First Kiss of Winter
Title: First Kiss of Winter
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13 for violent imagery.
Characters: Russia/America
Premise: Russia receives a worried visitor after the horrifying events of Bloody Sunday.
St. Petersburg, Russia - The Winter Palace. January 24, 1905.
It was cold. Much too cold.
Russia considered, for a moment, getting up, moving away from the broken window, out of his nest of shattered glass. To a bedroom, maybe. Somewhere the freezing wind couldn't knife across the snow and knock him breathless.
He tucked his chin against his knees, sucked the icy air through his teeth, and stayed where he was.
Because--there was always a chance that they would come back. And he'd be ready. His eyes darted to the rifle next to him, and he reached out, curled his index finger around the trigger. The frigid metal clung to his skin.
Night was coming on, and stars began to wink alive above the vast and empty square beneath the Winter Palace. He hadn't seen anyone since that morning. He closed his eyes, suddenly, and tried not to think of the dull roar of people piling over each other, crushing, clawing, fighting to get away. They'd asked for it. A petition and everything. He'd done the only thing he could.
There was a little jog at the doorknob, a creak, and the soft questioning trickle of glass being nudged to the side. A feeble stripe of light fell in from the hallway.
America's voice was hesitant as it floated over the thin January air. "Russia? ...Are you in here?" Quieter, then, almost to himself: "It's so dark."
Russia huddled a little tighter into himself, and hoped that America would leave. He stared out across the snow, churned up and dirty. There were no bodies. They'd all been spirited away, and he didn't even know how many there had been. He hunched his shoulders and tried to pretend he was alone.
That wedge of light disappeared, and the door sighed shut again, but America had come inside instead of going away. His boots clicked over the tiles--they squealed and cracked over slivers of glass. His footsteps switched from cautious to certain as he found Russia cringing in the hollow dark.
"Russia," he breathed. He swept up close, kneeled down at his side. After a hesitation, he let his hand rest light on Russia's shoulder.
Russia shuddered, dropped one hand to steady himself. A tiny shred of plate glass struck itself between his thumb and forefinger, dull and painful. Blood swelled out beneath his palm. First warmth he'd felt in hours--besides America's hand on his shoulder. He looked over to him, then turned his gaze back down at the square.
They stayed like that for a minute, and their breath made transparent clouds.
America wet his lips a few times. When he spoke, all he could come up with was a weak, "...What happened?"
A little silence.
Russia answered simply: "They turned on me. All of them. It was inevitable--it's been too long since something like this has happened. They wanted things I couldn't give--you understand, don't you?--things that just weren't practical...They always do…" He wasn't saying anything at all, and he felt a vague horror for the thin, alien sound of his own voice. "And then they came, with their petitions and their anthems and--and--They sang 'God Save the Tsar', did you know that?" There was a tinkle of grit and glass as he moved, dropped his head. "Children, too...High, clear voices..."
America's fingers curled a little in his sleeve. "So you...shot them..." he faltered.
"I had to!" Russia whipped to face him, his eyes too bright. "They were coming for me, and, and they wouldn't play nice...they would have taken--things. So many things..." A tremor passed up through his arm and over his shoulders.
America searched his face. His other hand came forward, then rested in midair. "You...but they were..." Peaceful, unarmed, Russia heard the words just fine in the aching silence. He closed his eyes, then, and reached forward. His hand skidded through the air and cupped light around the edge of Russia's face. "God, Russia..."
Russia shied away, just a little, but he didn't shake him off. That touch was too hot, after the sting of the wind, and the muscles of Russia's face twitched and spasmed beneath his fingers. America winced, and "Don't be scared" raced past his lips. He pushed forward on the floor, across the broken glass, and put his arms around him.
Russia jerked against him. "I'm not."
"I know," he said quickly. "Sorry. Shouldn't have--said." He flexed his fingers in Russia's clothes.
Russia looked from his arms, to his face, and he watched him for a moment. His coat caught up the rubble and slid loud against the tile as he sank into America's arms. America breathed out slowly, and gathered him in. After a pause, he rested his cheek against the side of his head.
A gust of wind sent a rush of snowflakes through the shattered window, and Russia shifted a little closer, eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't believe the square was empty. There should have been people, hundreds, staggered in dark rows across the freezing stone. The rifle had recoiled hard against his shoulder, sharp--he had bruises. Once for every person who went down, overlapped on his skin into sticky black. He swallowed. "Do you--do you understand?" The question was just on the edge of hearing. "America?"
