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-Kharkiv, Disputed Territory, Late May 1960-
Things had not gone well for Khrystyna. At first, she had nimbly avoided the PRU secret police by leaving her rifle and posing as a normal civilian, a decision she somewhat regretted because it would be very useful to her now.
Another bullet cracked past her head, and she hunkered down further, angrily gripping her Tokarev pistol. It was the only thing keeping those Cheka bastards from rushing her position, but it was far too useless for her usual sniper work.
She had hid with some anticommunist sympathizers that she had been relayed information on by her handler for a couple of weeks, but the Cheka was too damn persistent. Ordinarily they would have given up by now, but she imagined someone way up the commie hierarchy had wanted blood.
“Give up, devushka. You’re surrounded. There are only two options remaining for you now. Either you let us execute you the quick and fast way after we get ahold of you, or we shoot you up and let you bleed out real slow. They wanted you alive, but no one has to know.”
“Tch.” Khrystyna let off a couple of rounds at the closest one, and heard a satisfying yelp of pain.
She was hiding behind a tank, not that that was of any use to her because she hadn’t the least idea how to pilot one, and it probably didn’t have any gas anyway. She had chosen this location because the factory had two entrances, but they had gotten to the second entrance before she could leave and she had to lock the rolling metal door. It was only a matter of time before they found something to blow it open with.
“Every one of us you wound means we’ll do something worse to you when we get you. I hope you’re ready.” The taunting call came again, and Khrystyna continued fuming. There was nothing she could do now except wait for the end.
“I can at least say that I gave my life for my country. I hope that whatever they were going to do with that was worth it. That… Ukraine will be free.”
Looking at her pistol, she considered once more. It was a false dilemma they presented to her. In reality, there was a third option. It was disgraceful, it was unholy, but it was the option which offered the least amount of pain and would be most useful to her country.
“They told me I would have a front row spot for this. Liars.” She put the pistol’s muzzle up to her ear, and-
There was a muffled sound, like thunder, but not quite.
“There’s no way…” The pistol’s muzzle fell. “That has to be some storm off in the distance.”
The sound happened again, louder this time, but still not distinct.
And then finally, the sound reached her. The door to her left blew open, fragments of metal mercifully blowing past her harmlessly. Khrystyna raised her gun, ready to engage, but soon realized…
“They’re all dead. This was… artillery fire?” Taking her opportunity, she ran for it. Bullets rang all around her, and just before she reached the door she felt one in her shoulder. She bit her lip from the pain, but she kept going out into the city. Artillery shells started raining from the skies, all around her.
Buildings burst into shrapnel and fire. The city of Kharkiv was beautiful at sunrise, but not only the sky appeared as if in flames. Khrystyna could not mistake it now. The front was already almost here. There was only one thing to do. She took the green flare out of her bag, loaded it into the flare gun, and leaned out of the building she was hiding in to shoot it into the sky.
A couple more shells burst, and then silence.
The Cheka, undeterred, were moving. She could hear them now that the firing had stopped. Picking up a rifle from a nearby commie killed by the artillery, she was now ready.
Khrystyna made her way to the top of a building. “I hate firing on my right shoulder, feels weird,” she muttered to herself. But there was no other way, since her left had been injured.
Peering through the scope, she saw a cluster of them run around a nearby building. Three pops of her rifle, and all laid on the ground in a neat line as they fell. One heard the shots on her side, and tried to sneak towards the building. She fired again, and the Cheka man fell out of the shadows he was attempting to conceal himself in. She heard the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. The front was getting closer.
“Time to change locations.” Khrystyna slung the rifle over her right shoulder slightly awkwardly, and then went to draw her pistol as she turned around-
“Stop right there, assassin.”
She felt the glare of hate even though she hadn’t even seen the man. She lifted her hands as she turned towards him.
“You’re coming with me,” said the man, bedecked in an officer’s hat with the terrible crimson star on its brim that she feared more than all else. It was the same voice that had taunted her the whole standoff in the factory.
“Put down your weapons on the ground. Slowly.”
Khrystyna first pulled the rifle off her shoulder and laid it down, grimacing as her shoulder twinged. She then reached for her pistol, and did the same. If she could just lift the small pistol out of her boot on the way back up-
“Yeah, no.” A shot rang out, and her fingers flinched just away from the gun and the bullet that flew between her and it. The man was looking at her boot. “That one too.”
She cursed under her breath, then placed the tiny gun on the ground. Straightening up, she slipped one of her fingers close to her waist, and then threw a knife from beneath her skirt straight at the man’s throat.
The officer quickly managed to dodge, and fired off two rounds, but by then she was behind an air conditioner unit having picked up the .22 caliber pistol. The man tried to approach, but she shot off a round.
