November 20, 1911.
Grigori Rasputin's Apartment, 64 Gorokhovaya Street. Saint Petersburg.
The Starets's (the Elder's) apartment smelled of an unmistakable, nauseating mixture: wax frequently used in churches, the very cheap kind, the rancid sweat of three days from a person who hasn't been able to experience a shower in a great amount of time, sweet Madeira wine, and the excessive floral perfume of high society ladies who sought salvation through sin.
Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin sat at the head of his kitchen table, a piece of solid oak furniture stained with grease. Before him, a silver samovar, a gift from Countess Ignatieva, bubbled softly. Around him, his usual court of female admirers, petitioners, and social parasites watched him with slaughtered lamb eyes, waiting for a word of wisdom or a crumb of bread blessed by his dirty hands.
But today, the 'Holy Devil' wasn't hungry. And his glass of Madeira remained untouched.
His eyes, those orbs of pale blue that had bewitched half the Russian Court, were fixed on the Ericsson wall telephone hanging in the hallway.
The device remained in enormous silence.
It had been three weeks since the 'Little Mother' (Empress Alexandra) had called him. Three weeks was a long time. Before, the telephone rang almost daily. She consulted him about the Tsarevich's health, about multiple bishops' appointments, about the color of curtains to have good spirits. He was her spiritual crutch, the anchor that prevented the Tsarina from drowning in her own hysteria.
But since Stolypin had returned from Kiev with his chest bandaged and a terrifying new authority, silence had descended on Gorokhovaya Street.
"Father Grigori," murmured a fragile-looking young woman, bringing him a plate of honey cakes. "What worries you? Do you feel a disturbance in Russia's spirit?"
Rasputin brushed aside the plate with a brusque swipe that made the crumbs jump.
"I feel cold, Akilina. I feel they're closing doors on me," Rasputin growled with his strong Siberian accent. "The Devil of machines has entered the Palace. That child... Tsarevich... is no longer the same since his beginning... the prophecies tell me he is..."
Rasputin stood up. He was an imposing, wild figure, with his tangled beard and his stained Russian silk blouse. He had realized something doctors and ministers ignored: Alexei's hemophilia had never appeared, but the little mother affirmed to him every day that it was present there, but her need for Rasputin... was not exactly known.
Without the Empress's protection, his enemies, the official Church, jealous husbands, and now Stolypin's new Imperial Security Directorate (ISD), would eat him alive.
"I have to go see Mama," Rasputin decided, his eyes shining with dangerous peasant cunning. "I've had a vision. A terrible vision. I have to warn her."
"What vision, Father?"
"Darkness," Rasputin improvised, grabbing his fur coat. "I see blood on the child's legs. I see pain. If I don't pray over him today, the child will suffer. And if the child suffers, the Mother will listen."
Rasputin left the apartment like a storm. He knew which buttons to press. Alexandra's maternal fear was his most precious instrument, and he was the virtuoso who played it.
. . . . . . .
Winter Palace, Ambassadors' Entrance. 14:00 PM.
Rasputin's arrival at the Palace was usually an event in itself. Guards moved aside, fearful of his gaze. Footmen ran to announce him.
Today, however, the atmosphere was different.
When Rasputin climbed the Jordan Staircase, his leather boots squeaking on the marble, two officers with unfamiliar dark blue uniforms, without ostentatious golden insignia, only an armband with the initials ISD, blocked his way.
"Access is restricted, Citizen Rasputin," one of them said, a stone-faced man.
"Get out of the way, dog!" Rasputin bellowed, using his preacher voice. "I come to see the Empress. The Holy Spirit doesn't need passes."
"The Holy Spirit perhaps not, but you do," the officer responded.
Before the situation escalated, the Malachite Hall's double doors opened.
The Empress didn't appear. Pyotr Stolypin appeared.
The Prime Minister and Security Director walked with some stiffness, protecting his broken ribs, but his presence filled the corridor. He wore his service uniform, and his gaze was as hard as the plate that had saved his life.
"Grigori Yefimovich," Stolypin said courteously. "We weren't expecting you today."
