Chapter 25 #2
Oh dear God. Anastasia couldn’t keep the shock and fear off her face. It was a test.
The soldiers kept coming, coming, coming, until they were surrounded. The last man shut the door behind them, trapping them inside.
Anastasia winced. Mikhail said nothing, looking up at Anastasia and trying to keep his expression neutral. He was on his knees, hands in the air. The tsar was still standing behind him, a pistol nestled in Mikhail’s hair.
The tsar only stepped away from him and pocketed his pistol once the rest of the guards trained their weapons on Mikhail and Anastasia.
“It seems you do have a stress point, Anastasia. Good to know how quickly you’ll react when Rasputin is threatened.” The grin spreading over the Tsar’s face was nothing short of apocalyptic. Anastasia’s blood ran cold.
The tsar turned away and began shrugging out of his jacket. He draped the heavy piece of fabric, all the metals and ornaments making an inappropriately joyful sound, over the back of a chair.
He made his way over to one of the soldiers, rolling up his sleeves as he went and adjusting the cuffs, baring his forearms.
A sick feeling came over Anastasia as she watched him. The tsar approached the guard, who handed him a wicked-looking knife. It wasn’t a dagger, or even a combat knife, but was a cruel, curved thing. It looked suspiciously like a butcher’s knife.
Anastasia’s heart was beating faster as her limbs went numb. How many times would they have to survive the same scenario again? Could they?
“Bind her,” the tsar snapped, flipping the knife in his hands as he walked over to where Mikhail still kneeled on the ground.
Anastasia cried out as a guard appeared behind her, snapping new irons on her wrists. The ones at her feet were kicked away, and she forced down another gasp at the feeling of her magic wrestling with itself again.
Whatever new bonds her father had made, they felt wicked. Instead of a dull, aching feeling, it was like hot pokers touching her skin. Anastasia couldn’t bear it, her back arching as she fell back into the soldier with a scream.
Mikhail made an inhuman noise. He tried to rise to his feet only to be pushed back down by the pistol at the back of his head.
His whole body was straining, tortured by the sight of her struggle. It took a few moments before the pain in Anastasia’s arms settled down to a low burn, and she was able to regain a fraction of her composure. She looked at Mikhail, giving him the slightest shake of her head.
Not now.
The tsar cleared his throat. “Those are new,” he nodded to the manacles. “I had one of your mother’s acolytes create them. It looks like we’ll have to try something else to get your attention.”
His voice had a joyful tinge to it, and Anastasia knew he was enjoying every minute of this. He flipped the knife once more, then looked straight at Anastasia and brought it down on Mikhail.
“No!” Anastasia’s knees went out. Mikhail had a second to brace himself, locking his eyes on Anastasia’s, determined she would be the last thing he saw.
There was a sharp ripping sound, and it took them both a second to realize the tsar had cut away Mikhail’s shirt. It hung off him in tatters, the cuffs holding on at the wrists.
Mikhail’s stomach sank as memories of the monastery came flooding back to him; he had been in this position before.
“Anastasia,” the tsar was still smiling, his eyes wide with mania. He traced one of the scars on Mikhail’s back with the blade. “This is for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
With that, he pressed deeper, cutting open Mikhail’s scar and branding him with a fresh wound. Mikhail let out an involuntary shout before cutting himself off, trying to bring his breathing under control.
He shook his head, lifting it to find Anastasia’s gaze. She looked murderous, tears running down her cheeks as she squirmed in the guard’s hold. He shook his head once.
Not now.
“Anastasia,” the tsar commanded, “Bow to me.” He traced the knife down Mikhail’s back before he stopped at the next scar. Anastasia looked at Mikhail, who nodded. She let out a shuddering breath.
“No.”
The tsar grunted and pressed in, ripping open another one of Mikhail’s scars. Mikhail stayed silent this time, only allowing his face to contort for a moment. Anastasia was going to be sick.
“Bow to me!”
“No.”
The process continued. Anastasia began to feel as though she existed outside of time and space. She couldn’t move her eyes from Mikhail, who kept shaking his head, refusing to let her cave against her father.
