"Crimson Snow" by David Shone

[Crimson_Snow]

Thank you for your kindness and for your daring to continue to read Sofia. Any and all recommendations welcomed.

Best regards,
Dave Shone

[Crimson_Snow]

Opinions?? Too wordy & comma crazy? Doesn't flow? It doesn't pull you in?

Just curious.

[Crimson_Snow]

You're awesome.

New intro:




In the winter of 1916, Imperial Russia was ripe for change. It was Christmas… Russia's third at war. Her capital of St. Petersburg swarmed with war refugees from Poland and the far reaches of Russia’s vast empire… these forsaken souls had lost everything because of His Majesty’s war with Germany. To make matters worse, the city was facing a food shortage of Russia’s own making. In nearby fields mountains of unpicked wheat simply withered away as bellies lay empty… no one was left to harvest the lands. Russia’s youth was at war and they were losing… badly. Germany and her allies were growing bolder. The German High Command had become specialists at the art of warfare and Russia’s generals had failed to embrace modern military tactics and paid a costly price … six million Russian men were now dead or wounded. It was a premature end to a generation yet the Tsar’s government appeared not to care. Their Majesties spiritual adviser a renegade priest named Rasputin was making a mockery of the imperial cabinet and court as he used his influence over the empress to appoint men to high posts who were willing only to do his bidding. The once god-like Tsar looked weak and all too human… a fact recognized by the ambitious men who surrounded him. There was much to lose, there was much to gain, in the land of Crimson Snow.

[Crimson_Snow]

Power is a pendulum, and the pendulum in Russia is moving. Civil war looms in the House of Romanov, as members of the royal family speak freely of a regime change. Only a young prince named Serge can save this imperial world from crashing in.

Book synopsis-
An Imperial Cage Caving In
1916 St. Petersburg, the Russian empire was recovering from its war with Germany. So far, six million Russian men were now dead or wounded. It was a premature end to a generation, yet the Tsar’s government appeared not to care. The once god-like Tsar looked weak and all too human… a fact recognized by the ambitious men who surrounded him. As a civil war looms overhead, only a young prince named Serge can save this imperial world from caving in. Though, Serge has his own troubles.
This is Crimson Snow a story of love, loss, and lies played against an imperial background. An historic hint of what might have been.
Biography-
Why did I write Crimson? Blame my mother. � She was a housekeeper in a plush estate build from old money. Her presence there opened up a new world to me - the weird and the wealthy. In this strange world, I stumbled across Mrs. O., a woman that bore an uncanny resemblance to Grace Kelly. Beautiful but cold, Mrs. O clung to her carefree past -– the party-filled days she had enjoyed with her late husband, a Russian aristocrat named Prince Serge Obolensky.

A life-size portrait of Serge still hangs in her study. Pencil thin and wearing his imperial uniform, Serge reeks of what might have been. Looking at him, I always thought to myself - what went so wrong in Russia that you ended up in a sad room full of dust?

Crimson Snow is the answer.


http://www.crimson-snow.blogspot.com/http://

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[Crimson_Snow]

THE CAST LIST

HOUSE OF ROMANOV

Tsar Nicholas II -- Emperor of All Russia. His country is entering its third winter of war and the mounting number of causalities is appalling -- 6 million men wounded or dead. Over a year ago, he personally took command of the army in an effort to slow the bloodletting. This did not have any effect; just more dead line the bottom of the trenches.  The huge human cost of the war has made his subjects lose faith in him and his regime. No longer do they ask if there is going to be a revolution.  They just ask themselves when. Age 48.

Empress Alexandra -- Tsarina of All Russia. She has ruled beside her husband for over twenty years now. Most recently, Nicholas has allowed her to handle the day-to-day operations of his government. With the tsar’s attention completely focused on the war, Alexandra feels the need for change. Leaning heavily on the advice of her spiritual counselor Father Rasputin, Alexandra rearranges the tsar’s ministers more to her liking. Once a beautiful German princess, Alexandra now resembles a bitterly broken woman struggling to maintain her husband’s authority. Age 44.

