The weeks went on after that grand accident. God and misfortune seeming to leave those seeds where they lied, then watched what deformed and beautiful plants they grew into.

Ivan seemed to revert deeper into his ailment. Taking in more medicine. Sleeping in lavish amounts. Requiring more from those perpetual caretakers. However, Ellis came into that room every single day and read to him, that German accent fading a little more each time one of those rotund novels sat against her growing stomach.

Andrei had left her with something.

Ellis was eternally thankful.

They did not live on the hills. They did not have six children, but there was certainly one, that one child throwing the pads of its minute feet into the edges of her womb, fraught and frustrated with all its life.

Sometimes Ivan would wake long enough to see that fertile mound and make comment. "Oh, Ellis. You're pregnant…" As though he had forgotten; chalked up that phenomenon to a medicine induced high, where reality blended within all those twisting and somber dreams.

Then came the delirious smile, and the man would forfeit all his consciousness.

Eventually, nine months had come and fell, and the child was born. This time the mother had help. Franz held her right hand, Andrei held her left, and Ellis cried and pushed and cried and pushed until that infant fled from her body, kicking and screaming even louder than she had.

It was a girl.

So she was named Sonya.

Then the mother sobbed, having seen God a second time. The pain fled from her body as though it had all simply been imagined. That fresh life was held close, and those cries strong enough to cause an earthquake had ceased.

The woman could feel all their happiness. She could feel Andrei wrapping his arms around her, kissing her a thousand, a million, an innumerable amount of times. Telling her over and over how proud he was.

Franz offered her some time to rest as the child was presented to that sleeping grandfather.

And a few months proceeding Sonya's birth, when the spring once again cleansed the land of all its snow and darkness, a letter came in the mail. Franz invaded the nymph's room, holding that torn parchment to the mother as her darling little blond doll slept within her arms.

It was read over numerous times before Ellis could even spit an answer from her desiccated tongue.

"I have to go home."

Franz offered his sister a nod. "Are you going to take Sonya with you?"

"Yes. Ja. Did you tell them about her?"

"No. Not yet. It wasn't in my place…"

There was silence. And the mother cast her gaze out of that foggy black window. Finally, they had answered her heart's incoherent begging. Finally, all those months of sobbing and hopeless demand had brought something tangible.

Hans had been dropped into the grasps of her parents. That terrible man had been locked away and custody had been granted to the lovely and perfect Mr. and Mrs. Edelstein.

They said in their missive that he was quiet and incredibly introverted. However, his trust was slowly dripping, as honey from the mouth of the bottle, and that boyish warmth spreading all about him as sunrise from the base of the horizon.

They asked Ellis to come home.

Please, come home.

As if she had a choice.

Finally, the distraught nurse could forgive. Finally, after nearly three years of bitter separation, she could see her mother and father again. There could be forgiveness. The winter clear from the earth. The son would be reunited with the mother.

Ellis left as soon as possible, saying her good-byes to Mr. Braginski, as well as her darling brother. They understood that she needed to quit. The woman had two children to care for. And finally, it was time to go home.

Ellis did not know if she would return to St. Petersburg. Either man advised her not to, as that grand constitution was cracking perfectly in two. But there would certainly be visits. It was harsh to take that pretty little girl from her grandfather and uncle, two men who loved her dearly. She learned to kiss them, placing an open mouth over what parts of their faces she could attain. Then Sonya would scream. It was a definite sign of love.

The only part of her that was her mother were those staggering green gems, saturated in intelligence and so abundant with curiosity.

So the pair, the daughter and loving goddess, took a train and arrived in Vienna, babbling in gibberish to one another, distracting that broken thing from each of those howling thoughts.

And suddenly, through all the occupation, Ellis found herself at her childhood home, staring down those gigantic doors. Somehow she managed to knock upon that towering surface with tears forming inside her eyes. There was no preparation for that moment. There was not a way to capture such a heavy boulder.

The porthole opened, and there was that man, looking as young and handsome as he always did, shock overtaking those sapphires. The same pair none of his children kept.

"Father…May I please see Hans?" Ellis spoke in perfect German.

But the man did not answer. Not with something so stupid and inconvenient as word. Those arms devoured her, holding her and her protesting child in close, as though she would never be allowed from that handsome stoop another time.

