Departing from the monastery was vastly different from arriving. Mikhail took one last look around the apartments he lived in for the past fifteen years, tossed a few spare pairs of pants in a duffle bag, and purposefully left behind the bibles and rosaries pushed upon him over the years.
There was no reason to stay and get sentimental over a prison that he hadn't deserved and had been forced to shuffle through. He was ready to leave the years behind.
One of the hieromonks appeared in his door and alerted him to the departing coach, which had a seat for him in it. On his way out of the door, Mikhail paused, feeling a rising rage at the thought of everything he’d been through at the monastery.
He turned with a sharp conviction and grabbed the crucifix on the wall, ripping it down with his bare hand, bringing chunks of plaster with it.
Brandishing it like a sword, he swung it against the thick walls of the room until it snapped in half. Mikhail dropped it with a massive exhale, his chest heaving and sweat dripping down his arms from the exertion.
The hieromonk stood and stared at him with wide eyes but did not attempt to try and stop him - as if he could. Mikhail stood a good foot above him and had now spent well over a decade working hard labor to avoid saying his prayers.
Mikhail kicked the broken cross with his boot, turned his head and spit before he walked out the door and headed for the royal carriage, revenge on his mind.
???
Anastasia sat at the desk in her sitting room, another iron pen firmly in hand. She was simply grateful that this time the ink wasn’t blood.
She knew better than to say anything, but the iron always made her hands go numb. If she said anything about how her magic was affected, she knew the circus she’d be subject to.
For that reason, she had never reacted to anything and even kept herself in the dark when it came to her abilities. Sometimes, when it was dark and she was alone in her bed, she’d release the magic at her fingertips just to see what would happen.
Nothing ever did, besides a light show that she never let grow too large for fear of being caught — and she was terrified that the same spark had flickered out in her soul. The only time she let it out was when she escaped to St. Petersburg on Sunday mornings.
Maybe it’s a devil’s curse after all. A cursed life.
The door to the sitting room opened quietly, the familiar sound cutting through the silence. Anastasia barely bothered to look up, expecting another iteration of the same priest her mother always sent.
Instead, she methiseyes. The room became stifling as they stared at one another — as if the oxygen had been replaced by something simmering and heavy. She thought she had seen everything over the years, but nothing prepared her for the man blocking the doorway.
He wasn’t dressed like a priest.
His clothes were simple, which seemed out of place in such a gilded box, but it was the air around him that had Anastasia forgetting how to breathe.
Every man that she had ever met had tried to emulate it. In their words, their clothing, their violence… power. Now, seeing him, she knew beyond a dark shadow of a doubt that they were all charlatans.
The man in front of her wasn’t mimicking or pretending… heembodiedit. They sized each other up as opponents, and she was ignorant to the sparks that began flickering between her fingers.
Palpable, unadulterated authority flowed off of him before he even opened his mouth.
When he finally spoke, it was a voice that Anastasia would never forget, slow like honey, as if he was trying out how her name tasted.
“It’s been a while,Anastasia.”
Anastasia couldn’t move, the pen dropping from her hand onto the desk, “I don’t believe we know each other. Although, your manners are dreadfully casual.”
He felt her icy gaze rake down his body, and it was his turn to suppress a shudder, although his heartbeat was in his throat. He had spent the last fifteen years doing hard labor at a frozen monastery, and it showed, down to the hair he refused to cut and kept in a low bun.
After all this time, he was sitting in the rooms of the Grand Duchess Anastasia — he had been ready to murder her the first night she slept, but her fiery gaze made him wonder what fuel was stoking that flame. What could such a spoiled duchess be angry about?
The tension was broken by a servant who stepped in behind the man, nodding in acknowledgment.
“Your Grace,” the servant bowed low, “This is Mikhail —,” the man stopped. He held up his hand in apology, “Forgive me. We knew each other when we were children. Your Grace, this is Father Rasputin.”
“Just Rasputin,” his voice was cutting. The man looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged, “I never took the vows.” The man nodded as if that was a simple answer that didn’t beget a million more questions.
“My mother won’t be pleased to know that she’s sent someone who didn’t take his vows,” Anastasia found her voice and was surprised at how steady she sounded.
The man turned on his heel and left quickly, sensing the explosive atmosphere between the two. Mikhail laughed.
