Chapter 21 #2
Soldiers began to follow the car, more concerned with protecting the tsar than with retaliating against the revolutionaries in the street.
The bullets died down, but the people were throwing things at the retreating motorcade.
Crowds were swarming the streets, collecting their loved ones and helping the injured.
The ground was streaked with blood, and protestors slowly stood, dusting themselves off.
Anastasia’s eyes stayed with the bodies that didn’t get up, the ones being covered by shrouds, sheets, or shirts, whatever was on hand.
“Anya,” Mikhail said, his hand reaching for her shoulder. She was still primed for a fight, looking around as the magic flickered between her fingers.
Down the street, the motorcade cleared the densest part of the crowd, disappearing on its way back to the palace. He recognized the expression on her face. It was one he experienced a million times over during his time at the monastery.
Anastasia couldn’t control the adrenaline coursing through her, her chest heaving with the effort to get enough air into her lungs. Surrounded by so much death, her nervous system couldn’t see that the threat was gone.
Mikhail maneuvered in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms up and down.
“Release it,” Mikhail said softly, ducking down so he could look her in the eye. Anastasia’s expression was wild, her nose bleeding. “Let go of the anger. It’s over. You can’t hold on like this when the fight is over, or you’ll hurt yourself.”
He gave her shoulders another squeeze. Anastasia started blinking rapidly, slowly coming back into her body.
“They fired into the crowd,” she whispered, “at innocent people. They were defending themselves and their homes. Why is my father even out here?”
Mikhail opened his mouth to respond when a middle-aged woman ran up to them, interrupting.
“You!” The woman’s face was flushed, and her clothing was torn as though she had escaped from the very middle of the fray. “Please, come help, my son!”
Anastasia nodded, beckoning the woman to show the way. Mikhail and Anastasia followed her through the streets, past the carnage that plunged the city into even further desperation.
The remaining windows had bullet holes, glass panes were shattered, and people openly bled, pushing for space to shelter inside. Men ripped off their sleeves to bandage their children, and women were tearing out their underskirts to help their lovers.
They were in the middle of a war zone on the streets of St. Petersburg, Anastasia’s family oblivious to what they started amongst the people.
They followed the woman down the street. Anastasia fought the urge to stop at every person she saw, until their guide disappeared into a small lean-to.
Anastasia followed inside unthinkingly, not concerned about her own safety. Mikhail ducked under the small door frame, at Anastasia’s back as always.
It took a moment for Anastasia’s eyes to get used to the darkness, but once they did, she saw a young man lying on the ground. He was only a few years younger than Anastasia.
His face was dirty, and his clothes were torn, but the lower half of his pant leg was sticking to the skin.
The smell of blood was heavy in the air.
He grimaced and stifled back a moan, sweat dripping down his forehead, in immense pain.
Two other men sat on either side of him, gripping his arms and trying to keep him as still as possible.
“I can’t stitch it up,” the woman’s voice was panicked as she looked from her son to Anastasia. “Th-there’s a bullet in his leg.” Her eyes were wide as she shook with fright, the events of the afternoon catching up to her as she tried to keep her emotions at bay for her son.
“I can try to help,” Anastasia nodded, tugging up her sleeves slightly and kneeling next to the man.
“Anya,” Mikhail squatted next to her. The more time they spent together, the more they moved in sync. “You’ve never done this before.”
“It will work.” Anastasia nodded, needing to hear the words out loud. “I just have to picture it like I do everything else.”
Mikhail tensed. He believed in Anastasia, but she had never done something like this before. She saved his life once, yes, but that happened almost by accident.
She wouldn’t hurt the man, but if she couldn’t help and failed, he knew it would take an emotional toll on her that would far outweigh any physical wound.
Mikhail sat silently and watched as Anastasia leaned over the man’s leg, her magic already sparking to life between her fingers, with no fear or hesitation in her eyes.
She was enraptured with her own process. There was a confidence in her easy posture that Mikhail didn’t expect. Her magic leaped from her hands to the man’s leg, wrapping it around it like a golden coil. It started to glow with a soft light, lighting the entire room.
It spun around, cocooning his injury, and his expression relaxed as the tension left his body. The others in the room looked on in awe.
It happened quickly. If Mikhail hadn’t been staring, he would’ve missed it. The fragment of the bullet shot up into the air, spinning around like a top before dispersing into sparks.
Anastasia gasped, jerking back as though she was shocked back into reality. Everyone looked down. The man’s leg was healed. Even the blood had been removed from his pant leg. Not only had she removed the bullet, but her magic had also mended the wound. It was, though it never happened.
The man looked up at her, meeting Anastasia’s face with a shocked expression. It was almost as if he was looking upon a holy relic.
“Svyatáya Anastasia.”