In a flash, the soldiers holding Anastasia’s arms wrenched them forward, pushing her wrists together in front of her.
Another man moved from behind them, quickly stepping in between Anastasia and the Tsar. He snapped ancient, heavy-looking iron manacles around Anastasia’s wrists.
As soon as he released them, the weight of them nearly sent her to her knees. She stumbled, and her father caught one of her wrists, yanking her up in front of his face.
There were tears on Anastasia’s cheeks now, her face contorted in pain. Mikhail screamed, pushing once more against the mouth of the pistols pressed against his chest. One of the men shoved back and brought the gun to Mikhail’s forehead, cocking it.
“Mikhail, stop,” Anastasia’s voice was quiet, but she shook her head rapidly. Mikhail was breathing heavily, his body vibrating with the desire to crack the skulls of everyone in the room. They both turned to look at her father. The Tsar was smiling from ear to ear, grinning with a prideful look like the cat who got the cream.
“Iron,” he smiled as though it was obvious. “Iron manacles bind your magic, Anastasia.” His smile was positively sadistic as he leaned in until Anastasia could feel his breath on her face.
“Please,” she squeaked, all traces of her confidence gone. “I can’t feel it…” The irons bound her hands and drained her magic, making her focus on an empty, pin-prick feeling that started at the base of her spine and threatened to consume her.
“I think you’ll find this evens the playing field a little bit,” the Tsar snapped his finger, and the soldiers began to file out. “You have a day to consider my offer. I suggest making a decision quickly, or my mood may foul.”
He leaned in and kissed Anastasia on the forehead, causing her to grimace and struggle in the arms of the soldiers visibly.
Mikhail broke into a chain of curses, threatening the Tsar’s life as the man walked out of the rooms without a second glance. Once all of the additional soldiers had filed out, those holding Anastasia left.
As soon as they had let her go, she sank to her knees — the heavy, thick iron chain hitting her legs as it kept her wrists close together.
The last men to leave were the ones holding Mikhail at gunpoint. They left one by one, refusing to turn their backs to him. The guns stayed trained on him until the last man was out, the door slamming shut behind them.
As soon as they were alone, Mikhail threw himself to the floor next to Anastasia. He pulled her into his lap, running his hands over every inch of her that he could find.
She dissolved into sobs as she tried to put her hands around his body and couldn’t. She screamed in a panicked frustration, an awful, heartbroken sound.
“Ssh, it’s okay.” It took everything in Mikhail to keep his voice steady and low. He leaned down, gently grabbing hold of her arm and bringing them up towards his head. With her wrists bound, he was still able to slip his head underneath her arms. He gently maneuvered her until her hands were around his neck, albeit at a somewhat awkward angle, and she readjusted her head on his shoulder.
Her sobs were coming even harder now. Mikhail stood, words failing him. He brought them to the couch and readjusted both of them, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. He said nothing, feeling like there was no way to take away her pain.
“Mikhail,” she cried into his chest, her voice wavering, “I can’t feel my m-magic. It’s so wrong; it’s so wrong —“
“I know,malyshka,” he leaned down, pressing kisses to her cheeks to try and wipe away her tears. “Don’t worry. It’s still in you, Anya; it’ll never leave. You know it’s there… even if you can’t feel it.”
24
At some point, Mikhail brought them both to Anastasia’s bedroom. The rest of the night passed torturously.
Anastasia had never felt her magic bound, and it was slowly pushing her towards insanity. It felt like she couldn’t breathe or what she imagined it might be like to walk without a limb.
She was a ball of pent-up energy, sweat sticking to her forehead as she fought the warring sensations within her. It had started as a growing pain, settling in her wrists, but was beginning to spread down her arms as the pain evolved into a torturous heat.
By dawn, it felt like her arms were on fire, and her face was flushed red as if from a fever. She stripped down to a nightgown, everything feeling too hot and cumbersome.
Mikhail was out of his mind with worry. He sat next to her all through the night, trying to calm her down and keep her attention on anything but the ancient-looking iron wrapping around her delicate wrists. It appeared grotesque.
He made the mistake of stepping out to get water once, only to return and find Anastasia’s fingers nearly bloody as she tried to claw the chains off. He had dropped the glass, sending shards everywhere, and leaped over it to get to her.
He hated how he had to grab her on top of the metal, forcing her hands down. She had collapsed into his chest with a scream.
As sunlight began to seep into the bedroom, Mikhail didn’t know how they would make it to this evening. He didn’t know how they were going to answer the Tsar’s ultimatum. He was preoccupied with making Anastasia comfortable — wracking his mind to try and come up with something to change her focus, even if just momentarily. She was sitting in his lap, her eyes vacant and her cheeks flushed.
Mikhail leaned down, pressing an absent-minded kiss to her forehead… and paused. His lips hovered above her, paying close attention as he leaned down and kissed her again.
More slowly this time, letting his touch graze over her skin, watching her focus shift for just a moment.
Oh.