“How many shots can that thing possibly have? You’re certainly good at postponing your demise, but it won’t-“
A shot rang out as a whirring sound came into her hearing range. But this time, it wasn’t hers.
There was no mistaking this sound. It was a helicopter, an Otchestvo Ukrainian variant. That could only mean one thing.
“Chorna, nice to see you in one piece!” The man leaning out of the transport helicopter with a Mosin-Nagant waved.
“Likewise, Colonel. I still see you’re crazy enough to charge into a warzone with a damned transport helicopter!”
Colonel Viktor looked mock offended as the helicopter settled on the roof and several Ukrainian Royal Army troops charged out, Zroya rifles as the ready. “As if I’ve ever done this before.” He stepped onto the roof, smiling.
“Might as well have, sir, considering some of the other things.”
“And you accomplished your mission, didn’t you. Only one question. Why didn’t you take out the whole military leadership as well, then we wouldn’t have taken this long to get to the city?”
Khrystyna cracked a smile for the first time in two weeks, and she felt a tear or two drip down the side of her cheeks. There was a perfect response for this, a word that meant technically “nothing,” but in conventional usage was the usual expression of all of the East Slavic peoples’ hopelessness. In English, the appropriate phrase might be “there is nothing to be done about it.”
But here, crying and smiling, as the soldiers around her began firing at the remains of the Cheka, as artillery shells could be heard in the distance, as the forces of Ukrainian liberation advanced, Khrystyna spoke that word in perfect and complete irony as she winked. “Nichevo.”
-Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukrainian State, June 24th, 1960-
As the last petitioner left the throne room, bowing, Anastasiya sighed. “Is that all, Yeva?” she asked after her maid had closed the door. “It is.”
Anastasiya quickly dismissed the two royal guards who had been standing on either side, and then spoke up.
“I know I promised to hear petitioners every Sunday, but it gets very tiring very quickly. In principle, it seems like an apt practice. I’m not entirely sure it’s worth the effort, however.”
Yeva nodded. “It’s perhaps not my place to comment, but…”
“I’ve listened to your opinions for what, five years now? You need not mince words now simply because I’m soon to be the Hetman.”
Yeva hesitated for a moment, but then spoke. “The people appreciate when rulers listen to them. They are so used to rulers doing as they wish, and merely surviving under their rule. Your father scorned any appearance of democracy, but… people like when you care.”
Anastasiya carefully leaned back on her throne and lifted her hand to her chin, thinking carefully. “I am certainly not my father.”
Yeva smiled. “You’ve always been much more your mother’s child. You may have the airs and aristocracy of your father, but you have her heart. You love the vitchyzna more than anyone. This is fitting, as you are this land’s mother now. You will have to care for it, to protect it as any mother does her children. That is the best advice an old woman can give.”
Anastasiya smiled broadly and nodded. “Indeed.” But soon the expression on her face grew more wistful. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, your Grace. Are you ready?”
“No. The entire purpose of my education and upbringing up to this point has been to prepare me for this, in case my father did not have a son. I was always trained for this, but I never expected it, but yet here I am. However.”
Anastasiya looked at Yeva, fire blazing her eyes.
“Despite all that, I must.” The smile that never quite disappeared from Yeva’s face returned in full force.
“Do you know why this palace was chosen instead of Klov as the monarch’s residence?”
“I don’t, no,” Yeva replied.
“Because Catherine II stayed here when she visited Kiev. She was the first Russian royal to ever visit the palace. The other one was never visited by a single one.” Anastasiya stood up, and looked out of the window. “Catherine II, though she is not Ukrainian or indeed even Russian, is the woman I aspire most to be like. She ruled because she had to, lest the kingdom fall into peril under her insane husband’s rule, and she ruled justly and for the benefit of the people. I desire to be an enlightened monarch. A monarch ruling on the people’s behalf, not over them.”
“I suspect that you’re overlooking some aspects of her character.”
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t take away from the truthfulness of what I just said.” Anastasiya turned and smiled.
“Have Zoya prepare a bath. I suspect I will retire early today, in preparation.”
“Understood, your Grace.” Yeva bowed, and almost left the room, but then stopped, remembering something.
“The Foreign Minister asked me to give you these two things, a letter and a package.” She pulled both out of a bag, and handed them to the Hetman-in-waiting.
“Oh? Who are they from?”
“The package is from a noble, the Duke Timofij of Poltava, I believe. The letter is from Sultan Osman IV of the Ottoman Empire.”
“Thank you, Yeva.” The maid nodded, bowed, and left the room.
“So the great historical enemy of the Russian and Orthodox people speaks, oh?” Anastasiya opened the letter as she was walking out, and quickly scanned through the contents.
