“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 rise.
Mikhail looked around the crowd seeing faces and experiences that mimicked his own. Too well did he know the hurt and frustration they were feeling, the helplessness. He found his body shaking, staring 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 that he had to offer. If he could ignite the energy around him with the sparks in the air, they could end things.
If 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 in what state the Tsar left her.
“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… every 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 and it seemed that 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.”
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 who he has held captive. Free all of us from his rule. Help me. Help yourselves. Help all of Russia rid themselves of this disease in her heart!”
A cry sprang up from the crowd as they began to cheer, turning towards the gates once more. Mikhail was nearly knocked off by the rush of people running towards the gate. He was almost worried about being trampled as the horde began to throw themselves at the barrier.
The gates creaked and groaned, already waving 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 from earlier 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 lean in 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 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.
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 as people threw themselves against the gates. 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 turned and looked to the few guards who were still standing there, fear etched into their faces, most already having abandoned their post.
The Tsar had 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 looked up and saw the building was already under attack; half of the windows were blown out, and flames were licking 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 looked up and sought out her window, praying that he would find it intact. Praying that he’d see her, unharmed and waiting.
