Anastasia felt her blood run cold as she scanned the crowd and prayed that she didn’t recognize any of the faces within it. It was too dangerous.
It all deserves to burn, but so many of you might go with it!
The crowd grew even louder, shaking their weapons in the air, and a few of them fired off into the night sky.
Anastasia turned towards the front door, seeing what had sparked the cry. Her father had emerged on the steps of The Winter Palace.
Oh my God… he’ll be shot.The thought didn't bother Anastasia, but she wanted to make sure that he was held accountable for his chaos, for his ruin.
Everything that had been done to her, she wanted to look her father in the eyes and make him know that he was responsible for each child that went to bed hungry. A stray bullet taken on the steps of his monument to opulence was an ending fit for cowards.
Her heart stopped when she realized that he was pulling Mikhail forward, his bloody body stumbling, barely conscious from the looks of it. He was alive.
The Tsar had him gripped under the arm as they descended the steps, tossing Mikhail on the ground in front of him. The crowd let out a voracious roar as if they were watching gladiators.
They do want to kill him… they think he trulyisthe legendary Rasputin.
The realization spread cold over Anastasia. Every time he had escaped death, every time she had saved him, the forged letters… a master of his craft in public opinion.
Her father had painted a picture of a man possessed, a man withhermagic… and he was going to let the people tear him apart in a religious frenzy.
???
Mikhail attempted to stand up on shaky legs before he collapsed back down onto the cold ground. It had started to snow, but his body was on fire. He was weak. The Tsar had cut him to the quick, both physically and mentally, as he ripped open his old scars. Mikhail looked up at him, his face full of contempt, unaware that Anastasia watched on.
“Are you the one they call Rasputin?” The Tsar proclaimed, more of a declaration than a question. He raised his hands out as if he was Pontius Pilate himself.
“It seems that you have already said I am,” Mikhail hissed. His eyesight blurred. He was beyond pain.
“Do you not know the charges brought against you?”
Mikhail did not answer, not responding to a single comment. The Tsar stared at him in a befuddled and angry confusion. He turned to the people, ever the showman, deciding that he would make the people choose him — whether they realized it or not.
The crowd was screaming for Mikhail’s blood, only half of them believing him to truly be a man possessed who had led the Romanovs astray. The others were ready to rip the gates down and burn the inequity at the root. The Tsar turned towards the crowd.
“Who do you want me to send to you?” His voice dripped with pompous sanctity. “This Rasputin? The man who calls himself a priest?”
The Tsar was no fool; he knew only the most religious zealots in the crowd were the ones calling for Mikhail’s head. He wouldn’t give them a second option to lock onto.
There was a sudden noise as the front door to the Winter Palace swung open, the crowd going into an absolute frenzy, as the Tsarina stepped out to join her husband. He turned and looked at her, rage coating his face while his back was turned to the crowd.
“What do youwant?”he hissed, stepping towards her and grabbing the Tsarina’s arm, “Go inside.”
“I don’t want anything to do with this man,” the Tsarina’s voice had a deathly tone to it. “I’ve had a vision —”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the Tsar hissed, gripping her tighter instead of shaking her visibly in front of the crowd, “Not another one of your blasted visions.”
“I’m serious,” she looked up at him with wide eyes. “He’s innocent. This man has done nothing wrong, and it will bring about our ruin if we let this happen. Think of Anastasia…”
“I’m the only one who has ever considered Anastasia,” the Tsar countered. “Everyone else simply lacksvision!”
The Tsarina paled as she looked at the crowd that had gathered behind the Tsar once more, seeing Mikhail struggling to breathe on the ground as he bled out into the snow on the steps. She was overcome. The Tsar turned back to the crowd of people as though he was a ringmaster.
“Who do you want?” He raised the question again, this time turning around and grabbing the Tsarina’s wrist and raising it in the air. “This demon they call Rasputin or your Tsarina, who he has tricked?” His voice was loud enough to ring out in the smoky night sky.
The Tsarina paled further as she looked over to her husband, the fullness of his depravity washing over her. If he tossed her into this mob, they would rip her limb from limb. The crowd roared at the offering of the Tsarina. And yet, their choice was clear.
“Rasputin!” The din from the people seemed to shake the ground. The Tsar seemed a little disappointed but shrugged.