Realizing what an important opportunity this was, Anastasiya resolved at once to attend this conference herself. There could be no important goal than securing the approval and recognition of other European powers. Only that could truly secure Ukraine’s independence, not its own force of arms against the German hegemony.
As she walked back into her room, Anastasiya’s cat Arya brushed up against the side of her dress affectionately. Anastasiya smiled and knelt to pet her. “Hello, dear. How have you been?” Arya rubbed her head on her hand. Anastasiya sat down at her ornate wooden desk and proceeded to open the second package.
Arya leaped up onto the desk and looked at her expectantly. “What, do you smell something, dear?” Anastasiya opened up the embossed tin container inside the package, and was delighted to see Ukrainian cherry bars. “Chereshnyanyk! My favourite! I really must thank the Duke the next time I see him for this.” She lifted up one and was about to carefully bite into it, avoiding her dress, when Arya jumped and snatched it out of her hand and started eating it.
“Arya! You’re such a naughty girl. It’s a good thing nothing in those is poisonous for cats. If it was choco-“ Anastasiya paused mid-sentence in horror.
The cat lay on the floor, convulsing, seemingly having some kind of stroke. Images flashed back to her, of her father doing the same thing, of people rushing about, of him being carried off to the hospital for it to do no good. It was then that she knew what happened. All of what happened.
“Zoya!” Anastasiya screamed towards the next room in sadness and anger intertwined all in one.
-St. Sophia’s Cathedral, Kiev, Ukrainian State-
June 25th, 1960
“We aren’t going to let any of this out, understand? I want the person who did this, alive, and then we can tell people what happened.”
“Understood, your Grace.” The SZR (Foreign Intelligence Service) minister, Valentyn Vasylovych Vashchenko (the alliteration was amusing to Anastasiya upon meeting him, despite the circumstances) nodded. “We can be reasonably sure it wasn’t a retaliatory strike from the Communists. Though Duke Timofij had no knowledge of the package and it appears nothing actually originated from his office at all, the attack seems to be from someone inside the country, likely amongst the high nobility.” “Whoever it is, the poisoning of the Hetman-in-waiting the day before her coronation deserves the greatest punishment imaginable.” Valentyn shook his head disapprovingly. “I can’t even imagine what they were trying to accomplish, unless they were some sort of radical.”
Anastasiya looked dark. “I can begin to imagine.” Valentyn looked questioning, but she waved him away. “We will discuss at the Secretariat of Ministers meeting.” Valentyn bowed, and then backed away. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, Valentyn Vasylovych.”
With that, she looked one final time at the crowds that surrounded the cathedral, cheering. It seemed all of Kiev had come out on this summer day. Huge Ukrainian flags and flags bearing the coat of arms of the Solovski house were waved, and she could almost hear her name being called by a thousand voices.
She looked at her two maids, Yeva and Zoya, who looked sympathetic for what had happened yesterday but also excited. They dipped their heads slightly at her glance.
“Let us begin,” she pronounced.
The Metropolitan Bishop of Kiev, Joasaph II, met her at the door. He offered her a cross, which she kissed, as another bishop sprinkled her with holy water.
With that finished, the doors were opened, and in full royal dress, Anastasiya Solovski, the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Ukraine, began to stride down the hallway toward the iconostasis. She felt a thousand stares from inside this cathedral, but these were… different. These stares were not those of approval, but those of judgment. The nobility, the members of the Verkhovna Rada parliament, the upper echelons of industry and finance, and finally her family, the remaining members of the Solovski dynasty. Among these, the reception was most varied. Some, like her cousins, did look at her with love and approval, but some looked at her jealously, as if they wished to be in her place. Was her potential assassin amongst these people?
Anastasiya cleared her head, blinked, and continued on. Now was not the time to think of such things. Now was the time to show these people who looked on at her in judgment that she was everything she claimed to be.
The crown princess, as she remained for a little while longer, proceeded with the ceremony that her father had laid out before her, which imitated those of the ancient Grand Princes of Kiev and the Tsar of Russia alike. She venerated the cathedral icons three times, then proceeded to sit in the throne set in the cathedral dais.
First there was singing, and then she rose to recite the Eastern Orthodox Nicene Creed, as she did robotically as it had been drilled into her in every religious class since she was five years old. The prayers continued, but Anastasiya fell into almost a supernatural daze at her situation. The time had come at last, for the fate of a nation – a people – to fall upon her.
“"O Lord our God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, who through Samuel the prophet didst choose…”
Her eyes rose to heaven. She was never the most devout of Christians, but now she asked God for one thing, if nothing else. She desired the strength to carry out her mission. To carry the weight of Ukraine itself on her shoulders. To save her people from oppression and injustice, and to preserve their dreams. Noticing the time approached, she bowed her head once more.