Tsarevich Alexei -- the long awaited heir to the throne. Sadly, the child suffers from hemophilia -- a rare blood disease known as the ‘royal disease’ since it is so prevalent in Europe’s Ruling Houses. During one outbreak, he appeared near death until Rasputin performed a miracle, in the eyes of his mother, Empress Alexandra. From that day on, every time the young tsarevich grows ill, the Siberian healer is beckoned to the palace to restore her child to health. Age 12.

Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich -- Sandro, Nicholas’s cousin.  He is adventurous to a fault. Previously an Admiral in His Majesty’s Navy, but now his heart belongs to the Imperial Air Force and his beloved flying machines. Married to Nicholas’ younger sister Xenia. Loves to tell stories, especially ones he features prominently in. Age 50.

Grand Duke Nikolai Mikailovich -- Uncle Bimbo, older brother to Sandro.  Well-known military historian, celebrated author and scholar. Current President of the Imperial Historical Society and the Russian Geographic Society. Prankster and gambler. Never married. Dislikes the current direction of the war. Age 57.

Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich -- Nicholas’ uncle. General of the Cavalry of the Russian Army. His first wife was a Greek princess by the name of Alexandra. She was the love of his life. Alexandra died delivering their second child, Dmitri, in 1889. He never recovered from her loss and allowed his extended family to raise his own children as he escaped everything that reminded him of his old life. Age 56.

Grand Duke Dmitri Pavelovich -- the Tsar’s favorite nephew. An Olympian athlete and model soldier. Currently an officer in His Majesty’s Horse Guards, the imperial forces elite. Rumored to be the man Their Majesties wish their eldest daughter Olga to marry. Friend and confidant to Prince Felix. Age 25.

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Grand Duke Vladimir Vladimirovich -- the Tsar’s ambitious cousin, nicknamed Vlad. His father Vladimir was the younger brother of Tsar Alexander III, a man many thought in 1894 as a much better choice of tsar in contrast to Alexander’s untried son.  Nonetheless Alexander chose his own son Nicholas to succeed him, which was his right to do. However, since that day Vladimir has had his eyes fixed squarely on Nicholas’s imperfections. Age 41.  Fictional character. Based on Vladimir’s first heir who died in childhood.

Grand Duke Andrew Vladimirovich -- General in His Majesty’s Army. Current task is inspecting the worthiness of His Majesty’s troops.  He does not like what he sees and feels the war has no direction. Loves Mathilda-Marie Kchessinska (prima ballerina) and always has, though knows her heart belongs to the emperor. No matter; twelve years ago the two had a child together, Vova. Andrew wonders what hope there is for Russia. Age 37.

Prince Sergei Platonovich Konstantin -- wounded war hero recovering in St. Petersburg. Officer in Her Majesty’s Cavalier Guards. Holder of the St. George Cross Russia’s highest military honor. Member of the Russian aristocracy’s elite. His great grandfather was Tsar Alexander the first -- the emperor who defeated Napoleon. His father General Platon Konstantin is a living war hero. His exploits in Manchuria are known throughout all Russia. Sergei feels everyone knows and loves his father but him, a fact he has learned to hate. Age 23. Fictional character.

General Platon Alexandrovich Konstantin -- Sergei’s father and legendary war hero. His family can trace their proud line back generations. Widowed. Would prefer to be at army headquarters but the tsar selected him personally for his current role as Head of His Majesty’s Secret Police. Close friend to his cousin Grand Duke Alexander. Age 56. Fictional character.

OTHER ROYALS

Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany -- short, wiry with an overly romantic view of war. Grandson of Queen Victoria of England and cousin to Tsar Nicholas and King George. His armies are currently at war with Great Britain, France, and Russia. German casualties are appalling and match those of Russia. It is difficult to take on the world when you are running out of men.  For this reason alone, the war needs to be decided soon. His armies on the western front have been at a stalemate for over a year. His forces are winning in the east, at war with Russia. The Kaiser only cares about the front that counts -- the west. He needs to break the stalemate before the United States enters into the war. Age 57.