There was an anguished pause before America turned his head down and whispered, "Yes, Russia, I understand."
"No." A helpless whisper. "You don't." Russia's hands snarled into the front of his shirt. He was vaguely aware of something hanging between them-- he remembered cold glances, sharp words, jealousy, and--weren't they fighting? He should pull away.
He didn't.
America braced his forehead on Russia's shoulder and said unsteadily, "I do. ...I--I'm not going to yell at you."
"Why not?" A woman, he thought suddenly, a woman had spun around like a child's top, arms flailing, and tumbled into the snow. Two dark stains seeped out from under her, and that had--that had been him.
"Because you..." America tightened. "I don't know, because...because I'm not mad at you."
"You should be," he mumbled. "Too late--you came too late to see it." Russia leaned in and closed his eyes against America's breath, feeling it gust warm across his face.
America gently pressed his knuckles into his hair. "I heard," he sighed. He shut his eyes, and his shoulders hitched. "Russia...what's happening to you?"
Russia stiffened and dug his teeth into his lower lip. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Screams rang in his ears, shrill, frozen. "I'm protecting myself," he muttered. "I couldn't let that happen again."
America's fingers worked into his hair to draw little circles on his scalp. "Let what happen?" he asked, helpless.
"They were going to force me--I told you this already!" Russia's voice rose abruptly. "You're not listening!" The wind whipped the words away, out to echo across the empty square.
"I am, please, calm down," America urged him. He jerked back to meet his eyes. The moon had risen to throw light over Russia's shoulder and across America's face--it made him look pale, silver, glowing, and not quite real. America is gold, he's supposed to be gold. "I'm listening, I want to understand, I just…I had heard that they just wanted things like fair wages, and shorter days, so..."
"That's how it starts," Russia's shoulders were a hard line under America's hands. "But I could tell they wanted more, they always want more. And when I give them anything, they'll just keep on taking..." He dropped his head forward and trailed into silence.
America seemed at a loss. He looked down, unfocused. He blinked at the dark pool spreading out from between Russia's fingers. "You're bleeding," he said, startled. Without waiting for a response, he peeled Russia's hand off the floor and pulled it towards the window. The splinter of glass embedded in his skin glittered in the moonlight.
"Hold still, I've--just a second--" He gripped the end of the shard between thumb and forefinger, and something in his eyes flickered--and then he squeezed and jerked. A shiver of pain flew all the way up Russia's arm to his curl up in neck. America flicked the bloody glass across the floor and then looked down at his fingertips. Blood trickled from new cuts. A soft laugh escaped him.
Russia stared at their comingling blood. It was warm, it dripped slowly down his wrist and soaked into his sleeve, and he tried to cup his other hand around it, to catch the droplets before they hit the floor. The blood shone dark against the tiles. He swiped a finger through it and it smeared across the marble. He thought about arterial spray, arced across the radiant snow. He blinked up and met America's eyes.
America threaded his bleeding hand into Russia's. His knuckles were red from the cold. He held his gaze, steady and open and still searching, still looking for something. He draped his arm back around Russia's shoulders and said softly, "We don't have to talk about it."
"Then why did you come?" Russia snapped. He sagged into the crook of America's shoulder, a counterpoint to the ice in his voice.
America's eyes fell. "I…I just wanted to check on you." He worked their fingers together. The blood made it slippery. "When I heard about what happened--I was worried about you." The back of his neck tensed. "You're my best friend, you know."
A small ache spun through Russia's chest, and he tightened his grip on the other nation's hand. He tugged him closer. Glass shrieked beneath them. "I--I know."
It was a lie, a bad one, but he didn't think he could manage anything else, and he was shivering.
America clasped Russia to him with one arm and drew their joined hands into the warmer, sheltered space between their bodies. He pressed his lips into Russia's hair above his ear. "The others are saying you've gone crazy," he whispered, "But I don't believe them, and I never will."
Russia turned his head ever so slightly into America's mouth. The snow outside was still filthy with a thousand frantic footprints and churned-up gore.
Crazy...
He pulled their hands up, smelling slightly of sweat and blood, and cocked his head, staring at nothing. His lips brushed over America's knuckles.
