Chapter 27
Mikhail surrendered himself to the masses as he felt the earth shake. There was nothing left for him, beyond seeing Anastasia’s face once more, and that wasn’t going to happen now.
There were hands on him, grabbing and tugging, but he was beyond pain. He was still shirtless, the cuts on his body bleeding on the hands of those who touched him.
The voices were muffled. He waited for death to take him, his senses dulled. Mikhail was uncomfortably jostled and pulled through the crowd once more, but his senses were growing clearer. And clearer. The edges of his vision began to return.
She’s waiting for you. His mother’s voice slid in from the din all around him. She lives, she’s free. She’s waiting for you. You’ll have to get to her yourself.
He no longer hesitated when he heard his mother’s voice from the ether these days; as soon as he heard it, he kicked his legs out and tried to get his bearings. The crowd shuffled around him like a living current he had to fight against.
“Stop!” A voice rang out near him, the first clear voice he could hear. “I know this man!”
Mikhail felt the hands disappearing from his arms, blinking feverishly against his blurred vision. He was on his hands and knees in the street, and a small circle had formed around him.
“How could you?” A voice reprimanded nearby, sounding angry and ready to fight. “Do you know who this is?”
“It’s the priest Rasputin!” Another voice called out from the fray. The more he came to consciousness, the more aware of his wounds he became. He took a deep breath and sat back on his knees, getting a glimpse at the crowd for the first time.
The faces that looked down at him ranged from inquisitive to enraged. As soon as he blinked his vision clear, the cacophony started again.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Kill him!”
Mikhail growled when someone emerged from the crowd, pointing a rifle at his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“I’m getting really tired of people pointing guns at me today,” he deadpanned, looking at the nameless man who was insistent on sending him to hell for his sins.
“I’m not who the tsar says I am,” Mikhail said slowly, speaking to the whole crowd but looking directly at the man with the rifle. “Would you truly trust that man? The one who has left you all to starve in the streets?”
“We have no business trusting the Tsar.”
“You saw what happened to the palace! God is watching.”
“God hasn’t watched over St. Petersburg in a long time.”
A barrage of opinions rose from the crowd, each of them valid in its own way. Mikhail could tell that everyone was confused, frustrated, and angry.
They needed something to believe in, whether it was that the tsar had been bewitched or that it was finally time to overthrow the empire. Mikhail had to admit that he was partial to the latter.
“I’m not that man,” he said again. “There are dark things in the palace. Of this, I will not lie to you. You must believe me. I am not this Rasputin that they say I am.”
“Well, then, who is?” Another voice in the crowd jeered, tossing a handful of rocks in the circle.
“There is no Rasputin,” Mikhail let out a heavy sigh, feeling his body grow tired. His hands sagged down by his sides. “My name is Mikhail. Mikhail Ivanov.”
“How are we supposed to believe that?” Another dissenter. Mikhail was growing frustrated. He didn’t know how to explain this to an angry mob. He was lucky enough that they hadn’t killed him yet.
He didn’t know what they were talking about when they mentioned what happened to the Winter Palace, his view blocked by the crowds.
“I don’t know what to tell you, other than you have been lied to.”
“You are the one lying to us!”
“My name is Mikhail,” he was cut off as another round of disparaging cries came up from the crowd.
His mind began to turn, his body exhausted. He was almost put back in that place, that monastery. Reliving the struggle to maintain the one part of his identity that had always been his, the name his mother gave him.
He thought back to the one time Anastasia had ever called him by that name, how it had broken him. He heard the cocking of a rifle and sighed. It really was disappointing to have made it so far, only to die now.
The crowd jostled around him, guns shooting into the air as another rock flew at Mikhail. The crowd was ready now. They were bloodthirsty. They were hungry for atonement. It didn’t matter who was doing it or what it was for.
“My name—”
“Stop!” A man’s voice broke through the chaos of the revolutionaries. His command carried enough intensity to quiet them all.
Mikhail looked up, blinking once more through blurred vision. The speaker broke through the barrier, walking over to stand in the center of the circle near Mikhail. Mikhail didn’t recognize him.
“I know this man.” The man’s voice was clear, calm. He had a presence that settled the people around him: “He is not this Rasputin that the tsar would have you believe.”