King George V of England -- grandson of Queen Victoria of England and cousin to Kaiser Wilhelm and Tsar Nicholas. Enduring his country’s third year of war. The British Expeditionary Force too has suffered appalling loses -- 3 million men wounded or dead, with little gain to justify the growing loss to his people. His monarchy cannot withstand another fruitless year like 1916. That is why he is advising his man in Russia to keep Tsar Nicholas’ interest in winning the war. Age 51.

THE POLITICIANS

Senator Vladimir Purishkevich -- religious extremist. He considers Tsar Nicholas as ‘God’s Emissary’ to the Russian Orthodox Church, the same church Rasputin is currently making a mockery of with his crude acts of behavior. Famous for his ‘dark forces’ speech he gave to Parliament in the fall. Age 46.

Alexander Protopopov -- Minister of the Interior. Twisted and opportunistic member of Rasputin’s inner circle.  Former Deputy Speaker of the Duma -- Russia’s Imperial Parliament -- and shrewd businessman. His peers in the Imperial Senate labeled him a traitor for a recent rendezvous he had with a German agent in Stockholm. Age 50.

THE AMBASSADOR

Sir George Buchanan -- British Envoy to the Russian Court.  Stationed in St. Petersburg for six years now, he is an expert in diplomatic relations, though he is growing tired of his current post. He no longer trusts the Russian Court after Lord Kitchener’s ship was sunk in the Baltic Sea. Lord Kitchener was en route to a clandestine meeting with Tsar Nicholas. Only a handful of people knew of this secret mission, including Her Majesty. Sir George holds the German-born empress accountable for Lord Kitchener’s death. His only task now is keeping Nicholas and his 15 million men strong army in the war.  At least, until the Americans join the fight. Age 62.  

[Crimson_Snow]

THE OTHERS

Father Grigory Rasputin -- Siberian priest, yet never ordained. Mystic. Healer. - Liar. Drunkard. Womanizer. Despite this, he is fortunate enough to have the empress’s ear. He was the only one in the eyes of Their Majesties who was able save their son Alexei from what seemed to be a certain death. Since then, the ‘good father’ has been incapable of doing a wrong. Age 47.

Inspector Renko -- General Konstantin’s second in command in Special Branch, the Tsar’s Secret Police. General Konstantin’s right-hand man. Does most of his dirty work. Has known the general’s son Sergei all his life.  Sadly, Mikhail, his own son, died last summer in the same battle that wounded Sergei. Age 45.  Fictional character.

Mathilda-Marie Kchessinska -- Prima Ballerina Assoluta of His Majesty’s Imperial Ballet. World famous dancer, now entering the twilight of her professional career. Presently Grand Duke Andrew’s mistress. Twelve years ago, Mathilda gave birth to his son, Vova. Never married. Her true love is and always will be Nicholas. They were lovers in their youths. Age 44.

Malachi Jones -- Serge’s close friend and old roommate from his days at Oxford. Captain of their old rugby team- the Warlocks. He was recently temporary assigned to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg for an Allied Conference to be held in January. His job was to help with security. His Father, F.W Jones, is a millionaire industrialist in England. Jones is a product of new money, something he is always reminded of. Age 24. Fictional character.
   
Prince Felix Yusupov -- sole heir to Russia’s wealthiest family.  Young, bright and extremely good-looking. Was considered to be Europe’s most eligible bachelor before his recent marriage to Princess Irina -- Grand Duke Alexander’s eldest daughter. Rumored homosexual. Felix is a complicated man with complicated tastes. And he makes sure that everyone knows it. Age 29.

[Crimson_Snow]

