A Curse For Life Pt.1

The throne- room was silent. No- one spoke. They all listened. The orchestra was making all the noise. It was a perfect spring evening. The entire room, the entire county, the entire world, was watching. Russia was celebrating her Imperial past. The colour, the religion, the mystique, the gradeur; It was all very much alive once again. For some this celebration was merely something out of a story book. Something they only knew because it was told to them by their grandparents. For others, it was the memory of a childhood. For others still, it was the memory of a life destroyed, a life betrayed; a life cursed.

The Alexander Palace was alight and shining. Outside, for the first time, in a long time, there was a crowd at the gates of the Palace. All day, they had been there. Watching, waiting. Old and young alike. The world's press was watching the proceedings. From the Kremlin, to the twin Palaces, there was a buzz. The emperors, monarchs, princes, dukes, nobility, peers and politicians of the world had gathered for the event. For the moment the world was looking through the vortex of time, back into the period of the golden days of Imperial Russia. For that wrinkle in time, Imperial Russia was alive again.

The orchestra stopped. The room was now dead silent. The intensity, it rose. The world stood still on its axis as it watched and waited. What was going to happen next?
The guests rose as one. They turned to face the isle that ran the length of the throne room. From the top of the room, a servant walked down the isle to the stand in front of the french double- doors.
He took a breath. He held it. They all watched. He spoke. His russian formal, ordered, rich. Not many understood at first. They didn't make it known. At worst, they stared ahead. He stopped. They watched him again. He spoke. His english was perfect. There was no hint of an accent.

"Your Royal Majesties, Your Highnesses, Lords, Ladies, honoured and respected guests; The Holy Clergy of the Russian Orthodox Church, followed by His Holiness, Patriarch Tikhon." He dissappeared. To where no- one knew. The doors were opened by two guards. One on each side. The orchestra begun to play again. The clergy filed into the throne room. Deacons first, of which there were two, priests, bishops, followed by the Archbishop of Saint Petersburg. He walked in next to the man of the moment. The Patriarch was the only one, apart from the deacons, dressed ceremoniously. The Archbishop of Moscow had stern feaures. Although, he really was gentle. He still looked fairly young, but he was two years older than the guest of honour. He was old, truely, and tired. How he kept on going was only a mystery to him. He would take it up with God later.

Tikhon made his way to stand in front of the throne, just in front of the three steps leading up to it. The guests followed his progression. He stood before them, one of the deacons, (father Vasili his name was), handed a golden crucifix to the Patriarch in his right hand, kissing the Patriarchs hand as he did so, (as is custom in the Eastern Orthodox Churches). Tikhon raised the golden crucifix and made the sign of the cross in the air. The guests bowed their heads at the neck. The Patriarch handed the crucifix back to Vasili, then left centre stage. He now stood to the right of the throne.

The guests turned back to the face the isle and each other. The world stopped once more. This was familiar. All watched and waited, now in anticipation. Something was going to happen. What? They didn't know. Not many knew the rituals, and ceremonies of Imperial Russia. The few that did were all at home, watching, remembering, crying; their hearts aching. The announcer appeared before the doors again. They were closed. Like a jack- in- the- box, they all watched and waited for the next surprise. Some guessed, but most knew. He broke out into Russian again. Like a well trained automaton, he then switched to english.
"Your Royal Majesties, Your Highnesses, Lords, Ladies, honoured and respected guests; Her Imperial and Royal Highness, the Dowager Empress of Russia, Maria."

He dissappeared again. The orchestra begun once more. Hearts beat faster than before. This was it. She was here. The mother of the last Tsar of Russia. All looked towards the double- doors. If anyone paid any attention to the front of the room, they would have seen that Tikhon was the only one who looked to the left of him. He was the only one who couldn't look this woman in the eyes any more. It killed him. It enraged him. It destroyed him.

The doors opened. Maria stood there. Her snow white hair complemented the silver, diamond encrusted tiara she wore. The floor- length floral white gown she wore matched beautifully with the lavendar purple robe, drapped over her shoulders. The dress was made of satin, the robe of velvet. The dress trailed behind her at one meter, the robe at six. The robe was carried by two boys of the Imperial court. Maria's steps couldn't be seen, but she walked with such grace, it looked like she was floating. She bore a soft, gentle, and friendly smile. Although, she had the iciest blue eyes, complementing her regal character, which demanded respect, even in her old age. It was clear: she was old, kind and gentle, but she still held a regal command; she deserved to be Grand Duchess, a member of Imperial class, higher than a prince, princess, king or queen. She was "it".

With three meters between Maria and them, the closest row of guests bowed and courtseyed low. They didn't rise till she passed the third row. There was always three meters between the bowing row and Maria, and three meters between Maria and the row that was rising out of their bow. This was Imperial Russia. Maria would look to the rows ahead and smile gently at a face. She knew them all, some by name, others because of television. As she reached the middle of the room she looked to the destination ahead. She felt sorrow. He wasn't there. Nikolas was missing from this picture of memory. Without him nothing was the same. It was all...just there. Maria's eyes moved to the right. She felt her heart ache more. Tikhon wasn't looking at her. His head was now bowed. That hurt more than ever. She looked to the left, and there he was. Nikolas was standing, his hand resting on the top of the throne. He smiled down at Maria. She steeled herself.

Maria approached the steps now. The guests all followed her. Tikhon moved in front of her, took the crucifix in his hand and blessed her. Maria bowed her head. This was hurting her a lot. Her heart was aching at the memory of Nikolas, and was hurting at the living reminder she had of Tikhon. The living reminder of what could have been, of what had been, and what she was now reliving. She looked up. The throne was before her. She couldn't move. Maria was rooted to the spot. It wasn't right, she couldn't sit on that throne. It wasn't hers. It had been stolen from Her Tsar, it had not been given to her. She looked to Nikolas. He stepped down to her left- hand side. He touched her hand without looking at her. She felt some comfort. Together they walked up the steps. Maria turned, the guests bowed low again. She seated herself in the throne, in the moment she took her eyes off Nikolas and scanned the crowd, he dissappeared. When she looked again, he was gone. Just like before. Duty first, self second. Maria didn't cry. That would have to wait. Till when? She didn't know.

c. John Apotsis 2008- 2009