"To Thee alone, King of Mankind, has she to whom Thou hast entrusted the earthly kingdom bowed her neck with us. And we pray Thee, Lord of All, keep her under Thine own shadow; strengthen her kingdom; grant that she may do continually those things which are pleasing to Thee; make to arise in her days righteousness and abundance of peace; that in her tranquility we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and gravity. For Thou art the King of peace and the Saviour of our souls and bodies and to Thee we ascribe glory: to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen."
With that, the prayers were finished. Anastasiya looked up, and at the Metropolitan, who looked at her with quiet approval. “Grant me the crown.”
The Metropolitan delivered it to her hands, and so she, with no more hesitation, placed it down upon her head.
"Most God-fearing, absolute, and mighty Lady, Hetman of all Ukraine, this visible and tangible adornment of thy head is an eloquent symbol that thou, as the head of the whole Ukrainian people, art invisibly crowned by the King of Kings, Christ, with a most ample blessing, seeing that He bestows upon thee entire authority over His people."
And so Her Majesty, Hetman and Queen of Ukraine, Anastasiya Artemivna Solovski, rose.
“I humbly accept.”
The coronation continued according to plan, with the investiture of the regalia, the Divine Liturgy, the coronation oath, and finally, the presentation of communion. This final thing was the most amazing for Anastasiya. She paused at the Royal Doors of the cathedral, the boundary none but anointed clergy were allowed to cross… except for monarchs on the day of their coronation. The Metropolitan nodded at her, in approval, and so she crossed the threshold. She was amazed at the art adorning the walls, of angels climbing up to heaven, and couldn’t help but look before proceeding to the Metropolitan, fully conscious that only a handful of people had witnessed before what she was seeing now. After the communion, the service was finally over, and an era of Anastasiya’s life with it.
---
After the assembled congregation had followed her out of the cathedral, they assembled before her in front of the doors, where she was scheduled to make her coronation speech. One could almost be forgiven for thinking she had just underwent a medieval coronation, except for the camera flashes and television camera lights in the crowd. She walked up to the podium, almost more terrified than she was walking into her coronation. This thought amused her enough to make her loosen up a little. She took a deep breath, raised her head, and began.
“To all gathered here today, to those watching and listening around the world, I present to you myself: the Hetman of all Ukraine. To those of you who are Ukrainians, wherever you may be, and to those who live in my country, regardless of whether you be Russian, Byelorussian, Tatar, Pole, or anything else: I present to you your monarch, Anastasiya the First.”
“My father’s death and my coronation have come at a troubling time for the people of Ukraine. We are beset by enemies, rivals and crises on all sides. The reanimated corpse of the empire that once oppressed the people of this land rears its head in the north. A refugee crisis floods this nation with Russians and some of even our dispossessed people from the east, and even Austrian humanitarian aid combined with our own has not proven enough to feed, clothe and shelter all of them. As my reign begins, I intend to address these issues and preserve the security and safety of not just the Ukrainians, but all those who desire to live within our borders. It is our responsibility, as the first and most secure of the post-Imperial nations, to light the way to the future of all East Slavic people in this time of troubles.”
“The last and greatest issue is the war between us and the fragmentary remnants of a revolution that failed, the People’s Republic of Ukraine.
Some are concerned that the war began opportunistically after the assassination of the General Secretary, and believe that we are responsible for this. The truth of the matter is that we are. I did not order the attack, but I do not believe it was wrong. With this, the bandits in red clothing who have stolen our people’s spirit have been shattered, and Ukraine will be free from their oppression just as they have become free from the oppression of the Russian Empire before them.”
With that, the Hetman gestured to a secretary, who began rolling a film reel. The film cut through pictures of conflict: old Russian tanks commandeered by the Ukrainians rolling through Kharkiv, soldiers loading artillery, and finally soldiers raising an Ukrainian flag above the Politburo building. The crowds could not help but cheer at that, and the film ended.
“As of two days ago, Kharkiv, the capital of the so-called People’s Republic, was captured by Ukrainian Royal Army forces. The remaining forces in the east have moved their provisional capital to Donetsk and dug in, but victory is assured within the next month.
With this effort, the specter of communism will be driven from Ukraine for good and the country will be reunited in peace and prosperity. Now I speak to the forces of communism and of imperialism alike: Ukraine is not yours to take! We will stand proud and independent… until there is no longer anyone who calls this land their home. I myself will stand as its shield against all enemies, so long as I still live. I look forward to the task before me, and I intend to take it on with every skill I possess.”
“Long live the Hetmanate! Long live its people! Long live Ukraine!”
The crowd cheered again, two more times, and with that, Anastasiya waved her hand in farewell.
In the front row of the crowd, Khrystyna, shoulder bandaged, was cheering alongside everyone else.