A
s her cab approached No. 22 Fontanka, Mathilda Kschessinska once again looked at the piece of paper in her hands.
The driver shared her concern. “Madame, are you certain it’s No. 22?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at the neglected townhouse.  At that moment, the front gates swung open, revealing Serge.
“Welcome,” he said. Then, he gave her a slight kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for coming.”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
Serge handed the driver a wad of money. “That will be all. I will take care of her from here.”
Mathilda surveyed the townhouse. All the shutters were weathered and closed. The home appeared to have been closed up for sometime.  “Was it your mother’s?”
“Yes, it was. This was where I grew up. My father closed it the day after her death more than four years ago. He could not bear to go back in there.”
“Such a waste.”
“Yes, it is. But its true beauty is within,” he said as he escorted her to the front door.
Brilliantly colored stain glass covered the inner doors. The room was full of light. Rich, warm candlelight coated the walls of the room. The soothing aroma of freshly cut flowers overtook her. The room to her right was full from top to bottom with white roses.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, bending over to smell one. “I haven’t seen so many flowers since my last performance.”
Laughing, “And I was attempting to avoid the ordinary.”
“Well, I do appreciate the effort.”
He pulled out her chair. “They are all for you in appreciation of you taking care of me last night.”
“You did not have to do this, though I am glad you did,” she said as she sat down. “You have been a busy boy.” She looked at the meal. It smells delicious. You can cook too?”
He shook his head. “It would be blasphemy for me to take credit for this. I ordered it from The Bear.”
As time passed, the only thing better than the meal was their conversation. Serge told about his youth and how his father was always away, and Mathilda spoke about her performances. “I have traveled the world over, but tonight I am so happy to be here.”
He raised his glass, adding: “Cheers! For I share your happiness.”
“Serge, I wish I could take you back in time with me, and see me perform.  When I was your age, I floated across the stage. I haven’t floated in some time.”
“I saw you perform before the war in London. You played Columbine in Fokine’s Carnival.”
She grimaced. “London? Not my best performance. One of the critics there called me ‘a competent dancer of the stereotyped kind, extraordinarily skillful but often displaying quite unlovely gymnastics.’”
“You forgot ‘fat and passé, not on the same plane with either Karsavina or Pavlova,’” he said as he covered his face, expecting a slap. 
“Well, what can I say?” she admitted with a coy smile. “Pavlova has the look of a ballerina.”
He reached for her hand. “I fell in love with you that evening. A boyish kind of love that’s deep, though misunderstood.”
She gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Sergei.”
With that, the two of them rose from the table.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“A tour of my childhood home, though it is a mere shadow of what it was when my mother was alive.”
“Tell me about her. We met briefly after one of my performances. I remember she was beautiful. But that was so long ago.”
“I was also there that night.”
“Really?”
“It was a performance of Sleeping Beauty.”
“I am afraid to ask. How old were you?”
“I don’t recall.”
“I met your mother early in the winter season of ’04, so, let me see you were ten years old!”
“Eleven!”
She laughed. “You were a pudgy little boy hiding behind your mother’s legs.”
“I grew late,” he said defensively.
Mathilda was still laughing. “I’m robbing the cradle.”
“This is only dinner.”
She bent over and smelled another rose, “We will see,” she teased.
He took her hand. “Now, it’s time to view the rest of the house.”

[Crimson_Snow]