The other nation hunched around a shudder. "I know you're sane, and--decent…" his voice broke. "I--believe in you, I always have. You're just--God--" a sharp, weak laugh, and his hand spasmed closed in Russia's hair at the back of his head. "You're so fucking bad at it when it's time for things to change."
"Things don't need to change." The words gusted across the back of America's fingers. For an instant he remembered another moment when things had almost changed, when America…America had been there, beside him, half over him, gentle and eager. No one had ever been so eager. Golden grass had crumpled beneath them, and he'd looked from those aching blue eyes into a star-speckled violet sky, and everything had felt so warm…
He'd put a stop to that, too. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck and tucked the ends into his coat. His voice hardened. "I won't let them push me. The tsars rule by divine right. A mob of factory workers can't change that." Factory workers, and--women and children, singing songs, and--no. He lunged forward, wrapped his free arm around America, and squeezed his eyes shut against the images, the sounds, the throbbing in his shoulder.
"Shh, I've got you," it came instantly, soothing, and America kissed the side of his head, he shifted a little to let Russia sink into him deeper. He untangled their hands so he could gather Russia in and run his hand up and down his back through his coat. "Listen...you have to let go, sometimes--let people have what they want. Or else they'll just take it from you anyway."
His voice, his hands, were so gentle. Russia pressed his face into the hollow of America's throat, his spine curving into that touch. "Not if you're strong," he mumbled. His chapped lips were rough against the other nation's neck. His blood-stained hand came up to grip his shoulder. "And Russia is strong."
"I know you are. But Russia--you can't fight the will of the people forever."
Then, in a small voice, America ventured, "…Your people hate me, don't they? The...the workers. I keep hearing things lately."
"No--" He stopped and pulled back just enough to meet America's eyes. It was worth lying about--but he didn't. "Yes. They do."
America bit his lip. "Because I'm a capitalist--and because I've always got along well with the tsars. Right?"
"They're ungrateful." Russia snarled, "Ignorant. Small." He lifted his hand to cup America's face. "Their opinion means nothing."
"They're your people," he whispered; "What they think means everything." There was a lurching pause--and then America was kissing him, warm and full and urgent, and his lips were soft and his fingernails carded through Russia's hair, and his other hand tightened in his coat, and--and it was over, just as fast as it had started. America searched his expression, pressed his flushed lips together. "Promise me we'll stay friends, no matter what happens," he pleaded.
Russia took in a deep, shuddering breath. He licked his lips, and he could taste America. Wind shrieked through the shattered window, and his fingers curled over America's hand. "I--" he pressed through a tightening in his ribs. "I promise."
America nodded, and they held each other tight.
"I don't even know how many I killed," slipped between Russia's teeth, a cold little breath in the darkness.
"God, Russia," he exhaled. His fist bunched into his coat and pressed him in. He leaned their heads together.
America's skin was warm--always so warm. Russia nudged into him, just for the contact. "I don't," he insisted. "There were so many...and I couldn't even tell which were mine."
America placed a kiss behind his ear and whispered, "They were all yours."
Russia jolted and met his eyes. There was a pregnant, awful pause, and then: "I know."
It was almost a moan. America caressed the line of his face with the backs of his fingers. The wind still blew in through the broken window, and neither of them were getting any warmer.
"I'm so sorry, Russia. …I'll stay, as long as I can."
+++
-- At the beginning of the 20th century, the Russian industrial employee worked an average an 11 hour day (10 hours on Saturday). Conditions in the factories were extremely harsh, and little concern was shown for the workers' health and safety. In the midst of massive strikes, George Gapon decided to make a personal appeal to Nicholas II. He drew up a petition outlining the workers' sufferings and demands: he called for a reduction in the working day to eight hours, an increase in wages and an improvement in working conditions. Gapon also called for the establishment of universal suffrage and an end to the Russo-Japanese War.
-- Bloody Sunday refers to the incident on January 22nd, 1905, when the unarmed, peaceful demonstrators were gunned down and dispersed by the Imperial Guard. The number killed remains uncertain. The Tsar's officials recorded 96 dead and 333 injured; anti-government sources claimed more than 4,000 dead; moderate estimates still average around 1,000 killed or wounded, both from shots and trampled during the panic. The massacre had grave consequences for the Tsarist regime, as the disregard shown for ordinary people undermined support for the state.
-- Despite the then-recent chill in Russian-US relations resulting from Russian persecution of the Jews, the longstanding good relations with Tsarist Russia meant the event was received more sympathetically in the United States than it was in Europe.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13 for violent imagery.
