“This demon!” The Tsar bellowed, pointing at Mikhail. “You let him into your ranks! You saw! I fed him to you people for penance! You are being led by a demon! 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. 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, spit flying from his mouth at his claims, 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 the Tsar 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 that 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 that 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 sunk 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 joy 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 both turned and took in the sight of the broken woman. Anastasia raised an eyebrow.
“What… 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.
30
The rest of the night passed in a blur for Anastasia. It was nearly dawn now and the exhaustion was settling into her bones. She couldn’t imagine that Mikhail felt much better, but she was more than content to let him lead her through the palace.
In a grand twist of irony, the quickest way that they could escape the remnants of the burning building was through the old side door.