Trinity Bridge, Petersburg by Night
 
    W
alking across the Trinity Bridge, Serge and Mathilda gazed upon the lights of the fortress located on the opposite bank. From the direction of the waterfront, its bastions were always in full view. It anchored the city like a massive rock.
They stopped for a moment to enjoy the view. It was then that Mathilda spoke. “What do you want out of life?”
“I want what I had.”
“You know that’s not possible.”
“Then what’s the point?” He felt guilty about the last few days.
“The point is this,” she said as she looked into his sad eyes, “You did not die -- they did.”
Tearing up inside, Serge’s eyes moved down to the frozen river. 
Only silence answered her.
“At least you had a chance to know love, even briefly.”
They both pondered this as Serge spoke. “Do you often think of him?” referring to the emperor. They had spoken much of him earlier.
“Yes, I do. Nearly every day as I rise from my bed, I search for him.”
“Searching but never finding” he said, as he knew the image of his wife would never leave him.
“It was,” she whispered to the passing wind, “the winter of 1893. The season began, as usual, at the beginning of September. My repertoire already included three ballets. But if I was happy on the stage, it was quite a different matter in my private life. My heart was heavy and constrained, and I had a foreboding of some terrible, imminent sorrow. January 12, 1894, saw the expected announcement of the engagement between the Grand Duchess Xenia Alexandrovna and the Grand Duke Mikhailovich. The tsar and the tsaritsa had always encouraged this union. We also celebrated the event at home with the tsarevich. We sat on the ground and drank champagne.”
She smiled.  “Then came another event, something which I could not celebrate as I should have liked and ought to have done as a Russian, for all it brought to me, to my heart, was desolation and despair. On April 7 was announced the engagement of the tsarevich and Princess Alice of Hesse-Darmstadt.  It was something which I had foreseen, expected, known must happen. Nonetheless it brought me inconsolable sorrow.”
Serge pulled her closer to him.
“At the beginning of the same year, alarming rumors had begun to circulate about the emperor’s state of health. The famous Professor Zacharyn had been summoned from Moscow. Nobody knew just how serious the tsar’s illness was.”
“This, I realized, could only hasten the tsarevich’s engagement to Princess Alice. And it did. He and I had often spoken of his imminent marriage leading to our inevitable separation. He had not concealed from me that, aware of his duty which called upon him to marry, he considered Princess Alice the most likely of all the fiancées proposed to him, and that he felt a growing attraction to her.” She turned toward Serge.
“I wrote him for the last time after his marriage. He replied in these moving lines, which I shall never forget: ‘whatever happens to my life, my days spent with you will ever remain the happiest memories of my youth.’ I cherish that letter to this day.”
“I am sure you do.”
“After his engagement, the tsarevich begged me to fix a time and a place for our last meeting. We agreed to meet on the Volkhonsky highway, near the barn and some way off the road. I came from the town by carriage; he rode there from the camp. As always when there is too much to say, tears tighten one’s throat and stop one finding the words one would like to utter. When the tsarevich departed for the camp, I remained by the barn and watched him go until he was no longer in sight. He kept on turning back. I did not weep, but I weep now. I was profoundly unhappy, torn, and my pain went on increasing as Niki drew farther away. Then I returned home, to the house that seemed so empty. I felt that my life was over, that no more happiness would ever come to me, that henceforth I would know nothing but sorrow, great sorrow.”
They approached her block. The snow was beginning to pick up.  “I knew that some would pity me, but others would derive pleasure from my grief. I did not want compassion, but it would need courage to face the others. But all that only occurred to me much later. For the moment there was nothing but terrible boundless suffering, the wrench of losing my Niki! No words can describe what I felt later when I knew that he was with his fiancée. My youth’s happy springtime was over.” They both stood before her mansion on Kronversky Prospekt. Its lights reached out into the night.

[Crimson_Snow]

“My home,” she said proudly.
“It’s beautiful.” Her house dwarfed some palaces in Petersburg.
“Yes,” she said, looking around.  “Let’s get inside. I’m getting cold.”
The ballerina pulled out her latchkey. Her thoughts drifted away from her, replaced by hope. While she opened the door, she laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” she cried, flinging open the door. “You’re making me feel like a child again, and it feels wonderful.”
Serge just grinned. He was happy to see her smile again. They removed their jackets and crossed a grand entrance hall of polished marble. Matching columns climbed the walls until they reached the arch of a domed skylight.  It was a magnificent first impression.
Looking around the house, “No servants tonight?”
“Not tonight,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Do we need any?”
Smartly avoiding the topic, he decided to explore one of the rooms.  Walking through her home filled with souvenirs of a splendid career, the prince stopped in front of a framed portrait. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Petipa, Marius Petipa.”
“I am afraid that I am unfamiliar with his name.”
“He was before your time. He was a brilliant choreographer, a kind man, and friend.”
Serge’s eyes moved from one performance poster to another, all with great reviews stamped upon them: “She danced her variations with lightness and her own brilliance and polish”; “Full of vitality and fire”; “She lights the stage”; “She was like a sudden flash of light.”
“Your home is wonderful and warm.” His eyes fell upon a picture that piqued his interest. “Who’s this pretty little girl with flowers in her hair?”
She blushed. “That was me … a lifetime ago.”
“I still see in the both of you that hint of trouble.”
“Trouble?” She picked up a small pillow to throw at him. “I was eight years old when that picture was taken. What did I know of trouble?”
“That same flicker still comes out of those beautiful eyes of yours, especially when you’re mad.”
Then he passed a framed poster from 1911, honoring her twentieth year in the Imperial Ballet. With this, Serge realized that she had been part of that theatre longer than he had been alive.
She watched him looking at the poster. “Yes,” she said, laughing, “I am older than the empire.”
“No. You’re beautiful and kind.”
“You know you should never believe your critics,” she said, eyeing him.  “If you give them the power to build you up, you also give them the power to tear you down.”
Then why did you frame their kind words, he thought of asking but didn’t.  He had learned to choose his battles better than that. Then his eyes landed on a portrait of her only son Vova sitting on the lap of his father, Grand Duke Andrew.
Looking for a diversion, the prince saw a piano in a corner, “Do you mind?”
She was genuinely surprised. “You play?”
“A little. My mother taught me, though I am afraid that I may be a little rusty.”
As he sat, she could tell that he was no stranger to it. He seemed quite at peace as beautiful music began to pour from his fingertips. He was quite good. So good, in fact, that she fought the urge to dance.  “You play well.”
His hands traveled up and down the keyboard. “It’s fun escape.”
“Play me something to dance to.”
“Any preference?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Let’s see? Oh yes.” An enchanting melody snuck into the room. The ballerina’s moves were as graceful as an angel dancing across a cloud. As Serge played, she continued to dance as if her feet were actually fed by each delicious note. At this moment in time, no other world existed—just this beautiful one, created by them—and it lasted until dawn.