Characters: Russia/America
Premise: Russia receives a worried visitor after the horrifying events of Bloody Sunday.
St. Petersburg, Russia - The Winter Palace. January 24, 1905.
It was cold. Much too cold.
Russia considered, for a moment, getting up, moving away from the broken window, out of his nest of shattered glass. To a bedroom, maybe. Somewhere the freezing wind couldn't knife across the snow and knock him breathless.
He tucked his chin against his knees, sucked the icy air through his teeth, and stayed where he was.
Because--there was always a chance that they would come back. And he'd be ready. His eyes darted to the rifle next to him, and he reached out, curled his index finger around the trigger. The frigid metal clung to his skin.
Night was coming on, and stars began to wink alive above the vast and empty square beneath the Winter Palace. He hadn't seen anyone since that morning. He closed his eyes, suddenly, and tried not to think of the dull roar of people piling over each other, crushing, clawing, fighting to get away. They'd asked for it. A petition and everything. He'd done the only thing he could.
There was a little jog at the doorknob, a creak, and the soft questioning trickle of glass being nudged to the side. A feeble stripe of light fell in from the hallway.
America's voice was hesitant as it floated over the thin January air. "Russia? ...Are you in here?" Quieter, then, almost to himself: "It's so dark."
Russia huddled a little tighter into himself, and hoped that America would leave. He stared out across the snow, churned up and dirty. There were no bodies. They'd all been spirited away, and he didn't even know how many there had been. He hunched his shoulders and tried to pretend he was alone.
That wedge of light disappeared, and the door sighed shut again, but America had come inside instead of going away. His boots clicked over the tiles--they squealed and cracked over slivers of glass. His footsteps switched from cautious to certain as he found Russia cringing in the hollow dark.
"Russia," he breathed. He swept up close, kneeled down at his side. After a hesitation, he let his hand rest light on Russia's shoulder.
Russia shuddered, dropped one hand to steady himself. A tiny shred of plate glass struck itself between his thumb and forefinger, dull and painful. Blood swelled out beneath his palm. First warmth he'd felt in hours--besides America's hand on his shoulder. He looked over to him, then turned his gaze back down at the square.
They stayed like that for a minute, and their breath made transparent clouds.
America wet his lips a few times. When he spoke, all he could come up with was a weak, "...What happened?"
A little silence.
Russia answered simply: "They turned on me. All of them. It was inevitable--it's been too long since something like this has happened. They wanted things I couldn't give--you understand, don't you?--things that just weren't practical...They always do…" He wasn't saying anything at all, and he felt a vague horror for the thin, alien sound of his own voice. "And then they came, with their petitions and their anthems and--and--They sang 'God Save the Tsar', did you know that?" There was a tinkle of grit and glass as he moved, dropped his head. "Children, too...High, clear voices..."
America's fingers curled a little in his sleeve. "So you...shot them..." he faltered.
"I had to!" Russia whipped to face him, his eyes too bright. "They were coming for me, and, and they wouldn't play nice...they would have taken--things. So many things..." A tremor passed up through his arm and over his shoulders.
America searched his face. His other hand came forward, then rested in midair. "You...but they were..." Peaceful, unarmed, Russia heard the words just fine in the aching silence. He closed his eyes, then, and reached forward. His hand skidded through the air and cupped light around the edge of Russia's face. "God, Russia..."
Russia shied away, just a little, but he didn't shake him off. That touch was too hot, after the sting of the wind, and the muscles of Russia's face twitched and spasmed beneath his fingers. America winced, and "Don't be scared" raced past his lips. He pushed forward on the floor, across the broken glass, and put his arms around him.
Russia jerked against him. "I'm not."
"I know," he said quickly. "Sorry. Shouldn't have--said." He flexed his fingers in Russia's clothes.
Russia looked from his arms, to his face, and he watched him for a moment. His coat caught up the rubble and slid loud against the tile as he sank into America's arms. America breathed out slowly, and gathered him in. After a pause, he rested his cheek against the side of his head.
A gust of wind sent a rush of snowflakes through the shattered window, and Russia shifted a little closer, eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't believe the square was empty. There should have been people, hundreds, staggered in dark rows across the freezing stone. The rifle had recoiled hard against his shoulder, sharp--he had bruises. Once for every person who went down, overlapped on his skin into sticky black. He swallowed. "Do you--do you understand?" The question was just on the edge of hearing. "America?"