The tsar moved in front of Mikhail and found a scar going across his shoulder. With a quick movement, he traced it fresh.
There was sweat beading on Mikhail’s forehead now, his back bloodied and soaking the waistline of his trousers. His eyes were starting to glaze over as the deep cuts ran in a wicked crosshatch across his back, each one reopening its own painful memory.
It was as if the tsar was trying to coax the old hate from underneath Mikhail’s skin. He’d never find it.
The tsar turned around and stared at Anastasia, pointing the knife’s edge at her. He was grinning like a wild man, his expression a far cry from the stoic, responsible leader he attempted to portray.
She could no longer feel the pain in the irons, her attention solely gripped by the horrendous tableau unfolding in front of her. It was like she was watching as a passerby, unable to fully comprehend the sight of her greatest love being tortured at the hands of her father.
It was walking past the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion: violent and full of guilt.
“I take no pleasure in being your ruin, daughter,” the tsar tutted, “The people you love so greatly have been setting the streets on fire since dawn.” Anastasia’s eyes widened.
That’s where all the guards are, and that’s why he’s so angry.
“Well,” the tsar scoffed, turning and spitting at Mikhail’s feet, “Maybe I take a little bit of pleasure in this.” He got down on his knees in front of Mikhail, looking him in the eye as he wagged the knife back and forth in front of his face.
“Let’s see if we can’t find the heart that my daughter has so aptly stolen, hm?”
Anastasia heard him and screamed, throwing her body to the floor to rid herself of the soldier’s grasp. She couldn’t shake him free.
“No!”
The tsar turned his head and watched Anastasia struggle, taking a perverse pleasure in it. He found the scar over Mikhail’s heart, placing the blade there; he pressed it against Mikhail’s chest until he let out a low grunt.
The blood ran down his chest until, with a sudden cry of frustration, the tsar dug deeper and ripped the knife across his heart. Mikhail lurched backward and let out a shout that threatened to shake the chandeliers, a horrendous sound full of pain and anger.
His head fell back as he sank to the ground, unmoving. Anastasia stared in horror as his limbs went lax and his eyes shut.
“Mikhail!” Anastasia wailed, the tears now coming so hot and fast that she could barely see through them.
She was fighting against the guards like mad, clawing at the heavy chain around her wrists. She didn’t even hear the sounds that she was making. Additional guards were required to hold her back as she kicked at their ankles.
No, no, no.
The tsar stood over Mikhail’s body like a man on a hunt. He wiped the bloodied knife on his trousers before tossing it to the ground. He nodded to two of the soldiers, who grabbed Mikhail’s arms and began pulling him out of the room.
“Where are you taking him?” Anastasia screamed, her face twisted into a holy rage that momentarily sent a pang of fear down the tsar’s spine.
She was scorn, she was fury, she was wrath. Anastasia watched in prolonged agony as the men took several minutes to pull Mikhail’s heavy body from the room, his back leaving bloodied streaks along the floor.
She paled when the last of him disappeared from view. He hadn’t moved.
The tsar stared at his daughter, slowly returning to his former state of detachment. “Go look outside, doch,” he jeered. “The people are furious as to why God has abandoned them. They wonder how this Rasputin has managed to escape death and bewitch the tsarina.”
“That has nothing to do with why they’re starving!”
“Bah,” the tsar waved a hand in front of his face, “They don’t know that. They are starving, they’ll eat up anything I give them.”
Anastasia’s blood ran cold. “You won’t.”
“I will feed them the man who has distracted the Romanovs from their greatness,” his smile was exuberant, “And I will let the people decide what to do with what is left of your dear Rasputin.”
“He’s just a man! They’ll never hurt him!”
“They will act as jury and executioner,” the tsar hissed, “and you will have a lovely view from your window.” The smile left his face as his eyes darkened. He looked at the guards holding her.
“Make sure that she watches. Don’t let her turn away. She will watch as she learns what happens when you cross a tsar. You think you know power, Anastasia? You’re about to learn what it truly looks like.”