[Crimson_Snow]

Sandro’s Palace
The Study

As Serge entered Sandro’s study, he noticed Bimbo slouched over in his chair.
“Bimbo, are you all right?”
The historian stirred, slurring his words. “Of course I am all right. A better question would be, are you?” He looked at the young man and laughed. “You’re so young and honorable, Sergei.”
“No, I am not. And I haven’t been for some time now.”
Nikolai continued to chuckle until he started to choke.
“Bimbo, what’s so funny?” Serge asked.
Then, the duke stopped his giggling and said, “You’re funny.”
“Me? How so?”
“Because,” he said, reaching to grasp Serge’s medal, “the Order of St. George Cross is given only to the brave.”
“Yes.” Serge was a little defensive about his award.
Nikolai fingered the medal like a cheap piece of tin. “For service and valor. Valor. Young Konstantin, do you realize how ironic it is that you wear that cross?”
“I received this honor in battle. Not only because I am my father’s son.”
“An act of bravery all its own, young Konstantin.”
“Nikolai, what can you tell me? I am waiting and willing to be enlightened by your historical perspective.”
“Oh Serge,” fishing out his watch, “in due time. I am fully confident that I shall impress you. Though at the very worst it shall help us pass the time. That’s one of the great benefits of being a historian; you know so very much but accomplish so very little.”
Serge grabbed the bottle. “You’re drunk.”
The grand duke returned the timepiece to his pocket. “And you are a fool!  Don’t!” he hissed. “I will tell you, child, when I have had enough. That’s the trouble with men of your age. They believe they know it all. In reality, they know so very little, but God shows his twisted humor by rewarding their arrogance and utter weakness of mind with sound bodies.  Don’t you find that ironic?”
Serge grabbed Bimbo’s arm. “Perhaps, it’s time to call it a night.”

[Crimson_Snow]