Things had not gone well for Khrystyna. At first, she had nimbly avoided the PRU secret police by leaving her rifle and posing as a normal civilian, a decision she somewhat regretted because it would be very useful to her now.
Another bullet cracked past her head, and she hunkered down further, angrily gripping her Tokarev pistol. It was the only thing keeping those Cheka bastards from rushing her position, but it was far too useless for her usual sniper work.
She had hid with some anticommunist sympathizers that she had been relayed information on by her handler for a couple of weeks, but the Cheka was too damn persistent. Ordinarily they would have given up by now, but she imagined someone way up the commie hierarchy had wanted blood.
“Give up, devushka. You’re surrounded. There are only two options remaining for you now. Either you let us execute you the quick and fast way after we get ahold of you, or we shoot you up and let you bleed out real slow. They wanted you alive, but no one has to know.”
“Tch.” Khrystyna let off a couple of rounds at the closest one, and heard a satisfying yelp of pain.
She was hiding behind a tank, not that that was of any use to her because she hadn’t the least idea how to pilot one, and it probably didn’t have any gas anyway. She had chosen this location because the factory had two entrances, but they had gotten to the second entrance before she could leave and she had to lock the rolling metal door. It was only a matter of time before they found something to blow it open with.
“Every one of us you wound means we’ll do something worse to you when we get you. I hope you’re ready.” The taunting call came again, and Khrystyna continued fuming. There was nothing she could do now except wait for the end.
“I can at least say that I gave my life for my country. I hope that whatever they were going to do with that was worth it. That… Ukraine will be free.”
Looking at her pistol, she considered once more. It was a false dilemma they presented to her. In reality, there was a third option. It was disgraceful, it was unholy, but it was the option which offered the least amount of pain and would be most useful to her country.
“They told me I would have a front row spot for this. Liars.” She put the pistol’s muzzle up to her ear, and-
There was a muffled sound, like thunder, but not quite.
“There’s no way…” The pistol’s muzzle fell. “That has to be some storm off in the distance.”
The sound happened again, louder this time, but still not distinct.
And then finally, the sound reached her. The door to her left blew open, fragments of metal mercifully blowing past her harmlessly. Khrystyna raised her gun, ready to engage, but soon realized…
“They’re all dead. This was… artillery fire?” Taking her opportunity, she ran for it. Bullets rang all around her, and just before she reached the door she felt one in her shoulder. She bit her lip from the pain, but she kept going out into the city. Artillery shells started raining from the skies, all around her.
Buildings burst into shrapnel and fire. The city of Kharkiv was beautiful at sunrise, but not only the sky appeared as if in flames. Khrystyna could not mistake it now. The front was already almost here. There was only one thing to do. She took the green flare out of her bag, loaded it into the flare gun, and leaned out of the building she was hiding in to shoot it into the sky.
A couple more shells burst, and then silence.
The Cheka, undeterred, were moving. She could hear them now that the firing had stopped. Picking up a rifle from a nearby commie killed by the artillery, she was now ready.
Khrystyna made her way to the top of a building. “I hate firing on my right shoulder, feels weird,” she muttered to herself. But there was no other way, since her left had been injured.
Peering through the scope, she saw a cluster of them run around a nearby building. Three pops of her rifle, and all laid on the ground in a neat line as they fell. One heard the shots on her side, and tried to sneak towards the building. She fired again, and the Cheka man fell out of the shadows he was attempting to conceal himself in. She heard the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire. The front was getting closer.
“Time to change locations.” Khrystyna slung the rifle over her right shoulder slightly awkwardly, and then went to draw her pistol as she turned around-
“Stop right there, assassin.”
She felt the glare of hate even though she hadn’t even seen the man. She lifted her hands as she turned towards him.
“You’re coming with me,” said the man, bedecked in an officer’s hat with the terrible crimson star on its brim that she feared more than all else. It was the same voice that had taunted her the whole standoff in the factory.
“Put down your weapons on the ground. Slowly.”
Khrystyna first pulled the rifle off her shoulder and laid it down, grimacing as her shoulder twinged. She then reached for her pistol, and did the same. If she could just lift the small pistol out of her boot on the way back up-
“Yeah, no.” A shot rang out, and her fingers flinched just away from the gun and the bullet that flew between her and it. The man was looking at her boot. “That one too.”
She cursed under her breath, then placed the tiny gun on the ground. Straightening up, she slipped one of her fingers close to her waist, and then threw a knife from beneath her skirt straight at the man’s throat.
The officer quickly managed to dodge, and fired off two rounds, but by then she was behind an air conditioner unit having picked up the .22 caliber pistol. The man tried to approach, but she shot off a round.
