He had grown up around the deranged opulence of the Romanov court; had seen the influence of their neglect to rule on the streets and knew that the priests and lords drank, gambled, and fucked their way through the palace — but seeing it and almost being entrapped in their games was another experience entirely.
He hadn’t even brought himself to tell his mother about what had happened. While he figured it was a conversation that could wait until they were home, he found himself tripping over his own anger. He seemed tovibratewith it.
He moved silently on the edge of a wall, not entirely sure what wing of the palace that he was even in. Mikhail’s brow was furrowed and he felt his hands tighten into fists, only to relax, tighten, relax, tighten… he paused when he realized the hallway had come to an end.
Mikhail looked up and was staring at an oil portrait twenty feet high that depicted some overly pompous lord, sitting on a horse that was probably worth more than Mikhail’s entire existence.
He stared up at the artwork and found himself glaring. He studied each painted ring and saber that hung from the man’s jacket, mentally calculating what all of it cost, fueling the anger inside of his chest. He turned on his heel, truly taking in his surroundings for the first time.
Portraits lined the wall next to an endless row of tables, each with some sort of sconce, vase, or candlestick — all priceless treasures that could feed a family for weeks — and this was a hallway that led nowhere. It was a dead end. All the wealth he could ever imagine lining the walls on the way to nothing.
His blood began to boil, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. As he sucked in air, he found himself preparing to scream — except before he could, someone screamed for him.
Mikhail stopped, hearing a sudden loud commotion coming from the other end of the hall. He heard women screaming and immediately took off towards the sound. When he reached the corner, he turned and saw the openings to a grand set of chambers.
As Mikhail tried to comprehend the scene in front of him, it nearly broke him. He was staring into the corner of a sitting room, his view partially blocked, where his mother was on the floor as the Tsarina began yelling at someone else in the room.
“If there’s any magic in her blood, it will make it stronger —,” he heard a male voice say. Mikhail opened his mouth, every part of him coiled and ready to run to his mother when a rough hand clamped down on his face and another grabbed hold of his shoulder.
He started kicking furiously and pushing against the constraints on him, yet he was no match for what he now realized were multiple sets of hands on his body. They continued to attempt to drag him away from the chamber, Mikhail was determined to reach his mother and fought them enough to stay in earshot.
“What are you even doing here, you useless…”
Suddenly, there was a huge bang, like a shockwave, sending them all to their knees. All of the lights in the hallway had gone out.
Mikhail tried to regain his senses and get away in the chaos, but hands wrapped around his ankles as he crawled desperately towards what he thought might be the direction of his mother. He heard the men that held him speaking in angry muffled whispers as he strained for his hearing to come back from the blast.
“That’s her son,” he thought he recognized theTsar’s voice.
“I don’t think…”
“He saw enough…”
Mikhail felt like he was going to vomit as he tried to stumble onto his knees, fighting against the hands still pinning him down.
“Handle it,” he heard the Tsar’s voice close to his head. Then there was a sudden rush of searing pain at the back of his scalp… and he heard nothing.
???
Everything hurt.
Even with his eyes closed, Mikhail knew that he was shrouded in darkness. He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes open, and sure enough, was met with obscurity.
Sensing pain in his lip, Mikhail coughed as he took a few shallow breaths and tried to come to grips with his surroundings. He realized that he was lying down, and seemed to be moving, maybe in a carriage from the motion he felt beneath him, and couldn’t spy even a stitch of light.
His hand reached to the back of his head and he winced, feeling dried blood and matted hair. Someone had hit him —hard— and taken him, he had no idea which one of the men in the darkness had done it.
He slowly pulled his legs up and found something solid beside him, realizing that he didn’t seem to be bound, and sat up, leaning against a wall.
He ran a mental scan and began flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes, making tiny ministrations until he was satisfied he had no other injuries.
It took an impressive amount of control for him to offset the panic that he was feeling; desperately hoping his eyes would adjust with no luck. He replayed the last few moments that he remembered in his head, trying to keep his grip on reality in the complete darkness.
His mother. Oh God… What had happened to his mother?!
There was a sudden sharp squealing that sounded like the brakes of a train car. He had never ridden one before but recognized the sound from the depot yards he had run through as a child.
The noise got louder, and Mikhail grimaced, covering his ears and lurching forward as what must be a train came to an abrupt stop.
