Chapter 29
Anastasia followed the group of boys through the palace, looking around at the remnants of what had once been the empire's heart.
She couldn’t help but smile. Maybe it was perverse to grin at such devastation, but when it had represented everything that tried to keep Anastasia in a cage, she was thrilled to see it burning.
Partygoers and priests were still being smoked out of their hiding places as they passed, more than one of them accosted and stripped of his bejeweled garments by revolutionaries. She laughed, causing other boys to turn and look at her with confused expressions.
Finally, she saw they were winding their way through the palace to the tsar’s chambers. She bit back her shock. Even she had never been inside the tsar’s private rooms. If they had made it that far, then her father’s grip on his dynasty must have collapsed entirely.
Once again, Anastasia only smiled. She was in a slight predicament now, but the idea of her father running for his life at the sight of the people whom he had willfully starved only elicited joy.
“In there,” the boy commanded, pushing the door open with one hand and keeping his rifle raised with the other.
Anastasia took a few steps inside, briefly observing the room. It was the waiting room of her father’s apartments, all lined with mahogany paneling, looking more like a hunting lodge than a statesman’s suite.
Her father was sitting on one of the large chairs, facing a lit fireplace. He seemed to be unaffected by the fact that half of the palace was on fire.
He was staring deep into its flames as if they could predict the ashes of his empire falling around him. There was hardly a hair out of place on his head, and he was still wearing his damn jacket.
Anastasia realized with a smile that all of his medals and sashes had been ripped off. Even the tsar himself had been looted. He was so deep in his concentration, he didn’t hear her step into the room.
Anastasia turned her head and found her mother, on the other side of the room, staring back at her.
The tsarina looked small and frail. She was down to just a dressing gown and underskirts; her jewelry had been tugged off her neck and out of her ears.
It pleased Anastasia, potentially a bit too much, to see her dispose of the finery that she depended on.
“Anastasia,” her mother gasped, with a shock that couldn’t quite be deciphered. “You’re alive.”
“What did you think happened?” Anastasia scoffed, taking a few more steps into the room as the revolutionaries followed in behind her. “I’m certainly not alive because of anything you did.”
The tsar then turned, his eyes raking over Anastasia as he let out a deep, disturbing laugh. “I see you couldn’t save yourself after all. The people have risen against you,” he said, and Anastasia could see him fighting to keep his composure. “You never should have stood against the family.”
“You say that as though there was a family to stand with,” she hissed, her voice full of venom. She walked right up to her father, standing in front of him while he sank further into the chair, looking deflated.
“I was never yours,” she spat. “I hope this means they have taken everything from you.” She let a small flickering of her magic out, the flame dancing across her fingertips and making the tsar’s eyes flash in something resembling fear.
“That’s enough,” one of the boys snapped, waving his rifle around. “Separate chairs, all of you.”
“Let us go,” the tsarina wailed like a child, “By God’s graces, just let us go! You can take everything but leave us alive.”
“Silence, Alexandra,” the tsar’s voice was cold.
Anastasia was sad to see that it still greatly affected her mother, who obeyed and averted her eyes.
“There is nothing that they can take from us. Russia belongs to us from God, and the rest of the country will see us restored!” Anastasia turned to look at her father, bewildered.
He was mad, entirely lost to his delusions of grandeur, his eyes red and wild. He now paced in front of the small fireplace in a ripped jacket, dressed in the remnants of his empire.
Anastasia’s desire for revenge was slowly seeping out of her. She had a heavy realization that these men would likely never let the tsar see the sunrise.
She turned and looked at her mother. “Alexei?” She tried to keep her voice down. The tsarina shook her head, and Anastasia’s eyes widened. The tsarina realized what she had implicated and shook her head harder.
“No, no, he’s alright,” she kept her voice low. Anastasia moved closer so her father and the other men wouldn’t hear. “I sent him away before the gates broke. I couldn’t bear it.”
“He’s safe?”
“He is safe. He took some money, and I told him to disappear.” The statement hit Anastasia hard. Her mother was not expecting to survive this, and her father was waiting for the rest of Russia to show up and declare him their one true tsar.
“Your magic,” her mother’s eyes widened, looking up at Anastasia. “You could get us out of here.” The tsarina reached for Anastasia’s hand, but she pulled it away in disgust.
“Of course,” Anastasia let out a dark chuckle, “Now is the time you want me to use it. No. I won’t have any of these people harmed.”
She was pulled from her thoughts as the doors to the apartments swung open again. A handful of men stormed in, much older than the teenagers who had been keeping an eye on them. They pushed into the room, barking commands. Whoever they were, they were the ones in charge, and they had no fear.
Anastasia counted five of them and swallowed thickly as they dispatched the teenagers. She didn’t want to use her magic, but if she were forced to, she would not die next to her father.
Anastasia quickly scanned over their faces, stopping at the last man who entered the room. She fought to keep a grin off her face.