“Who is he?”
“Yeah, why was he at the palace?”
“He must know something!”
The jeering from the crowd resumed almost immediately, their skeptical minds and hungry stomachs driving their need for any semblance of justice.
The man seemed unbothered as he looked around at his compatriots. He stared at each one of them in the eye, almost as though he was disappointed. They slowly calmed some of their ire.
“I know this man,” he repeated, “He speaks the truth. His name is Mikhail.”
“Well, then, why—” Someone interrupted him, only for the man to hold up his hand.
“I will finish if you would let me.” Silence fell over the crowd. “His name is Mikhail. He is a companion of the grand duchess Anastasia. I have seen them together. Surely, some of you have heard of or know someone whom she has helped.”
There were murmurs of assent. While they had not been able to accomplish much, Anastasia had spent years sneaking into the city and helping wherever she had been able. If they were in another town, at the Summer Palace, they wouldn’t know anything of her attempts to help.
Mikhail cringed to think of how this scene could have gone differently. This was St. Petersburg. Her home. Their home. They knew these people. Surely, someone was now going to be able to speak for him.
“She was just trifling with us,” one voice dissented, his tone angry. “So, one of the daughters of the tsar performs parlor tricks in the city. That doesn’t mean anything!”
“Do not call them parlor tricks,” the man’s voice was edging towards anger for the first time.
“Anastasia saved my son’s life. She pulled a bullet from his leg after fighting her own father’s soldiers in the streets.
Whatever you heard to the contrary was contempt strewn by the tsar. He grows afraid of his own house.”
“Who is Rasputin?” Someone cried. “We all saw the letters!” Mikhail couldn’t help but cringe at the reminder of those damn letters. The thought of Anastasia’s pain made him snap to attention.
“Those were a lie,” his voice was deadly. “The tsar fabricated them. The tsar himself wrote them.”
“What about the tsarina?”
“She was in on it!” Another voice cried out. “Who are we to trust the palace’s lies?” Mikhail let out a brief sigh of relief as the tide of the crowd began to turn.
“Trust me,” Mikhail found some of his voice, the last of his strength flooding his body as he stood on shaky legs. The man next to him offered Mikhail his arm, helping him to his feet.
Mikhail looked around the crowd, seeing faces and experiences that mimicked his own. He knew the hurt and frustration they were feeling all too well. That kind of helplessness drove someone to madness. His body shook as he stared at a sea of people who were now listening to him speak.
“Trust me,” he started again, “There is no love lost between Anastasia and the tsar. You have seen what she can do.” Faces and heads began to nod in recognition.
“Her father has kept her a prisoner in that palace for fifteen years. She had never known kindness. No one understands the cruelty of the tsar greater than his own daughter.”
Mikhail paused, seeing the people’s expressions around him contorting. They moved from anger, slowly slipping into confusion, then disbelief.
He coughed a few times, desperate for the last of his strength to carry him through.
Something in him was flickering, his wounds unattended to, and there was a sinking feeling in his gut that this was the last thing he could offer.
If he could ignite the energy around him with the sparks in the air, they could end things.
Suppose there is even an ‘us’ left. Mikhail’s thoughts were intrusive, and a chill went down his spine. I don’t know where Anastasia is or what state the tsar left her in.
“She has been plotting against him for weeks,” he found his voice again, extending his hands out in a plea.
“If you have heard the whispers or seen the wonder of Anastasia, please, believe me. They are true. Every wonderful, wonderful thing is true. We are all flawed. Anything you have heard to the contrary about her has been a lie. Her father holds her captive now, held in her rooms, her hands in chains. Because she dared to seek out and find your revolution.”
“The tsar has captured his own daughter!”
“He holds his own family captive!”
The crowd was cresting, the wave of their sentiment about to crash to the cold stones all around them.
People had begun pushing against the gates. The metal was groaning, soldiers, attempting to shove back with rifles from the safety of the courtyard. Shots rang out, but there were only a handful of ceremonial guards at the front gates of the palace. In comparison, all of St. Petersburg had arrived.
“Help me!” Mikhail implored the crowd, his voice growing stronger. “The tsar laid waste to your homes, to your fields, and he has forgotten what the heart of this country is about.”