“How many shots can that thing possibly have? You’re certainly good at postponing your demise, but it won’t-“
A shot rang out as a whirring sound came into her hearing range. But this time, it wasn’t hers.
There was no mistaking this sound. It was a helicopter, an Otchestvo Ukrainian variant. That could only mean one thing.
“Chorna, nice to see you in one piece!” The man leaning out of the transport helicopter with a Mosin-Nagant waved.
“Likewise, Colonel. I still see you’re crazy enough to charge into a warzone with a damned transport helicopter!”
Colonel Viktor looked mock offended as the helicopter settled on the roof and several Ukrainian Royal Army troops charged out, Zroya rifles as the ready. “As if I’ve ever done this before.” He stepped onto the roof, smiling.
“Might as well have, sir, considering some of the other things.”
“And you accomplished your mission, didn’t you. Only one question. Why didn’t you take out the whole military leadership as well, then we wouldn’t have taken this long to get to the city?”
Khrystyna cracked a smile for the first time in two weeks, and she felt a tear or two drip down the side of her cheeks. There was a perfect response for this, a word that meant technically “nothing,” but in conventional usage was the usual expression of all of the East Slavic peoples’ hopelessness. In English, the appropriate phrase might be “there is nothing to be done about it.”
But here, crying and smiling, as the soldiers around her began firing at the remains of the Cheka, as artillery shells could be heard in the distance, as the forces of Ukrainian liberation advanced, Khrystyna spoke that word in perfect and complete irony as she winked. “Nichevo.”
-Mariyinsky Palace, Kiev, Ukrainian State, June 24th, 1960-
As the last petitioner left the throne room, bowing, Anastasiya sighed. “Is that all, Yeva?” she asked after her maid had closed the door. “It is.”
Anastasiya quickly dismissed the two royal guards who had been standing on either side, and then spoke up.
“I know I promised to hear petitioners every Sunday, but it gets very tiring very quickly. In principle, it seems like an apt practice. I’m not entirely sure it’s worth the effort, however.”
Yeva nodded. “It’s perhaps not my place to comment, but…”
“I’ve listened to your opinions for what, five years now? You need not mince words now simply because I’m soon to be the Hetman.”
Yeva hesitated for a moment, but then spoke. “The people appreciate when rulers listen to them. They are so used to rulers doing as they wish, and merely surviving under their rule. Your father scorned any appearance of democracy, but… people like when you care.”
Anastasiya carefully leaned back on her throne and lifted her hand to her chin, thinking carefully. “I am certainly not my father.”
Yeva smiled. “You’ve always been much more your mother’s child. You may have the airs and aristocracy of your father, but you have her heart. You love the vitchyzna more than anyone. This is fitting, as you are this land’s mother now. You will have to care for it, to protect it as any mother does her children. That is the best advice an old woman can give.”
Anastasiya smiled broadly and nodded. “Indeed.” But soon the expression on her face grew more wistful. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, your Grace. Are you ready?”
“No. The entire purpose of my education and upbringing up to this point has been to prepare me for this, in case my father did not have a son. I was always trained for this, but I never expected it, but yet here I am. However.”
Anastasiya looked at Yeva, fire blazing her eyes.
“Despite all that, I must.” The smile that never quite disappeared from Yeva’s face returned in full force.
“Do you know why this palace was chosen instead of Klov as the monarch’s residence?”
“I don’t, no,” Yeva replied.
“Because Catherine II stayed here when she visited Kiev. She was the first Russian royal to ever visit the palace. The other one was never visited by a single one.” Anastasiya stood up, and looked out of the window. “Catherine II, though she is not Ukrainian or indeed even Russian, is the woman I aspire most to be like. She ruled because she had to, lest the kingdom fall into peril under her insane husband’s rule, and she ruled justly and for the benefit of the people. I desire to be an enlightened monarch. A monarch ruling on the people’s behalf, not over them.”
“I suspect that you’re overlooking some aspects of her character.”
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t take away from the truthfulness of what I just said.” Anastasiya turned and smiled.
“Have Zoya prepare a bath. I suspect I will retire early today, in preparation.”
“Understood, your Grace.” Yeva bowed, and almost left the room, but then stopped, remembering something.
“The Foreign Minister asked me to give you these two things, a letter and a package.” She pulled both out of a bag, and handed them to the Hetman-in-waiting.
“Oh? Who are they from?”
“The package is from a noble, the Duke Timofij of Poltava, I believe. The letter is from Sultan Osman IV of the Ottoman Empire.”
“Thank you, Yeva.” The maid nodded, bowed, and left the room.
“So the great historical enemy of the Russian and Orthodox people speaks, oh?” Anastasiya opened the letter as she was walking out, and quickly scanned through the contents.