"Pyotr Arkadyevich," Rasputin responded, crossing his arms. "I've come to save the Tsarevich. I've had a vision. Pain may present itself. He needs my prayers. If you prevent my passage, his blood will fall on your head."
It was the usual threat. The one that always worked with Alexandra.
But Stolypin wasn't Alexandra.
"The Tsarevich is in perfect health, studying," Stolypin informed. "And your visions, curiously, always seem to coincide with moments when your political influence declines."
"You don't understand God's ways, bureaucrat," Rasputin spat, stepping forward, trying to intimidate the minister with his height and aggressive body odor. "The Empress needs me. Let me pass or I'll tell her you want her son's death!"
Stolypin didn't retreat. He put a hand on the monk's chest. A large, heavy hand.
"The Empress is resting. And you, Grigori, are a security risk."
"Risk? I am the dynasty's savior!"
"You're a drunk who boasts in Moscow brothels of having the 'Old Woman' in your hands," Stolypin said in a low voice, so the guards wouldn't hear the blasphemy. "We have reports. We have witnesses. It's over, ridiculous monk. Your circus ends today."
Rasputin roared and pushed Stolypin's hand away. He was going to shout, going to make a scene that would force Alexandra to come out.
"MAMA! MAMA! THE WOLVES SURROUND ME!"
"Let him pass, Uncle Pyotr."
The voice came from the corridor's end. It was a clear, calm, childish but authoritative voice.
Alexei was there, dressed in his blue and white sailor suit.
Rasputin saw the child and his face changed instantly. Fury became cloying, oily sweetness.
"Alyosha! My sweet child!" Rasputin exclaimed, opening his arms. "I've felt your pain from the city. I knew you were calling me. Come, let Father Grigori take away the evil."
Alexei advanced slowly. He didn't run to the monk's arms. He stopped three steps away, out of reach of his smell.
"Nothing hurts me, Grigori. Nothing has ever hurt me," Alexei said.
"Your body lies, but your soul cries," Rasputin insisted, trying to use his hypnotic gaze. He fixed his blue eyes on the child's, trying to subjugate his will.
But this time, he crashed against a wall.
Alexei's eyes weren't those of a frightened child. They were deep mirrors. Rasputin, who had a real sensitivity for the supernatural, felt a chill run down his spine. He felt he wasn't looking at a child, but at something... something... Something that didn't belong to this time.
"Stop trying to hypnotize me," Alexei said with boredom. "It works with my mother because she's desperate for something that has never existed. It works with court ladies because they're bored with their husbands. But with me it doesn't work. You're not a saint, Grigori. You're a talented mentalist with a lot of luck."
Alexei gestured to Stolypin.
"Uncle Pyotr, leave us alone for a moment."
"Your Highness, it's dangerous..." Stolypin protested.
"No, it's not. Grigori knows that if he touches a hair on my head, you'll skin him alive in the Peter and Paul Fortress basement. Right, Father?"
Rasputin nodded slowly, swallowing. The fortress mention had frozen his blood.
Stolypin withdrew ten steps, but kept his hand near his holster.
Alexei pointed to a velvet bench by the window.
"Sit down, Grigori. We need to negotiate."
"Negotiate?" Rasputin sat, confused. "I only want to pray..."
"Shut up," Alexei cut. He pulled out a manila envelope from under his sailor blouse and threw it on the monk's lap. "Open it."
Rasputin opened the envelope. His hands trembled upon seeing the contents.
They were photographs. Photographs taken with the new compact cameras the Special Section used. Rasputin leaving a steam bath with prostitutes. Rasputin drunk, dancing on a table and exposing himself. Rasputin receiving money from a known German agent.
"The Imperial Security Directorate has been busy," Alexei explained. "We have sworn testimonies. We have the dates. We have the women's names."
"They're slander... the devil tempts me..." Rasputin murmured, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Listen well," Alexei said, leaning toward him. "My mother thinks you're a saint. If I show her this, I'll break her heart. She'll cry. She'll suffer. And I don't want my mother to suffer. That's why I haven't shown it to her yet."