“Let go of me. I don’t deserve your pity.”
“Have it your way historian,” the prince replied as he brought his fingers toward his medal. “Tell me about the significance of the cross.”
“The cross,” Bimbo said, clearing his throat, “is a symbol of good conquering evil.”
“That I already knew.”
Bimbo chuckled. “As I was saying, you are too young to know anything at all. I advise you to just shut up and listen, and perhaps you may learn something, and actually comprehend its meaning. The emblem at the center is St. George slaying the great dragon.”
Serge wasn’t in any mood for a lecture.
“It first appeared in Russia over three hundred years ago, and it is even older than that. Throughout the years the dragon was many things but he always represented evil. What I find so ironic, Sergei, is that the great dragon after all these years has become us. A noble idea transformed into a brutal reality.”
“What?” he replied, thinking of the discussion he had had the other day with Dmitri. “Bimbo, sadly I am not nearly as drunk as I need to be for this conversation. Thanks for the lecture but I have got to go.” He patted the old man on the head as if he were a little boy getting ready for bed. “You just tell Sandro that I was here.”
Bimbo viciously slammed down his drink. “Sit down, Serge. You don’t understand. My dear brother Sandro won’t be coming back.”
“What? Where did he go? Not back to the front?”
“The front? Yes, he left for the front,” he said as he pulled out his pocket watch once again, “a little more than an hour ago.”
“How can that be? He said he was staying in the capital until he had an opportunity to speak to the tsar.”
“I told you, he went to the front,” Nikolai said. He still could not believe he had let his own brother go to the palace. But what other option did he have?
“I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t. You see, at this point in time, the Russian empire has two choices: a revolution from above,” he said as he pointed toward the ceiling, “or—” as he pointed to the floor.
Serge could not believe his ears. Was his uncle talking about a palace coup? Could he somehow be supporting Vlad? “What are you talking about?”
“My gallant dreamer. Can’t you already see what is already laid so plainly in front of you? For once, look beyond the tip of your own nose. Can’t you see that history is being made this evening?”
“History?”
“Yes, tonight Russia will finally be freed from the chains of mediocrity.”
“What? Vlad’s troops are striking tonight?”
“Yes.”
Serge rose. “I must warn His Majesty.”
“It’s too late. Too late for them both.”
He grabbed Bimbo. “Where’s Sandro?”
“At the palace—surrounded by three of Vlad’s crack regiments.”
“No! You did not let him go there. Not when you knew that he was walking into a trap.”
“Yes. The continuous invasion from the dark forces must be stopped! At all costs, even my own brother. The rebirth of Russia depends on it.”
“You’re a traitor to everything that you once believed in. I can’t believe you once wore this same uniform. Remember the Imperial Guard’s motto: faith, honor, and loyalty. Are they but words to you?”
“Yes, just meaningless words. I have lost my faith in the current cause. I am too old to be honorable, too wise to be loyal. But I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Look at you, part of an obedient generation of great martyrs like St. George.”
The prince no longer listened. He was heading for the door.
“You ever wonder what the tsar wears around his throat?” Bimbo screamed.  “Your youth!” As he did, he fell out of his chair like a white albatross falling into a deep sea of blue. Serge was already gone, headed for the only man he thought could help him—his father.

[Eddie_uk]

 

Sorry, i'm lost, has this been published?

[Crimson_Snow]

Good day Eddie,

These are a few broken chapters of Crimson Snow. Its a  work of historical based on the days after Rasputin's death.

I 'm planning on self-publishing it thia autumn.

broad strokes;

Civil war looms in the House of Romanov, as members of the royal family speak freely of a regime change. Only a young prince wounded by the war can stop the bloodshed.

In the winter of 1916, Imperial Russia was ripe for change. It was Christmas… Russia's third at war and her capital of St. Petersburg swarmed with war refugees from Poland and the far reaches of the empire…. six million Russian men were now dead or wounded. It was a premature end to a generation, yet the Tsar’s government appeared not to care. Their Majesties’ spiritual adviser, a renegade priest named Rasputin, was making a mockery of the imperial cabinet and court as he used his influence over the empress to appoint men to high posts who were willing to do his bidding only. The once god-like Tsar looked weak and all too human… a fact recognized by the ambitious men who surrounded him. There was much to lose, there was much to gain, in the land of Crimson Snow.