Mikhail stepped inside, dressed now, much to Anastasia’s disappointment, standing a head above the rest of them. He was holding a rifle in his hands, looking every bit the furious revolutionary as the other men.
His gaze flickered to Anastasia for just a moment, sending her a wink, before one of the men broke the tense silence in the room.
“Nicholas and Alexandra,” his voice was gruff and heady with exhaustion. “Consider this your trial by fire. Your reign is over. Accept it, and you will be taken as prisoners of the new state. Deny me, and you will die.”
The tsarina shrieked, her hands covering her face. Nicholas was frozen. It was the first time in her life that Anastasia had ever seen her father taken by surprise.
He stood slowly, his eyes burning with hatred as he looked over the men. There was contempt in his eyes. Anastasia knew he was evaluating them as ‘lesser’ men, even when they had toppled his dynasty.
“Never.”
The man grunted, turning with military precision on his heel and cocking his rifle at the tsar. “I will give you one more chance, which is more than any grace you have given Russia or her people. Hear me now, comrade, I will shoot.”
The tsar’s eyes started to move over the men once more, his gaze finally settling on Mikhail. He began to sputter, his face turning red.
“This demon!” The tsar bellowed, pointing at Mikhail. “You let him into your ranks! You saw! I fed him to you, people, for penance! A demon is leading you! You know not what—”
“Silence,” Mikhail’s voice boomed with an authority that even the tsar had not possessed. “These men know me. I am one of them. Not even your bread and circuses could distract them from the truth.”
Anastasia tensed. A showdown between her father and Mikhail was going to end in bloodshed.
“He is cursed! Cursed! The curse of the Romanovs! Rasputin has ended us all!” The tsar began shrieking, his voice descending into inconsolable babble. Spit flew from his mouth as he ranted. The tsarina was still frozen in the corner, watching her husband’s final dive into the throes of madness.
The next few seconds happened as though Anastasia was watching from outside of her body. The tsar was ranting wildly, his face twitching, all while the guardsmen watched him with wide eyes.
He moved too quickly for any of them to comprehend. The tsar reached down, pulled a broken shard of glass from his boot, and launched himself at Mikhail’s throat.
Anastasia screamed, a sound of fury, not of fear, and leaped in front of her father. She threw her hands up, using her magic to help her block his weight.
She gripped her father’s wrists; the power flooding from her fingertips helped her to hold him off. They grappled with one another amongst the shouts of the revolutionaries, now afraid of firing at the moving targets.
The tsar dropped the shard of glass, and Anastasia released her magic, the momentum sending her father to the floor.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Anastasia grabbed it. She bent over her father, throwing out her other hand aflame with power to keep him subdued.
“Never,” Anastasia’s voice was strong, “Will you go after anyone I love ever again, including myself?”
Before the tsar could comprehend the weight of her words, she brought the glass down into his heart. Anastasia felt nothing, not even the blood that covered her hands or the weight of the arms that tugged her off her father’s body.
She heard nothing, not the shouts of the guards or the shocked wailings of the tsarina. Her vision had narrowed to a single point. All she could see was her father on the ground in front of her, bleeding out.
A set of strong arms enveloped her.
“Anya, Anya,” Mikhail’s voice was in her ear, the familiar feeling of his beard brushing up against her face.
His presence was warm as Anastasia slumped into it; she didn’t look at him as she watched one of the guards walk over toward her father. He was still clawing for air, one hand over his chest.
The guardsman kicked his side once, twice. Then positioned his rifle and fired. The noise echoed in the room, making Anastasia flinch.
“The tsar is dead,” the man proclaimed before he turned around and nodded respectfully at Mikhail and Anastasia. “Let it be known he has been executed for his crimes against Russia.” He looked towards his comrades, and they all quietly followed. It was done.
It was not lost on Anastasia and Mikhail what he had done for them; letting the record reflect her father had been executed by firing squad would give them some semblance of peace, a way to retreat.
Anastasia was in shock. Mikhail gently helped coax her to her feet as she sank into his side. She was staring at the dead body of her father, something she had imagined in her head for years.
“Don’t look anymore,” he said gently, encouraging her towards the door, “It’s done.”
Anastasia nodded blindly, a strange numbness settling over her before it crested away. She sat there for a few more seconds until only a sense of freedom remained. They were free. It was done.
“It’s over,” she looked back up at Mikhail with a small smile of relief, but one that was devoid of any joy. There would be time for pleasure later. There was time for everything now. She let Mikhail escort her to the door gently, leaning most of her weight on him.
“Stop,” the tsarina, who had been mostly forgotten in the last few moments, spoke up. Mikhail and Anastasia turned and took in the sight of the broken woman. Anastasia raised an eyebrow.
“W-what about me?” She squeaked, sounding like a child. Mikhail let out a sound that was akin to a low grunt, and Anastasia raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something, mother,” her voice was cold, “You always did.”
With that, Anastasia and Mikhail walked out of the room. They let the door slam shut behind them and left the tsarina with the tsar, where she belonged.