"I'm so sorry, Ellis. Thank you. Thank you for returning home."

In barely a second, that pile was joined by another form, the mother, the Hungarian woman Elizaveta. Who was sobbing before her figure even reached that wondrous cluster. She kissed her daughter. She kissed her daughter's daughter. She kissed her husband. Sometimes, she missed and kissed nothing at all.

"Oh, Ellis. You're back. You're home."

For a lonely tick, they all separated and the grandmother claimed that little child from her darling's exhausted shoulder.

"Hans is in your old study, reading a book." Elizaveta wiped the steady stream from her face. "What is her name?"

"Sonya."

A nod, and that woman was off, leaving her little girl to be gawked at by that still happy couple, pressing their lips to her plump and rosy cheeks while she called out and did the same.

It was astonishing how fast that little nurse could run.

The barrier between her and the study was knocked into pieces.

The little boy inside it glanced to her, lost.

"Hello." Such quiet life.

"Hello. I'm Ellis…" That mouth froze. "I'm you mother." Sentiment flowing as blood from a wound. "May I please hold you?"

"Yes…"

So Ellis held her son.

Later that day, she explained the story to her parents, as Elizaveta cradled that tiny girl, her body limp with sleep. And they listened. And they wept with her. And they admired that poor muse, who fate had finally been kind to.

And after miserable years, Ellis forgave them, wholly. Their love and million apologies were accepted. Their hearts were accepted. The past was accepted. That life was accepted. And Ellis was grateful. So grateful, she glanced up at the sky and smiled, the hand of her son secured inside her petit fingers and her daughter held within the other arm.

That conflict was resolved. That conflict that had began when she was seventeen years old. That conflict that birthed a beautiful son with her deep black hair and a happy little girl with her eyes caught on fire.

And back in Russia sat the rest of that minute family.

But they did not remain in Russia for long.

As that country buckled and choked and fell, Ivan and Franz made their plans to run. They ran all the way to Paris, taking what little they could.

But before they ran, Mr. Braginski had Natasha's poor corpse relocated into a true graveyard. Placed within a glorious mahogany coffin, and buried next to either of her unfortunate sons.

Then they went to France.

And then they remembered their Français.

And as they remembered their Français, Mr. Braginski began to sing again. With each note that left his mouth, those muscles regained their bulk. Those bones seemed to function once again. From the darkness and sour earth grew a bliss that had been slaughtered so many times before. But nothing could steal Ivan's voice away.

No longer was he an aristocrat.

No longer was he bound by those horrendous rules and mangled protocol.

As he ran out of funds, he ran out of the need for a doctor, having healed.

Perhaps it was the air within that city. Perhaps it was the escape from the prison. From the sorrow. Perhaps from all those graves. Perhaps it was simply Russia itself that made him so unwell.

But finally, the man could breath.

And not only could he breath, but he could sing.

So Dr. Edelstein was let go. Because the man was a pauper and truly, he flourished within Paris as a sun flower to wondrous soil. Ivan located a job within that city, a character of the theater.

Franz came to all his performances. There were plenty of the sick to keep after, and he too, did just fine in France.

In an odd way, Ivan thanked the Bolsheviks. They would have destroyed him, but they gave him a definite reason to leave. They took him from that miserable duty and allowed him that old voice, remaining loyal as a dog to its master.

He found himself signing a plethora of autographs.

It seemed that fate was both kind and cruel. The harshness would arrive, knock over towers, set conflagrations, take children and deliver sorrow. But the kindness came after the blood was paid. The trampled upon flowers spit their seeds into the earth. New life grew in their place. Baby girls named Sonya. Operas in Paris. Release form back-breaking work.

When adversity came, a window was opened, and the men and women were able to escape, to run with their fortune and misfortune.

The sorrow would always remain, but it did not blackout the sun. The blessings were seen. They were appreciated and life danced rapidly forward, tossing Sonya into new dresses and countries into war.

But it was alright.

So went life.

Hardship and Happiness. Curses and Blessings. Sometimes all at once.

So went life.

So went the heart.

Even in pain, there was hope; there was always hope.

So the earth marched forward.

So went life.