[Crimson_Snow]

Chapter 1:
St. Petersburg, Russia, 1916
A Silent Night No More


Tall, coatless and wearing a tunic smeared with blood, a Siberian holy man stumbled out into the cold December night. He was drunk, but that was the least of his problems.  Moments ago in the palace behind him, Father Rasputin had been left for dead. Now standing in a courtyard dusted with snow, he smiled as the harsh air burned his lungs. He was thankful to be alive.
“Bastard,” escaped from his wine-stained lips, as the sound of crunching snow filled his ears. “This is what I get for thinking with my cock.”
Hopelessly, Father Rasputin’s eyes traced back along his snowy tracks. A savage voice springing from within him screamed, “No!” He needed to flee death just one last time for he had but three days to save the Romanov regime from a bloody civil war.  Members of the imperial family were preparing to strike at the Tsar.  Recently, Rasputin had prophesied more bloodshed would come to Russia.
A tidal wave of brilliant light flooded the courtyard when the door that would be his escape route opened.  “I am not yet ready to die,” Rasputin cried to the wind.
A barrel-shaped man waving a revolver emerged through the blinding light. Panting, he waddled into the open courtyard, stopped, aimed his piece through fogged glasses and fired two shots into the night.  They both missed their mark.
Father Rasputin continued to struggle through the dark until he finally reached his objective, the courtyard’s waist-high gate.  He could feel the wonderful cold metal within his grasp. 
Another figure emerged from the doorway.  It was Dmitri.  He coldly removed his Browning service revolver from its holster and carefully aimed the weapon as a stray moonbeam reflected off its steely frame.
“Felix, Felix,” shouted Rasputin with all his remaining strength, “I will tell it all to the empress!”  The fiery orange flash from Dmitri’s revolver answered Rasputin’s cry and the round of bullets quickly found its target.
The bullets’ sheer force turned the priest completely around. Now, facing the lighted palace, the fallen saint began to pray out loud. The blood-soaked snow became his altar. Kneeling before his God, he begged for forgiveness.  The cold, soothing snow blanketed his brown, tangled body. His famous steely eyes glared toward the illuminated doorway that had once represented his artery of freedom. “Why now?”
Rasputin could not believe it had come to this. He saw the duke from across the snow-covered court. Dmitri coldly stared at Rasputin as he aimed his firearm once again at Rasputin’s chest.
The fourth shot of the night sealed Rasputin’s fate, and the courtyard grew quiet.
In the pale palace light stood the beaming Prince Felix. He looked almost god-like. He emerged from the light of the palace. Blond, bold, and beautiful, the decadent prince was dressed to kill. Wearing his cadet uniform of the Imperial Corps of Pages with high Pershing collar and white leather belt, his costume was complete—except that the friend and lover he had betrayed had torn off one of his shoulder epaulettes.
Hours ago in the palace’s basement Rasputin had been Felix’s dinner guest. The Siberian was enjoying himself. The prince played sad gipsy songs on his guitar after dinner.  As Rasputin got up and wandered the room, the music stopped. Admiring a piece of art that hung from the cellar’s wall, Rasputin asked Felix why he had stopped. Before he could turn, a force threw him to the floor. After that his world became blurry. That was, until he saw Felix kneeling over him, Rasputin could not believe his ears; as he drifted into semi-consciousness he learned from Felix that the royal family was preparing a coup. Rasputin had dreamt of this very thing earlier that week. When he awoke from his dream he wrote a letter to warn the Tsar of this possibility. The Siberian had hoped it was just a dream, but it had felt too real. In detail, the prince told the dying priest how he and the others planned to murder the tsar.

Not long after the prince’s attempt on Rasputin’s life, following an hour’s celebration with his friends upstairs, Felix had returned to the basement. He wanted to make certain Rasputin was still dead. Instead, he found him slowly clawing his way up the basement stairs.
After a brief confrontation on the steps, Rasputin quickly overtook Felix. Even with a bullet lodged in his back, the Siberian was more than the prince could handle. Choking the life out of Felix, Rasputin felt a moment of mercy. Instead, he tore off one of Felix’s epaulettes. As he pushed him down the stairs he told the prince he was unworthy to wear a Russian uniform. Somehow, the prince knew it to be true.
But that was ten minutes ago.

Three men, a senator, a duke, and a prince, now crossed the snow-covered courtyard. Their evening’s murderous business was nearly complete.
“Tell me, my clairvoyant friend,” Felix said to Rasputin, entertaining his conspirators, “how could you not foresee all this?”
The priest had no answer to their hate. He had been wise to mail his letter.
“Lord,” the holy man prayed, “I am in your hands now. Do with me what you wish.”
The three circled the fallen one like birds of prey.