Realizing what an important opportunity this was, Anastasiya resolved at once to attend this conference herself. There could be no important goal than securing the approval and recognition of other European powers. Only that could truly secure Ukraine’s independence, not its own force of arms against the German hegemony.
As she walked back into her room, Anastasiya’s cat Arya brushed up against the side of her dress affectionately. Anastasiya smiled and knelt to pet her. “Hello, dear. How have you been?” Arya rubbed her head on her hand. Anastasiya sat down at her ornate wooden desk and proceeded to open the second package.
Arya leaped up onto the desk and looked at her expectantly. “What, do you smell something, dear?” Anastasiya opened up the embossed tin container inside the package, and was delighted to see Ukrainian cherry bars. “Chereshnyanyk! My favourite! I really must thank the Duke the next time I see him for this.” She lifted up one and was about to carefully bite into it, avoiding her dress, when Arya jumped and snatched it out of her hand and started eating it.
“Arya! You’re such a naughty girl. It’s a good thing nothing in those is poisonous for cats. If it was choco-“ Anastasiya paused mid-sentence in horror.
The cat lay on the floor, convulsing, seemingly having some kind of stroke. Images flashed back to her, of her father doing the same thing, of people rushing about, of him being carried off to the hospital for it to do no good. It was then that she knew what happened. All of what happened.
“Zoya!” Anastasiya screamed towards the next room in sadness and anger intertwined all in one.
-St. Sophia’s Cathedral, Kiev, Ukrainian State-
June 25th, 1960
“We aren’t going to let any of this out, understand? I want the person who did this, alive, and then we can tell people what happened.”
“Understood, your Grace.” The SZR (Foreign Intelligence Service) minister, Valentyn Vasylovych Vashchenko (the alliteration was amusing to Anastasiya upon meeting him, despite the circumstances) nodded. “We can be reasonably sure it wasn’t a retaliatory strike from the Communists. Though Duke Timofij had no knowledge of the package and it appears nothing actually originated from his office at all, the attack seems to be from someone inside the country, likely amongst the high nobility.” “Whoever it is, the poisoning of the Hetman-in-waiting the day before her coronation deserves the greatest punishment imaginable.” Valentyn shook his head disapprovingly. “I can’t even imagine what they were trying to accomplish, unless they were some sort of radical.”
Anastasiya looked dark. “I can begin to imagine.” Valentyn looked questioning, but she waved him away. “We will discuss at the Secretariat of Ministers meeting.” Valentyn bowed, and then backed away. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, Valentyn Vasylovych.”
With that, she looked one final time at the crowds that surrounded the cathedral, cheering. It seemed all of Kiev had come out on this summer day. Huge Ukrainian flags and flags bearing the coat of arms of the Solovski house were waved, and she could almost hear her name being called by a thousand voices.
She looked at her two maids, Yeva and Zoya, who looked sympathetic for what had happened yesterday but also excited. They dipped their heads slightly at her glance.
“Let us begin,” she pronounced.
The Metropolitan Bishop of Kiev, Joasaph II, met her at the door. He offered her a cross, which she kissed, as another bishop sprinkled her with holy water.
With that finished, the doors were opened, and in full royal dress, Anastasiya Solovski, the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Ukraine, began to stride down the hallway toward the iconostasis. She felt a thousand stares from inside this cathedral, but these were… different. These stares were not those of approval, but those of judgment. The nobility, the members of the Verkhovna Rada parliament, the upper echelons of industry and finance, and finally her family, the remaining members of the Solovski dynasty. Among these, the reception was most varied. Some, like her cousins, did look at her with love and approval, but some looked at her jealously, as if they wished to be in her place. Was her potential assassin amongst these people?
Anastasiya cleared her head, blinked, and continued on. Now was not the time to think of such things. Now was the time to show these people who looked on at her in judgment that she was everything she claimed to be.
The crown princess, as she remained for a little while longer, proceeded with the ceremony that her father had laid out before her, which imitated those of the ancient Grand Princes of Kiev and the Tsar of Russia alike. She venerated the cathedral icons three times, then proceeded to sit in the throne set in the cathedral dais.
First there was singing, and then she rose to recite the Eastern Orthodox Nicene Creed, as she did robotically as it had been drilled into her in every religious class since she was five years old. The prayers continued, but Anastasiya fell into almost a supernatural daze at her situation. The time had come at last, for the fate of a nation – a people – to fall upon her.
“"O Lord our God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, who through Samuel the prophet didst choose…”
Her eyes rose to heaven. She was never the most devout of Christians, but now she asked God for one thing, if nothing else. She desired the strength to carry out her mission. To carry the weight of Ukraine itself on her shoulders. To save her people from oppression and injustice, and to preserve their dreams. Noticing the time approached, she bowed her head once more.
