am to be your father’s voice in France,” the duke informs him, “I will return to Paris in the spring.”
“But you’ve only just returned,” Victor objects, crestfallen. His uncle may be a grumpy old man, but he is secretly very kind, and he never talks down to Victor as if he were still a baby like much of the court does.
“I’m sorry, Vitya,” Yakov says with heart, patting the young prince on the head, “I would not leave you for the world, but we all have our duty to the crown, and it is an honor to fulfill mine.”
Victor nods, blinking away the burning behind his eyes. It would not do to cry in the sight of his father’s subjects. Crying was for babies who still slept in a nursery. “I will miss you terribly, Uncle Yakov.”
“And I you, moya ribka.”
Yakov kneels, as if to tell Victor a secret. “His Imperial Highness did mention,” he confides, “If a certain prince were to truly dedicate himself to his French lessons for the rest of the winter, he might be allowed to join me in Paris for a summer holiday.”
Victor gasps with delight, his tears forgotten. “Me?”
His great uncle chuckles good naturedly. “Yes, Vitya, I mean you,” he says, then sternly, “But you must study very hard, and never shirk your tutors, yes?”
“Yes yes!” Victor declares, “I will work so hard, uncle, I’ll be fluent by spring. I promise!”
“Very good. Now, I have a gift for you, to remind you of our agreement when I am gone ahead to France,” Yakov reveals, and Victor bounces on his toes in his excitement.
Yakov presents him with a ornate trinket box, small enough to fit in the palm of Victor’s hand, and with it a golden brooch, enameled with a simple map of Europe. A small stone marks St. Petersburg, and another Paris.
Yakov instructs him on how to fit the edge of the brooch into a groove on the little box, winding it up to reveal a secret compartment.
“A music box!” Victor exclaims, watching in wonder as a little carved figure with silver hair rises to dance around an equally miniature Eiffel tower, “It’s me! And such beautiful music.”
“Yes, from a new ballet written by a Russian composer in Paris,” Yakov explains, “If you come to see me we will go to see his show together.”
“It’s wonderful,” Victor says, clutching the little box to his heart, “Thank you uncle, I’ll treasure it.”
“Let it remind you to stay focused,” the duke encourages him, “You will have many duties to prepare for as Tsar before too long, but I want you to learn more about the world outside this palace before then.”
“I’ll study all day long,” Victor promises again.
“Good. The world is yours, Vitya,” Yakov says, pinning the brooch to Victor’s silk sash, “You must only keep your eyes open to see all its wonders.”
But Victor was not to see the world’s wonders with his beloved uncle, no matter how dutifully he applied himself to his studies. For the opulence of the Tsars had put into motion a revolution that would have deadly consequences for the whole Nikiforov line. The young Tsesarevich was not to know of the calamity approaching his carefully sheltered world until he was roughly awoken one bitterly cold February morning.
~
“Vitya. Vitya, wake up.”
A familiar gravelly voice pulls Victor unexpectedly from his rest.
“Uncle Yakov?” Victor is bleary with sleep, but it is indeed the duke shaking him awake. “It's so early. The moon is still out.”
“I know, young one, but we must hurry,” Yakov says in an urgent whisper, “We’re leaving for Paris now.”
“Paris?” Victor exclaims. He’s been dreaming of the city of lights, ever since his uncle spoke of his going.
“Yes, yes, I promised, didn't I?” Yakov replies, “You’ve been working very hard so we’re leaving early. Quickly now, you must dress. We have already packed your things.”
Victor hurriedly dresses in the plain traveling clothes his uncle provides, only stopping to pin his brooch to his undershirt and slip the small music box in his pocket.
“Do not bring extra things,” Yakov says when Victor reaches for his favorite stuffed dog, his voice still at a hurried whisper, “We will have everything we need waiting for us, and time is of the essence.”
Victor hardly pulls on his coat before Yakov is practically tugging him out of the room. As they pass a large stained glass window Victor can make out the flickering blur of torch lights. There are dozens of them, surrounding the palace.
“What's going on?” Victor asks his uncle, Paris forgotten for the moment, “Who are those people?”
“Do not mind them,” Yakov orders, leading Victor from the royal family's quarters, “Everything will be fine if you can be very quiet, and do exactly as I say, do you understand?”
“Yes, uncle,” Victor replies, jumping when he hears a crash in a room far away, and the muffled sound of angry voices.
He may be only ten years old but Victor knows that his uncle is not being entirely truthful with him. Something is terribly wrong.
“Come, Vitya, quickly,” Yakov urges him. There is another crash and Victor is frightened enough to obey without question.
They make their way through the labyrinthine halls of the grand palace, but when they come to the main stairs the shouting grows louder, and Victor smells smoke. His uncle curses, and makes to turn back when a voice calls out to them.
“Your grace, this way!”
It's one of the kitchen boys. Victor has seen him running errands for the cook on many an occasion, his curiousity piqued by their similar age and the boy’s foreign features. The boy’s normally warm skin looks pale, whether from the dim light or fearfulness Victor cannot say.
With no other option Yakov follows the boy, who leads them to a little used alcove in the main hall.
“Through the servant’s quarters,” the dark haired boy directs them, opening an unseen panel in the wall, “There won't be men there yet.”
“Thank you, boy.” Yakov makes to drag Victor along, but the jostling motion causes his music box to drop from the impractical pocket of his coat. The gold trinket goes rolling across the wood floor, causing a racket that draws voices from down the hall.
“My music box!” Victor cries, but the servant boy shoves him after his uncle, forcing him to abandon the prized possession.
“Leave it! You have to run, they're coming!”
Victor’s eyes lock with the boy’s as he pushes him through the secret door. He sees something beautiful there, but also fear to match his own.
“Go, quickly!”
The wall closes, leaving them in a cramped and darkened passageway. Victor’s heart is clenched in terror as he follows Yakov through the dingy servant’s hall, but he cannot forget the pretty eyes of the servant boy, as fearful as their gaze may have been. Warm sienna brown, like the polished wood of the carved hobby horse left behind in Victor’s room.
Victor allows his thoughts to distract him as they trip and stumble through the dark passageway, then out to a muddy back road still full of snow. Victor is tiring as they reach a more crowded lane, and he can hear the puffing breath of his uncle, but there is the whistle of a train and the duke urges Victor onward.
“Run, Vitya,” Yakov nearly shouts, “As best you can. We must make that train!”
He can hardly keep pace with his uncle’s longer stride, but Victor does his best to keep up, wincing at the vice grip of Yakov's hand around his own. They reach a set of tracks, covered in milling people. They crowd in and threaten to pull Victor from his uncle’s grip and Victor clings in fear. The train whistle blows again, and Victor can see the last car pulling slowly away from the station.
“Go Vitya, run!”
They catch up to the side of the departing train, where men on the caboose end help Victor’s uncle on board, easily lifting the taller man to the train car. Yakov reaches down for Victor, but the train is increasing speed, and Victor struggles to keep up. His hands skid and slip over Yakov’s gloved ones in a mockery of a secure grip.
“Victor, don't let go!” Yakov cries, “Hold on to me, Vit’enka!”
“Uncle Yakov!” Victor can't keep a grip on his uncle’s hand. The train is pulling away to fast, and Victor’s small hand is slick with perspiration. He’s too small to reach the men on the car trying to grab hold of him.
Yakov nearly has a hold of him when Victor’s boot catches on a rough cobblestone and he falls with a pained cry, losing his grip. His head strikes the hard ground and everything goes black.
His last memory is the ever more distant voice of his great uncle, still desperately calling his name.