Rasputin saw an exit. He clung to it.
"She won't believe you. She'll say they're the Devil's tricks to stain a man of God."
"Maybe," Alexei conceded. "But the Church will believe you. The Holy Synod is dying to excommunicate you. And the newspapers... oh, Grigori, the newspapers will have a feast. If I publish this, you won't be a martyr. You'll be a joke. And Russia's people, who now tolerate you, will hate you for soiling the Tsarina's name."
Alexei took the photos from his hand.
"Here's the offer. You leave."
"Leave?"
"To Siberia. To your village, Pokrovskoye. We'll build you a new house. A big house. You'll receive a monthly pension of five hundred rubles. You can drink, pray, and sleep with whoever you want there. You'll be king of your town."
"And if I refuse?"
Alexei shrugged.
"Then Stolypin will arrest you tonight for heresy and treason. And believe me, Grigori, accidents happen in cells. A slip, a fall... and the Empire loses a saint and doesn't care."
Rasputin looked at the child. He searched for some trace of doubt, of compassion, the compassion of the highest Christians. He found nothing. He found the gaze of a statesman eliminating a toxic liability.
The monk sighed. He realized his time had ended. The 'little one' had grown, and had fangs.
"You're the Antichrist," Rasputin murmured, crossing himself backwards. "Or you're the next Tsar... the greatest Tsar this cursed land has seen. I don't know which of the two."
"I'm what Russia needs," Alexei responded. "Deal?"
"Deal," Rasputin growled, standing up. "But warn your mother. She needs me. Without me, her mind is fragile as glass."
"I'll take care of her. I'll be her strength now. Not you."
Rasputin adjusted his coat. He looked at the Winter Palace's luxury for the last time. He knew he would never set foot in it again.
"Goodbye, Alyosha. Pray that your science protects you better than my prayers when true darkness comes."
"It will," Alexei said.
Rasputin turned and walked toward the exit, passing by Stolypin without looking at him. The bureaucratic giant watched as the mystical giant disappeared down the stairs, escorted by DSI agents toward a car that would take him directly to the train station.
Stolypin approached Alexei.
"Has he gone?"
"He's gone," Alexei confirmed. "We bought him cheap, Uncle Pyotr. Five hundred rubles a month is a bargain for the monarchy's stability."
"The Empress will become hysterical when she finds out."
"Leave her to me," Alexei said, smoothing his suit. "Tell the guards to prepare linden tea. I'm going to see Mama."
. . . . . . .
Empress Alexandra's Room. 15:00 PM.
Alexandra Feodorovna sat on her chaise longue, surrounded by icons, with reddened eyes. She had heard the shouts in the corridor. She knew Grigori had come and gone.
When Alexei entered, she looked up, expecting to see her sick son, needy, seeking comfort.
But Alexei entered walking firmly. He sat beside her and took her cold hands.
"He's gone, Mama," he said softly.
"They've thrown him out! You and that horrible Stolypin!" she sobbed. "He was our protection! If you get sick, no one will be able to save you!"
"Look at me, Mama," Alexei ordered.
Alexandra looked at him.
"I'm not sick. My legs are strong. My blood is calm. I've never been sick."
"For now..." she murmured with superstitious terror.
"Forever," Alexei said with a conviction worthy of a future Tsar. "Grigori was a man, Mama. A man with his own demons. He wasn't God. God is here." Alexei touched his chest and then his forehead. "And God has given me the strength to take care of myself. And to take care of you."
Alexei embraced his mother. For the first time, Alexandra felt she wasn't embracing a fragile child who could break like the one she had always been nervously waiting for, but a small oak tree. She felt a solidity in him that Rasputin never had.
"Do you promise me you'll be well?" she asked, clinging to him.
"I promise you'll never have to be afraid again, Mama. I've expelled the shadows."
Alexandra cried, but this time they were tears of liberation. The addiction to the monk had broken, replaced by devotion to her miraculous son.
. . . . . . . . . . .
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have more chapters available on my patreon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing this novel and AU. Thank you for reading!