"To Thee alone, King of Mankind, has she to whom Thou hast entrusted the earthly kingdom bowed her neck with us. And we pray Thee, Lord of All, keep her under Thine own shadow; strengthen her kingdom; grant that she may do continually those things which are pleasing to Thee; make to arise in her days righteousness and abundance of peace; that in her tranquility we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and gravity. For Thou art the King of peace and the Saviour of our souls and bodies and to Thee we ascribe glory: to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen."
With that, the prayers were finished. Anastasiya looked up, and at the Metropolitan, who looked at her with quiet approval. “Grant me the crown.”
The Metropolitan delivered it to her hands, and so she, with no more hesitation, placed it down upon her head.
"Most God-fearing, absolute, and mighty Lady, Hetman of all Ukraine, this visible and tangible adornment of thy head is an eloquent symbol that thou, as the head of the whole Ukrainian people, art invisibly crowned by the King of Kings, Christ, with a most ample blessing, seeing that He bestows upon thee entire authority over His people."
And so Her Majesty, Hetman and Queen of Ukraine, Anastasiya Artemivna Solovski, rose.
“I humbly accept.”
The coronation continued according to plan, with the investiture of the regalia, the Divine Liturgy, the coronation oath, and finally, the presentation of communion. This final thing was the most amazing for Anastasiya. She paused at the Royal Doors of the cathedral, the boundary none but anointed clergy were allowed to cross… except for monarchs on the day of their coronation. The Metropolitan nodded at her, in approval, and so she crossed the threshold. She was amazed at the art adorning the walls, of angels climbing up to heaven, and couldn’t help but look before proceeding to the Metropolitan, fully conscious that only a handful of people had witnessed before what she was seeing now. After the communion, the service was finally over, and an era of Anastasiya’s life with it.
---
After the assembled congregation had followed her out of the cathedral, they assembled before her in front of the doors, where she was scheduled to make her coronation speech. One could almost be forgiven for thinking she had just underwent a medieval coronation, except for the camera flashes and television camera lights in the crowd. She walked up to the podium, almost more terrified than she was walking into her coronation. This thought amused her enough to make her loosen up a little. She took a deep breath, raised her head, and began.
“To all gathered here today, to those watching and listening around the world, I present to you myself: the Hetman of all Ukraine. To those of you who are Ukrainians, wherever you may be, and to those who live in my country, regardless of whether you be Russian, Byelorussian, Tatar, Pole, or anything else: I present to you your monarch, Anastasiya the First.”
“My father’s death and my coronation have come at a troubling time for the people of Ukraine. We are beset by enemies, rivals and crises on all sides. The reanimated corpse of the empire that once oppressed the people of this land rears its head in the north. A refugee crisis floods this nation with Russians and some of even our dispossessed people from the east, and even Austrian humanitarian aid combined with our own has not proven enough to feed, clothe and shelter all of them. As my reign begins, I intend to address these issues and preserve the security and safety of not just the Ukrainians, but all those who desire to live within our borders. It is our responsibility, as the first and most secure of the post-Imperial nations, to light the way to the future of all East Slavic people in this time of troubles.”
“The last and greatest issue is the war between us and the fragmentary remnants of a revolution that failed, the People’s Republic of Ukraine.
Some are concerned that the war began opportunistically after the assassination of the General Secretary, and believe that we are responsible for this. The truth of the matter is that we are. I did not order the attack, but I do not believe it was wrong. With this, the bandits in red clothing who have stolen our people’s spirit have been shattered, and Ukraine will be free from their oppression just as they have become free from the oppression of the Russian Empire before them.”
With that, the Hetman gestured to a secretary, who began rolling a film reel. The film cut through pictures of conflict: old Russian tanks commandeered by the Ukrainians rolling through Kharkiv, soldiers loading artillery, and finally soldiers raising an Ukrainian flag above the Politburo building. The crowds could not help but cheer at that, and the film ended.
“As of two days ago, Kharkiv, the capital of the so-called People’s Republic, was captured by Ukrainian Royal Army forces. The remaining forces in the east have moved their provisional capital to Donetsk and dug in, but victory is assured within the next month.
With this effort, the specter of communism will be driven from Ukraine for good and the country will be reunited in peace and prosperity. Now I speak to the forces of communism and of imperialism alike: Ukraine is not yours to take! We will stand proud and independent… until there is no longer anyone who calls this land their home. I myself will stand as its shield against all enemies, so long as I still live. I look forward to the task before me, and I intend to take it on with every skill I possess.”
“Long live the Hetmanate! Long live its people! Long live Ukraine!”
The crowd cheered again, two more times, and with that, Anastasiya waved her hand in farewell.
In the front row of the crowd, Khrystyna, shoulder bandaged, was cheering alongside everyone else.