There was an anguished pause before America turned his head down and whispered, "Yes, Russia, I understand."
"No." A helpless whisper. "You don't." Russia's hands snarled into the front of his shirt. He was vaguely aware of something hanging between them-- he remembered cold glances, sharp words, jealousy, and--weren't they fighting? He should pull away.
He didn't.
America braced his forehead on Russia's shoulder and said unsteadily, "I do. ...I--I'm not going to yell at you."
"Why not?" A woman, he thought suddenly, a woman had spun around like a child's top, arms flailing, and tumbled into the snow. Two dark stains seeped out from under her, and that had--that had been him.
"Because you..." America tightened. "I don't know, because...because I'm not mad at you."
"You should be," he mumbled. "Too late--you came too late to see it." Russia leaned in and closed his eyes against America's breath, feeling it gust warm across his face.
America gently pressed his knuckles into his hair. "I heard," he sighed. He shut his eyes, and his shoulders hitched. "Russia...what's happening to you?"
Russia stiffened and dug his teeth into his lower lip. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Screams rang in his ears, shrill, frozen. "I'm protecting myself," he muttered. "I couldn't let that happen again."
America's fingers worked into his hair to draw little circles on his scalp. "Let what happen?" he asked, helpless.
"They were going to force me--I told you this already!" Russia's voice rose abruptly. "You're not listening!" The wind whipped the words away, out to echo across the empty square.
"I am, please, calm down," America urged him. He jerked back to meet his eyes. The moon had risen to throw light over Russia's shoulder and across America's face--it made him look pale, silver, glowing, and not quite real. America is gold, he's supposed to be gold. "I'm listening, I want to understand, I just…I had heard that they just wanted things like fair wages, and shorter days, so..."
"That's how it starts," Russia's shoulders were a hard line under America's hands. "But I could tell they wanted more, they always want more. And when I give them anything, they'll just keep on taking..." He dropped his head forward and trailed into silence.
America seemed at a loss. He looked down, unfocused. He blinked at the dark pool spreading out from between Russia's fingers. "You're bleeding," he said, startled. Without waiting for a response, he peeled Russia's hand off the floor and pulled it towards the window. The splinter of glass embedded in his skin glittered in the moonlight.
"Hold still, I've--just a second--" He gripped the end of the shard between thumb and forefinger, and something in his eyes flickered--and then he squeezed and jerked. A shiver of pain flew all the way up Russia's arm to his curl up in neck. America flicked the bloody glass across the floor and then looked down at his fingertips. Blood trickled from new cuts. A soft laugh escaped him.
Russia stared at their comingling blood. It was warm, it dripped slowly down his wrist and soaked into his sleeve, and he tried to cup his other hand around it, to catch the droplets before they hit the floor. The blood shone dark against the tiles. He swiped a finger through it and it smeared across the marble. He thought about arterial spray, arced across the radiant snow. He blinked up and met America's eyes.
America threaded his bleeding hand into Russia's. His knuckles were red from the cold. He held his gaze, steady and open and still searching, still looking for something. He draped his arm back around Russia's shoulders and said softly, "We don't have to talk about it."
"Then why did you come?" Russia snapped. He sagged into the crook of America's shoulder, a counterpoint to the ice in his voice.
America's eyes fell. "I…I just wanted to check on you." He worked their fingers together. The blood made it slippery. "When I heard about what happened--I was worried about you." The back of his neck tensed. "You're my best friend, you know."
A small ache spun through Russia's chest, and he tightened his grip on the other nation's hand. He tugged him closer. Glass shrieked beneath them. "I--I know."
It was a lie, a bad one, but he didn't think he could manage anything else, and he was shivering.
America clasped Russia to him with one arm and drew their joined hands into the warmer, sheltered space between their bodies. He pressed his lips into Russia's hair above his ear. "The others are saying you've gone crazy," he whispered, "But I don't believe them, and I never will."
Russia turned his head ever so slightly into America's mouth. The snow outside was still filthy with a thousand frantic footprints and churned-up gore.
Crazy...
He pulled their hands up, smelling slightly of sweat and blood, and cocked his head, staring at nothing. His lips brushed over America's knuckles.
The other nation hunched around a shudder. "I know you're sane, and--decent…" his voice broke. "I--believe in you, I always have. You're just--God--" a sharp, weak laugh, and his hand spasmed closed in Russia's hair at the back of his head. "You're so fucking bad at it when it's time for things to change."
