Chapter 27 #2
A cheer erupted from the crowd. They raised their rifles in the air, everyone’s attention turning from the gates momentarily, and fixated on Mikhail. His eyes were wild, his hair tangled and matted, standing shirtless in the snow before the crowd of thousands, blood still drying on his back.
He was every bit the soldier and commander; for the very first time, he was the picture of a man sent by God to fight a holy war.
“Bring this devastation to his door,” Mikhail yelled, pointing towards the gates.
“Help me. Feed your families with the gold from his table. Save those whom he has held captive. Free all of us from his rule. Please help me. Help yourselves. Help all of Russia rid itself of this disease of greed in its heart!”
A cry sprang up from the crowd as they began to cheer, turning towards the gates with renewed vigor. Mikhail was nearly knocked over by the rush of people running towards the palace. The horde threw themselves at the barrier, and Mikhail wondered if he was going to be trampled.
The gates creaked and groaned, already wavering and bending dangerously under the weight of hundreds of people.
There was a warm hand on Mikhail’s shoulder, and he turned, the people jostling around him. It was the older man who had vouched for his identity. Mikhail leaned forward, and the pair embraced, the man careful of his shredded back.
“We should move you to the front,” the man nodded, having to shout near Mikhail’s ear so he could be heard. “The people will follow you.”
“Follow me?” Mikhail’s eyes went wide. “No, that’s the last thing I want. I need to get inside. I need to find Anastasia.”
“We all need Anastasia,” the man nodded. “You’d best be the one to make sure that she isn’t caught in the crosshairs. She is still Romanova,” the man’s expression was grim. “This crowd cannot be controlled.”
Mikhail nodded as a new sense of purpose flooded him. He turned, and the man began shouting on his behalf.
“Let him through! Let him through.”
The people moved easily, parting for him as if they were being divinely guided. Far too quickly, Mikhail found himself standing near the front of the crowd. They turned to him and cheered, making even more room for him.
Someone tossed him a gun, and Mikhail caught it mid-air. He made a rather imposing figure, standing at the front of the palace gates, a rifle in one hand, fresh wounds crossing his body.
Mikhail looked to the few guards who were still standing there, fear etched into their faces, most already having abandoned their posts.
The tsar inspired very little loyalty, and when they saw how large the crowd was growing, they left. They wanted nothing to do with this revolution.
The city of St. Petersburg was burning behind them, and the palace was next. Mikhail saw that the building was already under attack; half the windows were blown out, and flames licked up the walls. The ground was sparkling like a shattered diamond, snow and glass shards mixed around it.
Anastasia! His heart stopped, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Mikhail sought out her window, praying he would find it intact. Praying he’d see her, unharmed and waiting.
As his eyes passed over the pieces of glass and broken window frames, he finally located Anastasia’s window, and his hands shook. It was shattered, but it looked different than all the other windows.
Most of the windows looked like the glass had been blown out, but pieces of the wooden frame were hanging off hers. It was as though someone had tried to break their way out of it.
Or like someone had been thrown out of it. A dark thought crossed his mind, possessing him until Mikhail forced himself to turn back to the guards staring at them.
There were even fewer of them now, feebly holding up their rifles. The crowd was roaring behind him like a sea of animals. He watched as the flames began to consume more of the palace.
His thoughts turned from revolution to revelations as the only thing occupying his mind was finding Anastasia.
“I would suggest,” Mikhail’s voice echoed over the empty palace courtyard as he stared at one of the guards, “That you put down that gun.”
He nodded in the soldier’s direction, his eyes wild. With the people behind him, his figure backlit by the night sky and the flames, he looked like the rumored Rasputin.
“You do not want to see what becomes of you if you stay. Do you know the sound a man makes when a demon enters him?”
The threat was idle but landed with its intended effect. The soldiers within earshot immediately dropped their weapons and ran. Those who didn’t hear Mikhail over the crowd's noise saw their comrades depart and followed swiftly.
Mikhail laughed, turned to the crowd, and raised the rifle above his head. “Tear it down!” He pointed to the gates behind him.
The people rushed to the palace without hesitation. The crowd surged upon it like a tidal wave, moving as one as hands gripped the metal and began to pull.
One woman held the lock steady while another man smashed against it with the butt of his rifle. It took one, two, three cracks before it broke apart. The gates swung open, and part of the fencing fell, eliciting a cheer from the crowd.
The ice was melting all around them as the palace began to burn, a third of the windows now lit with flames. The city was on fire. The air was hot. Sparks, embers, and ash rained down on them amidst the snow.
Mikhail stood in the center of it all, bursting forward as the gates fell. He wasted no time and ran through the front doors of the burning palace, a thousand people at his back.
People started looting the palace, ripping frames off the walls and pulling gold from the baseboards.
It only took moments for the front hall to empty as people swarmed other halls and rooms of the palace. Mikhail didn’t care in the slightest. He was off, running down the hallways, bending under smoke and collapsed statues. He was looking for Anastasia.