"Things don't need to change." The words gusted across the back of America's fingers. For an instant he remembered another moment when things had almost changed, when America…America had been there, beside him, half over him, gentle and eager. No one had ever been so eager. Golden grass had crumpled beneath them, and he'd looked from those aching blue eyes into a star-speckled violet sky, and everything had felt so warm…
He'd put a stop to that, too. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck and tucked the ends into his coat. His voice hardened. "I won't let them push me. The tsars rule by divine right. A mob of factory workers can't change that." Factory workers, and--women and children, singing songs, and--no. He lunged forward, wrapped his free arm around America, and squeezed his eyes shut against the images, the sounds, the throbbing in his shoulder.
"Shh, I've got you," it came instantly, soothing, and America kissed the side of his head, he shifted a little to let Russia sink into him deeper. He untangled their hands so he could gather Russia in and run his hand up and down his back through his coat. "Listen...you have to let go, sometimes--let people have what they want. Or else they'll just take it from you anyway."
His voice, his hands, were so gentle. Russia pressed his face into the hollow of America's throat, his spine curving into that touch. "Not if you're strong," he mumbled. His chapped lips were rough against the other nation's neck. His blood-stained hand came up to grip his shoulder. "And Russia is strong."
"I know you are. But Russia--you can't fight the will of the people forever."
Then, in a small voice, America ventured, "…Your people hate me, don't they? The...the workers. I keep hearing things lately."
"No--" He stopped and pulled back just enough to meet America's eyes. It was worth lying about--but he didn't. "Yes. They do."
America bit his lip. "Because I'm a capitalist--and because I've always got along well with the tsars. Right?"
"They're ungrateful." Russia snarled, "Ignorant. Small." He lifted his hand to cup America's face. "Their opinion means nothing."
"They're your people," he whispered; "What they think means everything." There was a lurching pause--and then America was kissing him, warm and full and urgent, and his lips were soft and his fingernails carded through Russia's hair, and his other hand tightened in his coat, and--and it was over, just as fast as it had started. America searched his expression, pressed his flushed lips together. "Promise me we'll stay friends, no matter what happens," he pleaded.
Russia took in a deep, shuddering breath. He licked his lips, and he could taste America. Wind shrieked through the shattered window, and his fingers curled over America's hand. "I--" he pressed through a tightening in his ribs. "I promise."
America nodded, and they held each other tight.
"I don't even know how many I killed," slipped between Russia's teeth, a cold little breath in the darkness.
"God, Russia," he exhaled. His fist bunched into his coat and pressed him in. He leaned their heads together.
America's skin was warm--always so warm. Russia nudged into him, just for the contact. "I don't," he insisted. "There were so many...and I couldn't even tell which were mine."
America placed a kiss behind his ear and whispered, "They were all yours."
Russia jolted and met his eyes. There was a pregnant, awful pause, and then: "I know."
It was almost a moan. America caressed the line of his face with the backs of his fingers. The wind still blew in through the broken window, and neither of them were getting any warmer.
"I'm so sorry, Russia. …I'll stay, as long as I can."
+++
-- At the beginning of the 20th century, the Russian industrial employee worked an average an 11 hour day (10 hours on Saturday). Conditions in the factories were extremely harsh, and little concern was shown for the workers' health and safety. In the midst of massive strikes, George Gapon decided to make a personal appeal to Nicholas II. He drew up a petition outlining the workers' sufferings and demands: he called for a reduction in the working day to eight hours, an increase in wages and an improvement in working conditions. Gapon also called for the establishment of universal suffrage and an end to the Russo-Japanese War.
-- Bloody Sunday refers to the incident on January 22nd, 1905, when the unarmed, peaceful demonstrators were gunned down and dispersed by the Imperial Guard. The number killed remains uncertain. The Tsar's officials recorded 96 dead and 333 injured; anti-government sources claimed more than 4,000 dead; moderate estimates still average around 1,000 killed or wounded, both from shots and trampled during the panic. The massacre had grave consequences for the Tsarist regime, as the disregard shown for ordinary people undermined support for the state.
-- Despite the then-recent chill in Russian-US relations resulting from Russian persecution of the Jews, the longstanding good relations with Tsarist Russia meant the event was received more sympathetically in the United States than it was in Europe.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.